My 90s Boy Band Boyfriend: A YA Time Travel Rockstar Romance (Teen Queens Book 2)

by Jennifer Griffith

  “I looked them up, too, Oakley.”

  He had? She looked at Sherm. “Sure. What do you think I did at work all day today?”

  “Uh, sue people?”

  “I researched everything and everyone I possibly could on the missing persons case for Hudson. I looked into the families of the boys who died. I checked out the pilot of the plane.”

  “Manny?”

  “How did you—? Never mind. I’m sure Hudson tells you everything.”

  He kind of did. It was weird becoming the confidante of a guy as amazing as Hudson Oaks, a guy who everyone seemed to bow to, wherever he went. He just won people over. Even Sherm.

  Even Oakley. Especially Oakley.

  She let her eyes graze the ceiling. He was upstairs now, and he might be lying there looking gorgeous, humming a tune and strumming an air guitar …

  She’d better get back to reality and ditch fantasy for a minute. It wasn’t like she could kiss him, anyway. Sherm had forbidden it, for one—for legal reasons. Oakley had, for two—for heart-safety reasons.

  “What did you find out about their families?” She had let Sherm finish his cake while she’d gone down the rabbit hole of thinking of Hudson. “Are they all alive?”

  “Mostly. You don’t have to worry about Alfonzo’s family. They were given a large sum—for them—of cash. A hundred thousand dollars. It was about the time they moved back to Seattle. They used it for Alfonzo’s dad to open his own garage.”

  “Who gave it to them?”

  “They don’t know. They attributed it to some kind of fan group’s fundraiser.”

  That was a lot of money for a fan group to amass, no matter how many fans, especially in the days before social media and crowd-funding to spread the word.

  “Nick’s family and Mr. Torres are in touch with each other as well. They’re the ones involved in the lawsuit I’m sure you’re going to ask me about.”

  “Oh. So you already know about it?” Oakley shouldn’t be surprised. Sherm really knew his stuff as a lawyer, even if he did look like an accountant. “What is it?”

  “Ignatius Torres, Chris’s dad, has tried several paths to suing the record label for the crash. He has been unsuccessful. He put the rest of his legal business on hold for a while to pursue it, but he had to go back to it.”

  “I overheard Barnard telling Hudson that Ignatius Torres had almost enough evidence now to convict someone for sabotage, but I didn’t know what that meant when I heard it.”

  “I can’t say I know, either. But I’ll look things up tomorrow if you want me to, and if it would help.”

  Sherm’s zealous attention to the situation melted Oakley’s heart another degree.

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks for the toasted coconut and almonds. That was a great bribe. You can bribe me anytime that way.”

  She couldn’t help the smile that pulled at her mouth. But then she had to ask the harder question. It curdled her stomach. “Could you … could you call Ignatius Torres? And ask if he knows how to find Hudson’s parents?”

  Sherm looked at her for a long time. “If you want me to, I’ll do it.”

  ***

  The next day, Oakley couldn’t avoid school again. She had to go. However, she didn’t bring Hudson in tow this time. She’d left him, of all places, with Mom.

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” one of the Populars asked. If she heard that question one more time before lunch, she’d whack someone with a frozen burrito. “Did you break up?” the overly eyeshadowed eyes lit up.

  “Nope. He’s just doing errands with my mom.”

  The eyes darkened. “So it’s serious. He’s in with your mom.”

  Oh, the chick had no idea.

  Mom texted Oakley sixteen times during third hour, which was unfortunately algebra II, and always at the worst times. Just as Mr. DiConcini was about to explain a concept Oakley had no clue about, ping. The cell would ding its tiny text alert. It was pitched high enough Mr. DiConcini couldn’t hear it. A lot of older people’s ears couldn’t hear certain sounds, and Mr. D was getting up there. He had to be at least fifty. What she’d read on BuzzFeed was the older a person got, the less they could hear in the highest registers—which was why a lot of kids at her school had the mosquito app that let their text alert chime too high for teachers to hear.

  Hey, that gave her an idea.

  She texted Mom. Mom, can you see about getting Hudson a hearing test? I’ll explain later. They have that free one in the shopping center. The one with a printout. Just do that for me, would you?

  Then she read all the communiqués from Mom.

  We’re at the bank.

  I’m cashing in the … you know what.

  The bonds? She was acting as his banking helper? Well, that was good.

  Hudson really knew how to save money, for a kid. We have to admire that. We should do that with your payroll from Board & Brush.

  Oakley stared. Was that—? Yes. It was! Mom had referred to Hudson as a kid. It happened! Oakley’s ribcage moved back and forth in an involuntary dance of victory.

  Mom had finally grown up! She could have sung. She could have made up the world’s third-worst lyrics in a song about this great event. (First and second slots of world’s worst lyrics had been taken by that baseball season monstrosity and the lunch lady, of course.)

  We’re going to have to get a separate account for him as soon as we get his ID worked out. He shouldn’t be carrying this much around in cash. It’s not safe. I mean, it’s not like the bank has this much in the vault.

  What in the world? Mom should not be texting this. She was a walking, phoning, security breach. And Oakley had assumed that Mom was cured. Apparently not. More like cured, as in soaked in brine and turned into pepperoni.

  Oh, it wasn’t that bad. Mom had never been that tech-savvy. That was why she’d never found the same info on Girl Crazy as Clyde had. Clyde knew it sometimes took digging much deeper into the search engine’s depths to get info. He also knew that you never texted sensitive information.

  Oakley and Mom would be having a little talk soon.

  She looked back at the blackboard.

  “And so, when we look at the y-axis, we see that the parabola …”

  It pinged again.

  When you get home we are totally going to put your whole Board & Brush savings into bonds.

  She couldn’t help herself. In the most dangerous move a high school sophomore could make: she texted back.

  Mom! Knock it off. I’m in class. I’ll talk to you when I get home.

  “Miss Oakley Marsden? Is that a phone I see?” Mr. DiConcini might have been deaf to her text alerts, but he wasn’t blind. “This is a no-phone zone, as you are surely aware.” He pointed to the large poster stating so, right beside the blackboard.

  She surrendered her phone.

  “You can pick it up at the end of the school day in the office.”

  Now not only was she a hallway kisser in Mr. DiConcini’s mind, she was a phone-policy violator.

  Just as she handed it to him, she saw a text from Mom pop up. It was truncated, but it began with Breakthrough! Breaking news! We think we may have found his family in ...

  ***

  The longest school day of Oakley’s life blessedly ended with the last bell at three fifteen. She ran as fast as she could to the office, but when she got her phone back—just in time before they shut up shop for the away football game—her phone had lost its charge.

  Dash it all!

  She couldn’t read where they’d found Hudson’s family now, and she’d have to book it home or die of curiosity.

  It took the wind out of her sails and the breath from her lungs. All day since before lunch she’d been dying to know where they’d found Hudson’s family. Where? And in what condition? Was the left-off part of the text in the cemetery?

  Brinn stopped her in the parking lot. “Hey. Your man didn’t show up today. Is everything all right? He didn’t, you know, flash back, did he?”<
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  “No.” Oakley really needed to get home. “He had to go to the bank.”

  Brinn didn’t need details about that. She waved away the boring cobwebs. “Do you know what you’re singing tomorrow?”

  “Uh …” Oakley couldn’t think about it right now. Her thoughts were all a-jumble with concern about where Hudson’s parents were.

  “Seriously? You don’t know yet?” Brinn’s jaw dropped dramatically, as only Brinn could do. “You’d better decide soon, if only so we can make the right posters.”

  It was more urgent than posters. Oakley’s stomach roiled.

  “So, anyway. I got permission to drive to Seattle. My mom wanted to kill my dad when he said yes, but he said I needed to learn to drive in the city anyway, and since it’s not supposed to rain—for once—I could go. You’re going early, I take it. I can’t cut out until ten. I have that test in world geography I can’t miss.”

  Warm love filled Oakley’s chest at the thought that her friend would make that trip. It was almost a four-hour drive, and not cheap, considering the cost of gas. But that warm love mixed with cold terror.

  “Uh, you okay?” Brinn put a hand on her hip and tilted her head.

  No, but she couldn’t tell Brinn the real reason for her feelings to be stirred up, not until she had more concrete information. Brinn would demand it, and Oakley couldn’t give it yet and conflict would ensue.

  “Oh, only a little nervous that I have to sing some song I haven’t decided on yet,” Oakley said. “Tomorrow. First for the pre-broadcast audience, and then, if I don’t completely stink, and the other guy does, I’ll be singing on live TV— a song I still haven’t decided on.”

  “That’s only if you win the audience vote.”

  “Uh, thanks for the scary reminder.”

  Not that she needed one. Before her mom’s barrage of texts in DiConcini’s class, she’d been overwhelmed with messages from Blue. Show up at two thirty for makeup and hair. Next would be microphone checks, camera checks, and all that stuff. Check your email for more details.

  Blue’s most disconcerting demand kept ping-ponging through Oakley’s mind all through class, making her stomach clench over and over. We really need to know what you’re singing so we can get licensing. If you don’t tell us, we’ll assign you.

  The song-formerly-known-as-Lunch-Lady played in her mind.

  “What song is that?” Brinn asked.

  “What song?”

  “The one you’re humming.”

  “I didn’t realize I had been. Sorry.” No way could she sing that song, at least not until Hudson’s return was known. Or until they’d recorded a track for it, and added the right lyrics. The new version was off the table. As-is, it was the kiss of death. “Uh, it’s nothing. It’s that one Clyde was showing us outside.”

  “The one about the lunch room? No! That’s the kiss of death. Don’t, please don’t do that.”

  “I’m not singing those lyrics. Please.” Oakley rolled her eyes. “Listen.” And she gave a shortened rendition of what she and Hudson had rewritten.

  “Oh. Wow. That? That is definitely a hit.”

  Oakley thought so, too. “But I can’t sing it.”

  “You have to. It’s so good.”

  “Oh, from please, please don’t to you have to in three seconds flat. You’re human whiplash, Brinn.”

  “You’re the one who sang me the fabulous lyrics. Come on. It’ll be a great tribute to Hudson’s band.”

  That was exactly the reason Oakley felt compelled to make the revamp of the song happen. Someday. Just not at the audition, or on live TV.

  “And the chord progression on the guitar is so good. You can’t let it go unheard.”

  “It’s not like I have a track to back me up anyway. It’d end up being a cappella, and we all know how fabulous I’m not at that.” The viral video from her audition showed those dangers in high relief. “I should just sing a Jerica Jones song,” she said reluctantly.

  Brinn recoiled as if she’d been bitten by a viper. “Jerica Jones! Ew.”

  “I have the same range as hers. It makes sense.”

  A gagging noise came from Brinn’s throat. “I can’t stop you, but I seriously advise against Jerica Jones. Those lyrics are … insipid.”

  Oakley stomped her foot and willed the power of the boots to tell her what to do. There were mere hours left before a live audience heard her sing, and voted on her yet-unchosen song. A million worms squirmed in her gut.

  “You really are a hot mess over this.” Brinn pushed her shoulder. “You want me to come do your hair?”

  “That would be great. I don’t really trust the TV stylists to get it right.” Then she remembered the catch. “Except I have to leave too early.”

  “I can wake up, if it’s for you.”

  That was amazing of her.

  “You’d do the same for me.”

  “Uh, yeah. If you actually wanted to be tortured in such a way.” Everyone knew Oakley stunk at doing hair and Brinn was amazing. She’d only just gotten past her junior high shoes in the last few days. “I’d better run.”

  And by run, she meant drive over the speed limit home. Mom’s half-text was burning her up. The second she rolled into the driveway, Hudson came out to greet her.

  “Oakley! Here. I promised I’d pay for you boots, and here’s your cash.”

  She sprang from her car and took a half-glance at the pile of bills. “I told you I was buying those. And Sherm said he’d pay half.”

  “But—”

  “Stop that right now and tell me where,” she demanded breathlessly, half-scared, half-hoping. “Where did you find them?”

  “My parents? You heard? They’re in Seattle!” Hudson swung her around in his arms. “I had Chris’s dad contact them. You and I are meeting them tomorrow morning.”

  Oakley gulped. I’m meeting them?

  Scene 15: “As Long As You Love Me”

  Meeting a guy’s parents for the first time was a big deal. If he took a girl to meet them, it meant something. But in this case, it meant pretty much everything. Oakley not only had the role of newly minted, unsure girlfriend, she also had the job of convincing a time traveling pop star’s parents of his authenticity—despite all logic to the contrary. It meant he trusted her to be his spokesperson. It meant he thought they would believe her.

  No pressure.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, noting the bouncing of Hudson’s knee. “Do they know you’re coming?”

  They still had another fifteen minutes’ travel across the bay to Whidbey Island in Puget Sound, off the coast of Seattle. Oakley had never been here before, and she stood outside with the tourists to watch, with the sky a rare cloudless blue, she felt like she could see ocean for days to the north and the south. Ahead of them, the rocky and pine tree coated shores of the island came into sharper view. Wow, what a gorgeous place. The ferry didn’t bob—even though the water was choppy—for which Oakley was grateful. No sense getting seasick—she had enough tremors in her stomach without that added bonus.

  “They don’t know it’s me. Chris’s dad just told them they needed to be home this morning, and to do whatever it took.”

  Chris’s dad, Ignatius Torres, had been awesome. At least that was what Hudson told her. When Barnard contacted him, he’d been slow to believe, the slowest of anyone. Lawyers were trained skeptics, according to Sherm. But then Sherm had contacted Torres, explaining the situation, and then Hudson himself. Finally, Mr. Torres had relented—reluctantly—and offered to arrange a meeting between Hudson and his family.

  “Is Whidbey Island where you grew up?”

  “Not at all. But I did know that Dad’s dream was to live on Whidbey so he could carve full time. He must have somehow made it happen.”

  “It’s expensive, right?” Oakley couldn’t help glancing at the gorgeous mansions dotting the spaces between the trees as they approached the island.

  “Everything in Seattle is.”

  They’d c
arefully driven Sherm’s truck onto the ferry and would drive it to the address programmed into Oakley’s phone’s map program. It was all planned. Well, all they could have possibly planned. Hudson’s family’s reaction they had absolutely no control over. They could be bitter, unforgiving, and hostile.

  Or worse, they could think he was an impostor and refuse to see him.

  ***

  “Do you want me to knock, or are you going to?” Oakley stood beside him on the large front porch of a nice, modest home. It was painted gray-blue, and the door was a bright red. It had flowers in pots, and the trees around the house were a mix of pines and oaks. The oak trees had already lost their foliage, but scattered on the porch were several dozen carved oak leaves—just like the one Hudson had made.

  Hudson heaved a breath, as if to steel himself. “What if they aren’t home?”

  The bigger question was what if they were.

  “Then nothing changes,” she said.

  “That’s what I’m most concerned about.”

  Hudson was hoping they had changed, it seemed. She got it—he hoped they’d changed their minds about him. Huh. Rare for a person to seek change, Oakley thought. Most people got stuck in their ruts of wanting everything to stay the same. But Hudson was different. He wanted to fix things. He wanted to make things right. It had seemed like almost a primal urge, and she knew it had its roots in how he’d been feeling before the plane crash. He hadn’t needed a life-altering event to want to mend bridges.

  That fact made her respect him even more.

  Squaring his shoulders, he gave a decisive rap on the door.

  In no time, a middle-aged woman answered. “Yes?” She was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, with a quilted down vest over it. Her brown hair was in a ponytail.

  “Giselle?” Hudson said. His voice cracked. He was more nervous than his knock let on. “Hi.”

  “Yes?” She shaded her eyes, took in Hudson, and then slammed the door. Through it, Oakley could hear padding of feet and the words, “No, Mom. It’s just another lookalike. Seriously? They couldn’t even get someone who had aged.”