by Ginger Rue
“‘Call me’?” Tig asked. “‘Call me’? Call you what, desperate?”
“You’re out of your mind!” Kyra said. “We could’ve had Mr. Hottie McHotterson in our band! Hours and hours of practice together!”
“Oh, Kyra, he’s way too old for you. He’s probably at least sixteen.”
“So? He could wait for me.”
“Yeah. Right.”
Before they could say any more, the door opened again. This time it was a girl.
She looked to be about the right age, and basically normal.
Except for the fact that she was carrying an accordion.
“Hi!” she said. “I’m here for the audition for the band!” She walked to the stage and pulled her accordion wide as though it were taking a deep breath.
“Um, we’re actually not . . . ,” Kyra began. But it was too late. The girl launched right in and began playing something.
“She’s not half bad,” Tig said to Kyra.
“But it’s an accordion!” Kyra said. “We can’t have an accordion in our band!”
Tig had to agree. With an inexperienced band, an accordion would be quirky at best and ridiculously dorky at worst. Tig waved her hand, and the girl stopped playing. “That was really nice,” Tig said. “But I’m afraid we’re not exactly in the market for an accordion player. Thanks anyway.”
The girl came down from the stage and pulled up a chair next to Tig. Right next to her. Uncomfortably close. “But I can play anything you want,” she said. “Rock, polka, classical, jazz . . .”
“Accordion jazz?” Tig asked. “That’s a new one.”
Kyra bumped her with her elbow.
“But as I said, we’re not looking for an accordion player.”
“A lot of people don’t realize how versatile an instrument the accordion is,” the girl said. She launched into a history of the accordion, none of which Tig actually heard because she was too busy noticing that the girl had begun picking a scab on her arm. Tig’s arm.
Tig moved her arm away. “What are you doing?”
“I was telling you about the rich history of the accordion,” she replied.
“No, I mean, why were you picking my arm?”
“Oh, sorry. I like to pick things.”
“Maybe you should’ve played the banjo,” Kyra said.
“Anyway,” Tig said. “Thanks for coming, and it was nice to meet you.”
“Your loss,” said the accordion player.
When she was gone, a voice from the back of the room said, “Yo, that was just sad.” Tig and Kyra turned to see a heavyset redheaded girl wearing a County T-shirt. She must have come through the other doorway. “Ready for a real audition?” the girl said. She walked up to the stage area.
“What’s your instrument?” Tig asked.
“Yo, got my instrument right here,” the girl said, pointing to her throat. “Check it out: Edgy Abz in the house.” Then she launched into a lengthy rap. It went so fast, Tig couldn’t make out everything, but she was able to determine that it involved a car chase from the authorities.
“Okay,” Tig said when the rap was finished. “How about that.”
“What’s your name again?” Kyra asked.
“Edgy Abz,” she replied. “With a z.”
“Your parents named you that?” said Kyra.
“Abby,” she said. “But yo, that’s wack.”
“Well, Edgy . . . ,” Tig began. “Um, Abby . . . Abz. . . .” Tig wasn’t sure what to call her. Miss Abz? “That was very impressive.”
“So when do I start?” asked Miss Abz.
“Oh,” Tig said. “We actually aren’t looking for . . . someone with your particular skill set.”
“You frontin’?” asked Abz.
“I don’t know,” Kyra said. She turned to Tig. “Are we frontin’? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” Tig replied. Then to Abz she said, “No offense. You’re a really good rapper. We just don’t need one.”
“You buckin’ me? I spit some throwed flow, stuntin’ up in here.”
“Whoa, set the ket, homegirl,” Kyra said.
Tig looked at her like she’d just sprouted a unicorn’s horn. “What does that even mean?” she whispered.
Kyra shrugged. “I saw it on TV once.”
“What my associate means,” Tig said to Abz, “is that while we deeply admire your talent, we’re more of a traditional rock kind of band. But we really appreciate your coming out today and sharing your talent with us. And if we hear of any bands who need someone with your skills, which are, as we mentioned, extremely impressive, we will certainly recommend you.” Abz stared at them. “Wholeheartedly recommend you,” Tig said. “That’s what we will do.”
Abz’s face was as red as her hair. “You gig, I’ll be there,” she said. “To burn you to the ground.”
As Abz stomped away, Kyra yelled after her, “Peace out?” but there was no reply.
“That went well,” Tig said sarcastically. “I guess we’re all out of auditioners.”
“What are we going to do now?” Kyra said. “This was a total bust.”
“I’ll think of something,” Tig said. “But let’s just keep this to ourselves.”
“You mean this horrible audition exercise that was a complete disaster? Oh, I’m just dying to tell everyone about this.”
“Well, obviously that,” Tig said. “But I mean the whole band thing in general. Tell no one at school about it. No one. Got it?”
“Why not? Why can’t we tell people we’re starting a band?”
“Because after this, I don’t want any more volunteers,” Tig said. “I’d rather recruit. You know, I’ve been thinking—Olivia took piano lessons for, like, a zillion years before she got so involved with tennis. Maybe she could play the keyboard?”
“We could ask her,” Kyra said.
“Leave that to me,” Tig replied. “I don’t want it out on the grapevine that we’re looking. I want to hand-select our members. Besides, we need to wait a little longer until you and I have had time to learn our instruments better before we add anyone else. So don’t tell anyone about the band. Got it?”
“I’m not going to tell anybody.” Kyra rolled her eyes.
“I’m not kidding around,” Tig said. “You’re about as good at secret keeping as you were at the violin. Or baton twirling. Or French. Or—”
“That’s not fair! Name one time I haven’t kept a secret!”
“Hello? Michael Hart? Fifth grade? You told him I was in love with him?”
“Well, you were.”
“But he didn’t have to know that!”
“It slipped out!” Kyra said.
“‘It slipped out.’ Was that your mantra in that ill-fated yoga class you took? Because you say it enough. Like the time when—”
“Okay, okay,” said Kyra. “I got it. I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”
Chapter Five
Kyra was true to her word.
For about two weeks.
And for Kyra, that was pretty amazing. Tig was so impressed by how long it had taken Kyra to spill the beans, she almost wasn’t mad.
Problem was, of all the people to tell, Kyra had chosen Haley Thornton.
“No, you did not,” Tig said as they stood at their lockers before school. The tone of disbelief was almost genuine. “Haley Thornton, really? Of all people . . .”
“What’s wrong with Haley?” Kyra asked. “I thought it was Regan you didn’t like.”
“Kyra, don’t you get it? Haley is almost worse than Regan.”
“What do you mean?
“I mean that at least Regan rarely bothers with tormenting the little people like us most of the time. But Haley . . . Well, Haley’s a sidekick, and sidekicks always need to up the ante in some way to stay relevant. It’s Haley’s job to mock and degrade other people to amuse Regan; it’s Regan’s job to be amused. They’re like the court jester and the queen.”
“Oh, come on, Tig. Don’t y
ou think you’re being just a bit dramatic?”
“No, I don’t. And why did you tell her about the band, anyway? You weren’t supposed to tell anyone. You promised!”
“Tig, don’t be mad.”
Tig sighed. “I guess what’s done is done. Just forget about it.” She slammed her locker door.
“As long as you’re forgiving me,” Kyra said, “there is just one other little thing.”
“What?”
“I kind of asked her to be the lead singer.”
“You what?”
“Well, she’s a really good singer, right?” Kyra replied. “I mean, she played Lucy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown this past summer.”
“Did you see her in the show?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know she’s a good singer?” Tig asked.
“Well, did you see her in the show?”
“No,” Tig said.
“Then how do you know she’s not?”
“Look, a part in a local theater production doesn’t mean squat. For all you know, they gave her the part because her dad’s office was sponsoring the production or something. Or even if she does sing on key, singing in musical theater isn’t the same as fronting a rock band. You have to have a rock ’n’ roll kind of voice, plus that certain . . . charisma.”
“Haley has charisma,” Kyra said. “She’s superpopular.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s got charisma. That means she’s a Bot with the right brand of jeans.”
“Come on, Tig. . . .”
“The fact of the matter is, you had no right—none!—to invite Haley or anyone else to be the lead singer! It’s not your band.”
“I thought it was our band, together,” Kyra said.
Once again Tig sighed. “Don’t make the puppy dog eyes.” Kyra whimpered, which almost made Tig laugh. Almost. “All right. I guess we can give her a chance.”
“You’re the best!” Kyra squealed. Then she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Tig, if Haley is our lead singer, that means she’ll be hanging out with us, and if she’s hanging out with us, we’ll probably all start going to the same parties and having sleepovers and scheduling our classes together, and the next thing you know, we’ll be in!”
“How many times do I have to tell you that I have zero desire to ‘be in’? I’d rather gargle acid.”
“You say that, but once we’re in, you’ll change your mind. Besides, somebody with Haley’s social connections can help us get gigs. Her sister was president of the high-school social club last year. They have formals and crush parties all the time, and they hire bands.”
The social club and gigs comment wasn’t an entirely lousy idea. Haley could help them get gigs if they ever got good enough to play in public. Gigs would be cool—exposure, money . . . “We’ll give her a shot,” Tig said. “A shot. Not a guarantee. If she stinks, she’s out. No remorse.”
“It’s going to be great!” Kyra said. “You, me, and Haley are in a band!”
“We’re not ‘in a band,’” said Tig. “We’re two girls just beginning music lessons and another who might be able to sing—might. We need some actual musicians on board before we can call ourselves a band. As of right now we still don’t have a band.”
Chapter Six
“So, you have a band now?” Will asked at lunch.
“Word gets around fast,” Tig replied, glaring at Kyra.
“Need a drummer?”
“No,” Tig said.
They were interrupted by Kyra’s shouting. “Haley! Over here!” Haley, who was standing in the lunch line with Regan, looked at Kyra as though she had leprosy, and then turned her back to her. Undaunted, Kyra announced to the rest of the table, “Maybe another time.”
Will kept on. “Who’ve you got for your drummer? Anybody I know?”
Tig pretended to be absorbed in carefully opening her pack of cookies.
“I said, who’s your drummer?” Will repeated.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Tig said.
“Why not? Everybody already knows Haley’s fronting your band. So what’s your job? You play piano or something? Like doing the keyboard?”
The keyboard.
“Olivia, you play piano, right?” Tig asked.
“Yeah, sorta,” Olivia said. “I mean, I took lessons for, like, forever, when I was little. My mom finally let me quit last year when I got so busy with tennis.” Olivia was constantly in the local paper for winning yet another tennis tournament, and everyone assumed she’d go to UA or somewhere on a full tennis scholarship one day.
“You want to be in our band?” Tig asked. “Play the keyboard?”
Olivia raised her eyebrows, intrigued. “Sounds fun,” she said, “but I haven’t played in a long time. My piano is covered with dust.”
“But could you get an electronic keyboard?”
“I actually have one at my aunt’s house,” Olivia said. “I’m sure I could bring it home. But really, I don’t know how to play anything cool.”
“But you can read music. You could play something cool if you had the sheet music?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“So join our band. It’ll be fun.”
“I don’t know,” Olivia said. “I have tennis practice and tournaments, and—”
“We can work around that,” Tig said. “I promise. We won’t interfere with your tennis at all. Just say yes!”
Olivia smiled. “Okay, then. I guess so!”
“I want to be in the band,” Will said. “You need a drummer, don’t you?”
“No, we don’t,” Tig replied.
“So you do have a drummer,” Will said. “Who is it?”
“None of your business.”
“Why all the secrecy?” Will asked. “You never told me what you’re playing. Or are you the singer?”
Tig picked at her sandwich.
“Wait a minute,” Will said. “You’re the drummer, aren’t you?”
Tig didn’t look up.
“That’s it! You’re the drummer!”
“Fine,” Tig said. “Go ahead. Have your fun. Get it out of your system.”
Will grinned. “I’m not going to make fun of you. I think it’s . . . cute.”
Tig cut her eyes at him. “Yeah, that’s what I’m going for. Cute.”
“So, do you play? Where’d you learn? You have a drum set?”
“I got a decent set,” Tig said. “And I’ve had a few lessons.” Tig didn’t want Will to know she’d been taking lessons for nearly two months—he might expect her to be a lot better than she was. “So I can’t really play well yet, but I’m working on it.”
“That’s cool,” Will said. “Show me something.” He handed her the sticks from his back pocket. Tentatively, Tig took them.
On the lunch-room table, she did a quick flam, followed by a couple of fills, using Olivia’s and Kyra’s fabric lunch bags as toms.
Tig could feel her face getting red as Will grinned at her. “You’re laughing at me,” she said.
“No, I’m not,” Will said. “That wasn’t bad. But drums are both arms and legs. I didn’t see any movement here.” He put his hand on her left knee—then quickly removed it.
“I don’t know what to do with the hi-hat leg yet,” Tig said. “But my teacher says I’ve got to work on really pounding the kick. I’m practicing hitting the bass hard enough that I get the right reverberation.”
“Yeah, you’ve got to really put your thigh into it, especially at first,” Will said. “The ankle alone just doesn’t deliver the power. So, have you ever tried holding the left stick underhanded, like this?”
Will and Tig discussed the pros and cons of overhand versus underhand left stick and tilted versus untilted toms until the bell rang.
As they packed up, Will said, “We should play together sometime.” Then Will blushed. “That sounded weird. I don’t mean, like, G.I. Joes. Not that I still play G.I. Joes or anything, but . . . you know what I mean.”
&n
bsp; Tig nodded. She knew what he meant. Or at least, she thought she did.
Chapter Seven
After a few months of weekly lessons with Lee, Tig now had some idea of what she was doing on the drums; it wasn’t just crash, crash, clang, like a four-year-old randomly hitting things. There was actual rhythm. She’d learned that most rock songs had the basic boom-chick or boom-boom-chick pattern, and now she could easily tell the booms from the chicks. Using an app to slow down the tempo, she was able to follow along with her phone on a few songs, at least until they got to the bridge.
Lee had her practicing a basic four-count with the bass on two before the snare. She’d finally gotten to the point where she could stay on count. When she’d first started, she’d get so excited about getting the pattern right, she’d speed up.
“Good,” Lee said when she’d demonstrated mastery of the pattern. “Keep going, just like that.”
While Tig kept banging out the pattern, Lee went to his electronic keyboard and began playing. Tig kept on as he played along. “Recognize that?” he asked.
Tig stopped. “Is that ‘Sweet Home Alabama’?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lee replied.
Tig grinned. “You mean I just played part of ‘Sweet Home Alabama’? That’s the pattern you’ve had me working on all these weeks? I didn’t even know that’s what I was doing!”
“It’s different when you put the other instruments with it,” he said. “I just wanted to give you a little sense of what it’s like to play with other musicians.”
Tig told him about how she’d been knocking out drumbeats to songs on her phone.
“That’s good,” Lee said. “It’s like playing with a real band. Great idea. Just make sure you practice with a metronome. Remember, the drummer’s got to keep the pace.”
When Tig got home, she called Kyra. “How’s the bass coming?”
“It’s okay,” Kyra said. “I can do a few things on it.”
“Good,” Tig replied. “Keep practicing. Tell your teacher you want to learn ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’”
“Why?”
“Because I can play most of it on my drums,” Tig said. “It will be our first song.”
“Why’d you pick that one?”
“I didn’t, exactly. Lee did. He taught me to play it before I knew what it was. But it’s a good choice. A crowd-pleaser. They play it on the loudspeaker at the football games; it’s like the town song, you know?”