by Ginger Rue
“Okay,” Kyra said. “Wow, won’t it be neat to be able to play a real song together? You think Olivia can do it?”
“Olivia reads music. She can handle it.” Tig thought a moment. “We’ve got to get a guitar player.”
“Tell Will to learn the guitar,” Kyra said. “He’s dying to be in our band.”
“He doesn’t know it’s all girls,” Tig said.
“He doesn’t care. He just knows you’re in it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Duh!” Kyra said. “He’s totally crushing on you!”
“What-ever! He is not.”
“Come on—you know he is. Don’t you think he’s kind of cute?”
“Um, no. No, I do not. Besides, he doesn’t play guitar, and even if he did, it’s going to be an all-girl band. Now get serious. Who do we know who plays the guitar?”
“I can’t think of anyone,” Kyra said. “At least not a girl.”
There had to be a girl at Lakeview Heights who played the guitar. Think, Tig, think, she told herself.
“I’ve got it,” Tig said.
“Who?” Kyra asked.
“You’re not going to like it.”
Chapter Eight
Kyra was against it from the first mention. Robbie Chan was on the completely opposite end of the social spectrum from Haley Thornton. All that Kyra had hoped to accomplish by inviting Haley into the band would be undone by inviting Robbie.
Which was yet another reason why Tig thought it was a fantastic plan.
Robbie Chan wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she was so interesting-looking, only careful analysis would reveal that. This, along with her surly attitude, was probably why the popular clique wanted absolutely nothing to do with her. She’d gotten her shiny, stick-straight hair from her dad, and her quirky sense of style from her New York City–native mother. Robbie Chan was entirely too cool for Lakeview Heights. Except for the fact that her parents were university professors, she wouldn’t have been in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, at all. She didn’t fit in at school even in the slightest, and she seemed just fine with that. She usually sat in the back unless there was a seating chart, and she hung with the weirdos. She wore a thick purple streak in her long hair and generally had a couple of leather bracelets on her wrists. But what had caught Tig’s attention lately was her necklace with the silver guitar pendant.
Okay, maybe the guitar pendant was just for looks. It didn’t mean she actually played.
But at least it was a conversation starter.
Students sat in the gym before the first bell each morning, and specific sections had been claimed by specific groups. There was the genius area with the academic overachievers, the jock area with the athletes, and of course, the Bot Spot, where the popular girls held court. Tig left the safety of her section of the gym, which was populated with the regular kids who didn’t really identify anywhere else, and climbed to the top of the bleachers, where the social outcasts sat. Robbie wasn’t talking to anyone, just zoning out with whatever tune was playing through her earbuds.
“S’up?” Tig asked, sitting on the bleacher in front of Robbie.
Robbie just kind of looked at her, almost as though she weren’t sure Tig had actually addressed her.
Tig tried again. “How’s it going?”
Robbie grimaced and pulled out her left earbud. “Fine?” Her reply seemed to come with an unspoken What do you want?
“What’re you listening to?” Tig asked.
Now Robbie pulled the earbud out of her right ear and asked, with definite annoyance, “What?”
“I said, what are you listening to?”
“Music,” Robbie said.
“Duh,” said Tig. “Thanks for clearing that up.” Tig tried to make it sound like a joke but was worried it sounded mean.
“Did you want something?” Robbie asked.
“I was just making conversation,” Tig said.
“Why?”
“Because I’m a nice person?”
Robbie rolled her eyes and put the bud back into her ear.
“Okay, look,” Tig said. Robbie took the bud out once again and sighed. Tig continued. “Your necklace. I wanted to ask you about it.”
“I got it online. I forget where.”
“Do you play the guitar?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Do you or not? It’s a simple question, not the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Yeah, a little,” Robbie said. “I started lessons in fourth grade, when I finally convinced my mom to let me switch from cello. Why?”
“A few of us are starting up a band. All girls. Going to be really cool. We need a guitar player. Thought you might be up for it.”
“Are you guys any good?” Robbie was probably the only person in school who would say you guys instead of y’all. Tig sort of liked it.
“Truthfully? No.” Tig laughed.
“Well, at least you’re honest,” said Robbie. She almost smiled. “Who’s in the band, and what are your skills?”
“I’m the drummer,” Tig said. “I’m just learning, but I can handle a basic boom-chick, and I’m taking lessons once a week. My cousin Kyra’s on bass. She’s right about where I am. Olivia’s going to do the keyboard.”
“Olivia the tennis girl?”
“Yeah. She took piano when she was little, so she can read music and pretty much do whatever.”
“Okay,” Robbie said. “She’s nice. But which one of you sings? Because I don’t sing.”
“Oh, me neither,” said Tig. “Actually, we have a singer, kind of. It’s really on a trial basis. Kyra recruited her, sort of without consulting me, and—”
“Who?”
Tig took a deep breath. “Haley Thornton.”
Robbie raised her hands and leaned back. “No way! Not happening!”
“That’s exactly what I said!” Tig replied. “But Kyra had already asked her. And I don’t know how to get out of it. I promised Kyra I’d let Haley have a shot, but I’m not committed to anything.”
“I am so not hanging with a Bot,” Robbie said.
“That’s what I said! I even called her a Bot!” Tig leaned in. “This is why I need you, Robbie. You get it. Listen, I don’t have any skills to speak of. I’m really green. Maybe you’re a novice on the guitar; maybe you’re great. . . . I don’t know. But you get it, you know? You’re so . . . You’re so rock ‘n’ roll.”
Robbie’s expression softened. She seemed to like the description.
Tig continued. “Come on, please? Give us a try. I bet you and I will get along great. And Olivia and Kyra are really nice. Besides, you can’t leave me to deal with Haley Thornton on my own, right?”
“Maybe I could. I’m not big on riding in to the rescue.”
“What if I told you that several weeks ago Will Mason told me, and I quote, ‘Girl bands are gimmicks.’ And girl bands never work ‘because girls can’t get along.’”
“Oh, no, he didn’t!” Robbie said.
“He did,” Tig replied. “I’ve got to prove him wrong.”
Robbie smiled. “Okay, Antigone,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
“Okay, Roberta.”
Robbie shook her head. “The first day of school roll call is a double-edged sword. I guess if we’re going to be in a band together, we can go by Tig and Robbie.”
“Those names are very rock ‘n’ roll, don’t you think?”
“Um, yeah!”
“Awesome,” Tig said.
“By the way, what’s the name of our band?” Robbie asked.
A name hadn’t even occurred to Tig yet. “Let me get back to you on that,” she said.
Chapter Nine
Tig spent the night at Kyra’s that Friday. Tig’s mom and dad had taken her younger sibs on a youth retreat for the elementary grades, and Tig had told them she’d rather spend the weekend in a fire ant bed. She’d assumed she’d be dumped with her grandparents to chill out all weekend while her grandmother brought h
er snacks every five minutes, but they, too, were going out of town. They’d invited her to come along to her grandmother’s nursing school reunion, but Tig didn’t want to be oohed and aahed over by little old ladies all weekend, so it was Kyra’s or nothing. Not that she minded hanging with Kyra and Uncle Nick, of course. But half a weekend with Aunt Laurie almost made a fire ant bed sound appealing.
“Don’t stay up too late, you two,” Aunt Laurie had said after dinner while Tig and Kyra were cleaning up the dishes. “We have the charity walk tomorrow bright and early. Antigone, you did bring something suitable to wear, didn’t you?”
“Oh, sure,” Tig replied. “My evening gown is in my duffel bag.”
Aunt Laurie fake laughed. “Seriously, though.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tig said. She’d packed a pair of the running shorts all the girls wore, and her tennis shoes were a socially acceptable brand. “Don’t worry. I’ll try not to embarrass you.”
“Don’t be silly, Antigone,” Aunt Laurie said without a hint of sincerity.
Tig was certain that Aunt Laurie didn’t want her anywhere near the charity run. Events like this were Aunt Laurie’s opportunity to hobnob with the influential folk, and better yet, to have Kyra hobnob with their daughters. Not that Kyra seemed to mind much. Hobnobbing was not a priority Tig had picked up from her mother, who couldn’t care less about such things, and therefore was not a skill set Tig had ever mastered.
“I have T-shirts for you both,” Aunt Laurie said. “All the participants will be wearing them.”
Uncle Nick laughed. “Does anything happen in this town without somebody printing a T-shirt about it?”
“I know, right?” Tig said. “It’s, like, if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? And if something happens in Tuscaloosa and no one makes a T-shirt for it, did it really even happen?”
Uncle Nick laughed. “Hey, here’s one from when I was at UA: How many frat guys does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
Tig thought. “I don’t know. How many?”
“Three. One to screw in the lightbulb and the other two to order the T-shirts.”
Tig and Uncle Nick laughed, but Aunt Laurie frowned. “This event raises money for charity,” she said. “We are helping the less fortunate.”
Uncle Nick cleared his throat. “Of course you are,” he said, and kissed Aunt Laurie’s cheek. But when she wasn’t looking, he winked at Tig, who grinned back at him. It wasn’t that Tig was against charity events in general; she knew some of the moms in these clubs cared deeply about helping others and wanted to do something positive for the town. It was just that she also knew Aunt Laurie wasn’t one of those women.
“What color is the T-shirt?” Kyra asked.
“Beige,” Aunt Laurie said. “Hideous. I tried to get them to do blue, but no one would listen. I know the girls usually walk together, but try to run at least a little bit to keep some color in your cheeks so the beige doesn’t completely wash you out.”
The next morning at the park, the minute after they pinned their race numbers to the backs of their shirts, Kyra went on Bot Patrol.
“Do you see Haley, Regan, and Sofia?” she asked Tig.
“No, and I’ve been looking everywhere!” Tig replied sarcastically.
The sarcasm was lost on Kyra, who responded, “I think I see them over there! Come on!” and then dragged Tig by her hideous beige T-shirt right toward them.
“Hey, chicas!” Kyra said. Tig was embarrassed for her. The Bots barely even looked at them, but Kyra kept pressing. “Ready to run?”
“Nobody’s running,” Regan said. “I’m not going to sweat like a pig for some stupid race. Like I care if this town has universal pre-K.” All three of them had matching ponytail holders, and their T-shirts were tied in a small knot on their right hips. Their running shorts were all gray with pink trim, and their running shoes were all the same brand. Tig noticed Kyra was tying her T-shirt into a knot on her right hip, too.
An announcer told everyone to line up for the race. Kyra kept herself glued to the three popular girls, but Tig hung back. Soon she was lost in the runners and walkers and could no longer see Kyra or the other girls at all. As the race began, Tig fell into an easy pace of fast walking. The sound of her feet against the pavement created a nice rhythm. She hadn’t noticed that she’d quickly caught up with Kyra and the Bots. “There you are!” Kyra said, grabbing Tig’s arm and slowing her pace. “I was just saying to Regan that it’s so cool that Haley’s singing in our band. Right, Regan?”
“If you say so,” Regan replied.
“Regan, is your mom going to work the golf tournament next month?” Kyra asked. “My mom said she hopes she will. My mom’s in charge of the raffle.”
“I don’t know,” Regan said, not even looking at Kyra.
“Haley, we can save a seat for you Monday at lunch—and Regan . . . Really, we have room for all of you—if you want to talk about song selection for the band and stuff,” Kyra said. “Or, you know, we could come sit with you, if that’d be better.”
Tig blushed. She saw Haley make a face at Regan, and Regan rolled her eyes.
“Look, I said I’d sing in your little band, not take you on as a project,” Haley said.
Kyra laughed. Laughed!
Get a backbone, Tig thought. “Nobody needs you to take on any projects. Really,” Tig said.
Regan cut in. “Good thing,” Regan said. “Because all Haley’s singing in your band means is that Haley likes to sing. Not that y’all are suddenly besties.”
“I’m glad we understand one another,” Tig said. “And guess what else? It suits me just fine if Haley doesn’t want to sing with us. We don’t need her.”
“Haley wants to sing with us!” Kyra said. “Don’t you, Haley?”
Haley looked at Regan. “I do love to sing,” she said, as though asking Regan’s permission.
“Then sing,” Regan said. “Oh, look. My shoe is suddenly untied. Hales, Sof, come help me tie it.” The three of them cut through the other runners to the sidewalk. Kyra was about to follow them, but this time Tig grabbed Kyra’s arm and made her continue walking.
“How can you let them treat you that way?” Tig demanded. “You’re better than that! You’re Kyra Bennett! And Bennett girls don’t take anybody’s attitude!”
“Don’t be so sensitive,” Kyra said. “Mama said that Regan’s mom said that Regan told her she really likes me. Mama said I just need to make more of an effort.”
“Yeah, well, your mom doesn’t seem to mind if that effort blows up in your face,” Tig said. “They’re not nice girls, Kyra. They’re just not.”
“We only need to get to know them better,” Kyra replied. “The band will help us do that.”
Tig couldn’t think of another thing to say. So, in her best Southern belle voice, she cried, “Oh my! This beige T-shirt is washing out my skin tone! I must run and get some color in my cheeks!”
Tig looked back only once but saw that Kyra was again making her way toward the Bots.
Chapter Ten
In news that shocked no one but Kyra, the Bots did not sit with them Monday at lunch. Or Tuesday. Or ever. This suited Tig just fine but confused Kyra, who’d thought she’d done so well at Saturday’s run.
The band’s first practice was set for Tuesday after school. Tig had told the other girls to work on “Sweet Home Alabama.”
They met at the green house at four p.m. Haley was the last to arrive. Her mother didn’t so much as wave as she pulled away; she was too busy scrunching her face into a look of disdain as she turned around on the gravel driveway. “I have to be done by the time my mom’s manicure is over,” Haley said.
Robbie shot a look at Tig. Kyra said, “I’m sure that will be plenty of time. Ooh, I love your blush!” Kyra herded Haley into the house.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Robbie said to Tig and Olivia.
“That makes two of us,” Tig replied.
O
nce everything was set up—amps plugged in, Haley’s microphone hot, all that stuff—Tig suggested a run-through first on the instruments, no vocals. Haley protested until she could see that Tig wouldn’t give in to her.
“Whatevs,” Haley finally said.
Tig counted off on her sticks, and Robbie began playing the guitar intro. As soon as Tig and Kyra joined in, it occurred to Tig that the two of them should probably have practiced together before everyone else showed up. They had to start over a few times to get the beat right, playing at an embarrassingly slow count for an embarrassingly long time. Tig found that her coordination was shot with that many people watching and waiting on her. Eventually she got it right, but not without saying, “Wait, let me try that again,” about fifty times.
Robbie and Olivia were both good. Tig felt embarrassed that she and Kyra were so obviously light-years behind them in skill level.
“I’m sorry, y’all,” Tig said. “Kyra and I are pretty green.”
“Everybody’s green at first,” Robbie said. “It’s all good. We’ll get there.”
“Can I sing now?” Haley asked with obvious frustration.
“Yeah, sure,” Tig replied. “Let’s take it from the top, this time with vocals.”
They somehow managed to start the song at almost the right rhythm, and Haley began singing the first verse.
Tig looked at Robbie, then at Olivia. They were both grimacing. Tig looked next at Kyra, who smiled and shrugged. It wasn’t just that Haley was off-key much of the time. It was that everything about her singing was wrong.
Tig waited until the end of the song. “So, Haley . . . ,” she began.
“You’re welcome,” Haley said.
Tig fake laughed to be polite. “Yeah, that was . . . You really, um . . . enunciated.”
“That’s what they teach you to do in professional singing classes,” Haley said. “Crisp diction. And, of course, volume, so that the back of the theater can hear you.”
“Or, you know, you could kind of let the microphone help with that,” Robbie said.