by Ginger Rue
“I know that song,” said Claire.
“But Kyra and I don’t,” Tig said. “Sorry, guys, but we’re not quite as advanced musically as you are.”
“Is the other song hard?” Kyra asked.
“I don’t know,” Tig said. “But it’s not my decision anyway.” She looked at her bandmates. “Fine. I’ll call Uncle Paul.”
“Absolutely not,” Uncle Paul said. Tig had him on speaker. “‘Yellow Submarine’ is far too obvious. Probably five other teams will do their campaign around it somehow. Can’t you just explain that to the girl’s mother?”
“We’ll try,” Tig said.
When they hung up with Uncle Paul, the girls brainstormed.
“I get what your mom is saying,” Robbie said. “I, for one, am completely opposed to the sexualization of young girls that the media imposes on our society. But nothing about our video or our rendition of the song plays into that. Right, Tig?”
“No way!” Tig said. “You think my uncle’s going to do something gross like that? To his own niece?”
“Maybe your mom could talk to my mom,” Olivia said. “She respects her.”
“And really,” Tig said, “is there anyone more uptight than my mom? I don’t think so. If she’s okay with it, anybody ought to be.”
The girls’ next move was to have Tig’s mother call Olivia’s mother.
As they walked up to the house, Tig looked at Robbie and sighed. “I wonder if Mick Jagger ever had to have his mom call Keith Richards’s mom.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Tig’s mom winced a bit when they explained the situation to her. “I can see your mother’s point,” she said to Olivia. “The song itself seems fine to me, but I agree that the band’s name is off-putting. So again, I absolutely see her point.”
“Perfect!” Tig said. “That’s a great place to start the conversation: you see her point. But—”
“Settle down, Tig,” her mother said. “I’ll talk to her, but I’m not going to bully her into anything she doesn’t feel right about.”
“Mom! Come on!” Tig said. “You’ve got to help us out here!”
“All right, all right,” she replied. “I really don’t think the song is bad at all. Actually, I think it’s pretty catchy. It’s cute.”
Robbie whispered to Tig, “Johnny Rotten is somewhere stabbing himself in the eyeball right now.”
The two mothers stayed on the phone for nearly half an hour while the girls paced nervously, throwing out ideas for the worst-case scenario. “We could leave out the keyboard arrangement if we had to,” Robbie said.
“Robbie!” Olivia said.
“No offense,” she replied. “Just saying.”
Tig shook her head, although the thought had crossed her mind as well. There was no keyboard in the Sex Pistols’ version, after all. But casting Olivia aside at the first bump in the road was no way to build band unity. “We tried doing a band thing once without the whole band, and look what happened. No. We don’t make that mistake again, ever. We’re either all in or we’re all out.” But Tig really hoped they were all in; she really wanted to make this video.
“And is it just me or do we not love this song?” Robbie asked.
“I do,” Tig said. “It’s a great song.” It had one of the greatest drumbeats she’d ever heard.
Finally Tig’s mother emerged from her phone call.
“Well?” Tig asked.
“She said she’ll think about it.”
The band collectively groaned. “What are we supposed to do with that?” Tig asked.
“I guess you keep practicing until Olivia’s mother makes up her mind. She said she’ll let you all know her final decision in a day or two.”
The girls nodded. . . . What else could they do?
“I’m sorry, Tig,” Olivia said.
“It’s not your fault,” Tig replied. And it wasn’t. But Tig hated the fact that the band’s fate was held hostage by somebody’s mom.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The girls practiced two more days before Olivia’s mother gave her decision: Yes. Olivia could play the song in the video.
The band rejoiced. The last practice the day before the shoot was their best yet. They ran through with only a few misses, and those were all Kyra’s. Tig was feeling more and more relaxed. There was always the magic of editing.
With thirty minutes to go, the girls decided to do a dress rehearsal. They each changed into their rock star gear and brought full attitude to the last few times through the song.
“This is going to be so awesome!” Kyra said.
“I know! I’m actually having fun!” Claire said. “I don’t think I’ll even care that people will be filming this. Can you believe that?”
“We rock,” said Robbie.
“I’m almost afraid to agree,” Tig said. “I feel like I should be a nervous wreck, but strangely, I’m not. I’m kind of Zen about the whole thing.”
“No reason you should worry,” Olivia said. “Tig, we’ve got this!”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Tig said.
Their parents would be picking the girls up from practice any minute. Tig felt that, as the band’s leader, she should say something motivational or purposeful in some way to mark the last practice before the video shoot the next day. “Thanks, y’all,” was all she could manage to find.
As Tig lay in bed that night, she mentally ran through how it would all go down the next day. Everything was taken care of, from the music to the moves to the clothes to the singing. Nothing had been left to chance.
Everything was perfect.
A little too perfect.
Tig felt unsettled. She wasn’t accustomed to things going smoothly.
Any minute the other shoe would drop. She just knew it.
Chapter Fifty-Four
It wasn’t a shoe that dropped.
It was pants.
Five pairs of gunmetal gray, slick nylon, high-waisted submarine pants.
With orange suspenders.
“You can change into these in the bathroom down the hall,” Uncle Paul said.
Tig stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Why would I be kidding? What did you think, that we were going to advertise a product without actually showing the product?”
“Well, why not?” Tig asked. “You’re always saying you love ads that make people think.”
“So?”
“So this ad can make people think about what submarine pants must actually look like!”
Uncle Paul smiled. “Nice try,” he said. “Go put on the pants.”
“But we have outfits!” Tig said, gesturing to her and her bandmates’ clothing. “Don’t we look cool?”
“Absolutely,” Uncle Paul said. “Now go look cool in these.”
“There is no possible way to look cool in these things,” Robbie said.
“Hey, if these stupid pants looked cool, they wouldn’t need advertising geniuses to sell them, now would they?” Uncle Paul said. “Shoo. Get dressed.”
Uncle Paul shoved the pants at them again. Tig whined and begged, but it was to no avail. He wouldn’t budge. Defeated, the girls went into the restroom to change.
“Guys, I had no idea,” Tig said.
“We’re going to look like complete losers!” Olivia said.
“Yuck! These things make my thighs look huge!” Kyra had already shimmied into her pair.
Claire said, “I would say I wouldn’t be caught dead in these, but maybe that would be better than being caught on video. Tig, these really are dreadful.”
“Maybe we should just refuse,” Olivia said. “I mean, to be fair, no one told us about this part.”
Tig had to take control. She thought of Kyra’s party and how she’d run away from the band. She wouldn’t do that again. Ever. It was time to act like a leader. “Lemons to lemonade, girls,” she said. “Let’s see what we can do with this.”
Kyra’s white leather vest covered the orange suspe
nders, as did Claire’s blazer. Robbie pulled Claire’s white shirt half in, half out to make the look messy. Tig helped Olivia fit her gray top under the suspenders; Olivia was so willowy, she didn’t look half bad in anything. Robbie’s look was the least affected, since she had already shown up in leather overalls. The weird pants didn’t look that off with her geometric print top and giant statement necklace that covered most of her chest and hung down over the top of the pants.
“Maybe these things aren’t so bad,” Robbie said. “And hey, nobody else is wearing them, so there’s the nonconformist aspect.”
“You actually look pretty cool,” Tig said to Robbie.
“It’s all in here,” Robbie said, pointing to her head. “Looking cool is attitude. If you think you look cool, everyone else will, too.”
Tig wasn’t so sure. She hated to give up her tutu; she’d felt it was a surefire attitude piece in and of itself. Now she would just look like a girl with a weird hairdo and goofy pants.
“A little something for our fearless leader,” Claire said. She pulled a wrapped gift out of her bag.
“Aww, Claire!” Tig said. “You shouldn’t have!” Tig opened the box. It was a yellow T-shirt that said, NEVER MIND THE BOLLOCKS—HERE’S THE SEX PISTOLS. Tig beamed. “How cool! I love it! Thank you!”
“I thought it would look good in the video,” Claire said. “The only thing I was worried about was what Olivia’s mom would think when she saw it. Luckily, when you tuck it into these pants, no one will be able to see the band’s name anyway!”
The girls laughed. Tig put on the shirt and pants. Strangely enough, the bright yellow against the orange suspenders looked almost like . . . well, like, it had been planned rather than that the pants had been forced on her.
Tig mussed her pink-white-and-black hair in the mirror one last time and then positioned her glasses on her face. “Who’s ready to rock this joint?” she said.
The girls gave a collective whoop and emerged from the bathroom.
Chapter Fifty-Five
The ad team had already set up the girls’ instruments in front of a green screen. There were a few minutes of light tests and sound checks. The girls were allowed to run through the song once to make sure they were comfortable, then they were told to ignore the cameras and the crew once filming began.
“We’re going to record sound and video at the same time,” Uncle Paul said. “We don’t want to overlay. We want it to sound garagey. If you mess up, just keep playing as if this were a live gig, not a practice. Whenever you’re ready.”
Tig nodded to Robbie, then to the other girls. She counted off with her sticks. Robbie began shredding the guitar, and Tig furiously banged out the drumbeat. It all happened so fast, and for the most part, Tig wouldn’t allow herself to be aware of what the other girls were doing. She wouldn’t look away from the drums for fear of losing her concentration, and she completely forgot to guard against the “drummer face” she’d promised herself she wouldn’t make. She was vaguely aware that Claire’s growl was fiercer than ever and that Kyra flubbed a couple of notes, but Tig just kept banging out the beat as if everything else about the performance depended on it, which it pretty much did.
The song was finished in just over four minutes, but they’d been an intense four minutes. Tig was exhausted.
The college students cheered after the student director yelled cut. “Thank you, girls,” he said. “Nice job.”
“You can get changed in the restroom if you’d like,” Uncle Paul said. “You’re more than welcome to keep the pants, of course. Our little thank-you gift.”
“That’s it?” Tig asked. “Don’t you want us to play it a few more times?”
“No, we’re good.”
“But there were a couple of mistakes,” Tig said. “Probably more that I didn’t catch. And I’m pretty sure I looked bad. I could try to relax more.”
“One take,” Uncle Paul said. “That’s the feel we want the ad to have.”
“But, Uncle Paul—”
“Go home,” Uncle Paul said. He tousled her hair. “Don’t worry. You’re a rock star!”
“Can we at least watch the video?” she asked.
“You can see the ad when it’s ready.”
There was no negotiating. Uncle Paul was never one to second-guess his expertise or let anyone else second-guess it either. He knew what he was doing. Uncle Paul had his vision and that was that.
“Trust me,” he added.
The college students volunteered to pack up the instruments while the girls changed.
“That was easy,” Kyra said.
“Exactly,” Tig replied. It was too easy, just like Tig had worried about.
Tig couldn’t sleep that night. As soon as she lay down, it all hit her at once: they’d played their first full song for the public, and Tig knew there had been errors. And they were wearing submarine pants, of all things. And she was probably making a really bad drummer face. And what about the other girls? She hadn’t even been able to look at them. Had they looked nervous? Awkward?
This video was supposed to wash away the humiliation of Kyra’s party. But no one at school had talked about that in weeks. Maybe the girls should’ve just let it fade away, but no, Tig had talked them into making a real video to show everyone. But what if this only showed people that Pandora’s Box really was just as lame and pathetic as Regan had said? Tig kept coming back to the fact that, no matter what else, they were wearing those ridiculous pants. She wondered if they should’ve refused to shoot the video, like Olivia had suggested. Tig thought of her “lemons to lemonade” remark that had rallied the girls. What if it had all been a huge mistake and she was to blame for it?
She tried to tell herself no one would see the video. But she knew better. The university’s ad team always got local press coverage at competition time. Uncle Paul was kind of a local celebrity for all the wins he’d garnered. Probably the local news would even come out to the school and interview them. Everyone would know. The commercial would be lame, and Tig and the others would be even more unpopular than before. They’d be laughingstocks.
Why? Why had she agreed to make this video?
Chapter Fifty-Six
“I have good news and bad news,” Uncle Paul told her when he came by the house two days later.
“What?” Tig asked, not sure she really wanted to know.
“The good news is that the commercial is ready. My students worked around the clock all weekend. We submitted everything by overnight mail this afternoon for tomorrow’s deadline.”
“What’s the bad news?”
“That I lied,” Uncle Paul said. “I’m not going to let you see the video.”
“What?” Tig yelled. “But you promised!”
“I know,” Uncle Paul said. “That’s why it’s bad news. Well, it’s sort of bad news. Except that it’s not. The reason you can’t see the commercial is because it’s amazing. It really is. You’re going to love it.”
“I don’t understand,” Tig said. “If it’s so great, why can’t I see it?”
“We’re having a huge media event,” Uncle Paul said. “After the regional judging, we have a press conference set up where we’ll show the commercial. The winning commercial. It will be, Tig. It’s beyond good. And we want the band to be there to see the video for the first time along with the press. They want to interview you for your reactions—your fresh, unfiltered reactions. It’ll be great!”
“Wait. You’re telling me that this video of my band is being shipped off to the competition for other people to see before I even get to see it and then, after that, I don’t get to see it until I’m in a room full of people from the media?”
“Yes, I think you have a firm grasp of the situation.”
“What am I going to tell the band?”
“Tell them they made a great video and everyone’s going to love it.”
“But the regional judging won’t be for another two weeks! You have to let us see it before you show i
t to the media!”
“Trust me,” Uncle Paul said. “You’ll thank me later.”
“You can’t do this to me!” Tig said. “What if we look stupid? What if I’m making the drummer face? I know I’m making the drummer face!”
“What if you are?” Uncle Paul replied. “We wouldn’t have had time to go back and change it anyway. And you girls do not look stupid. The commercial is terrific! You’re going to love it!”
“But I know we messed up some places in the song, and—”
“Tig, do you know how long a commercial is? It’s thirty seconds. You played the song for over four minutes. You didn’t think we were going to use the whole thing, did you?”
She hadn’t thought of that.
“Well, which part did you use?”
Uncle Paul patted her on the head—actually patted her on the head! “You’ll see,” he said.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Uncle Paul was right about one thing: two weeks later, the ad won regionals.
The victory party was set for Friday evening at the university. The band, the local media, and all the UA bigwigs would finally see the commercial. Uncle Paul had promised over and over that Tig would not be disappointed. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her uncle. . . . Well, not exactly, anyway. She knew he wouldn’t purposely embarrass her, and of course she trusted that he knew a good ad when he saw one. But Uncle Paul’s concern was simply the ad; Tig’s was whether the band had played well. Did the ad show that they knew what they were doing, or would it look staged and faked? Would they look like a real band . . . or like little girls pretending to be in a rock band?
“Here’s the deal,” she told the band at lunch that Friday. Will and Sam were still in the lunch line, so there was no one else to listen. “There’s sort of a party tonight.”
“A party?” Kyra said much too loudly.
“Shhh!” Tig scolded. “Keep your voice down.”
Kyra whispered, “Whose party is it?”
“It’s the ad team’s,” Tig said. “The commercial won regionals.”