Rock 'n' Roll Rebel (2 page)

Chapter Two

B
ack in the sixties, Tig's grandfather had been a drummer in a band called the Orbits. It was Big Daddy and his best friend, Jerry, and a couple of other guys. The lead singer had been a guy named Danny Speed. Big Daddy swore that was the singer's real name, even though it sounded made-up. The Orbits had broken up when Big Daddy and Jerry had enlisted in the navy, and nobody knew what happened to Danny Speed, though Tig liked to think he'd been really handsome and had moved to somewhere cool, like California.

In any case, Big Daddy hadn't played drums in years and had sold his set decades ago. But as the oldest grandchild on her dad's side of the family, Tig was the apple of her grandfather's eye. So he wasted no time after Tig's phone call and went out and bought her a respectable but reasonably priced drum set.

They set up the drum kit in the green house, which wasn't a greenhouse as in a place where you grow stuff, but an actual green-painted house built from cement blocks. It had been the “mother-in-law apartment” for the former owners of the house Tig shared with her parents and younger sister and brother. It had one main room, a bathroom, and a closet, and they'd used it only for storage up until that point. Tig's mom was happy to put the drums in there instead of the main house, since Tig's younger sibs already made enough noise for anybody.

“It must be in the genes,” BD said when he finally got the drum kit all set up. “Going to be a drummer like your old BD!”

Tig had stopped calling her grandfather Big Daddy a year or so ago, thinking BD sounded less babyish.
“Yes, sir. Hey, BD, how long do you think it'll be before I can play a full song? A couple of weeks, maybe?”

BD laughed. “Maybe a little longer than that. It takes coordination. Kind of like ‘rub your head, pat your tummy.'”

After only one lesson with BD the Monday after he assembled the drum kit, Tig was almost ready to give up. “This is way worse than trying to rub your head and pat your tummy,” she told him. “It's more like ‘rub your head, pat your tummy, kickbox, and juggle knives.'”

“You need a real teacher,” he said. “You'll do better with a stranger, someone you'll be too embarrassed to disappoint.”

So Tig met her new drum teacher, Lee, at the local music store the following Friday afternoon. He taught her the names of each drum in the kit: the bass was the one on the floor played with her right foot, the snare was the main drum, and the others were called toms—the high tom, the middle tom, and the floor tom. The cymbals were called the ride, the crash, and the hi-hat.
Lee said she would use the hi-hat most often, at least at first.

“Everything with drums is basically looking for the booms and the chicks,” Lee told her. Tig thought it sounded like some sort of slang for “boys and girls.” But then Lee put on some music with a distinctive drumbeat: the Rolling Stones' “Honky Tonk Women.”

“This is way before your time—and even way before mine, but the drum intro is great, and it's slow enough that you can kind of pick out what's going on,” Lee explained.

After he played the song's intro a few times on his phone, boosted through the speakers in the lesson room, Lee sat down and played along on his electronic drum kit. Tig noticed that the bass drum pedal seemed to be moving quite a bit, even on this kind of slow song. She couldn't always tell which was an actual kick of the drum pedal and which were vibrations from the pedal having been kicked, but it looked cool. She couldn't wait until she could do that. Lee handed her a drumstick and let Tig hit the snare every time there was a chick. It was fun, and Tig couldn't help but feel pleased with herself that she could now differentiate between a boom and a chick. She felt proud to have learned something from the very first lesson. Things were a bit harder at home when she tried doing both the booms and the chicks by herself for her practice exercises, but Lee assured her it would just take some getting used to.

He taught her all the basic drum fills—patterns played with the sticks—and flams, which were a little bit trickier because they were patterns that involved letting the stick bounce instead of deliberately hitting it.

As frustrating as it was to practice the same fills and flams over and over and over with varying levels of success, Tig felt cool playing the drums. Powerful. Hitting the bass drum with force so that she could feel the boom all the way in her stomach went against everything she'd ever been taught about being a proper Southern young lady.

She wondered why she hadn't started a long time ago.

Chapter Three

“Y
ou've got to learn how to play bass,” Tig told Kyra on the phone after she'd had three once-a-week drum lessons.

“What? Why?”

“So you can be in my band,” Tig replied.

“What band? When did you join a band?”

“I didn't. That's why I need you to learn bass, so I can form one.”

There was no way Tig could do something as monumental as forming a band without including Kyra. They were first cousins and had been joined at the hip since birth. Tig's mom and Kyra's dad were sister and brother, and the Bennett family was tight. Even when Tig and Kyra did get mad at each other, they had little choice but to make up or endure infinitely awkward family gatherings.

“Why bass?” Kyra asked. “Why not guitar?”

“Because bass players look cool,” Tig said. “You don't have to really move a lot, so you get to have this kind of I'm-so-bored-with-being-a-rock-star-that-I-could-fall-asleep thing going on onstage. Totally cool.”

The real reason Tig had chosen bass for Kyra was because Lee had told her it was the easiest instrument to choose from. “The guitar requires a sizable amount of fine motor skills, of dexterity,” Lee had said. And while Kyra was many things, dexterous wasn't one of them. Kyra's dad had nicknamed Kyra “Grace” when she was little because she was always running into stationary objects.

Pretty much anybody can walk a bass line
, Lee had said.

“I don't know,” Kyra said. “I'm not really musically inclined.”

“Come on,” Tig replied. “Pretty much anybody can walk a bass line.” She said it as if she knew what it meant.

“Well, it might be fun to be in a band,” Kyra said.

“It'll be awesome. It's, like, we'll, you know . . . matter.”

“We could be popular!” Kyra's pitch went up a full octave.

“It's not about that,” Tig said with a sigh. One thing Kyra and Tig did not have in common: Kyra desperately wanted to be in with the Regan Hoffman crowd, while Tig . . . Well, it was more like she wanted to prove to the Regan Hoffmans of the world how little she cared about them. She wanted to transcend them. While Kyra dreamed of sitting at Regan's lunch table, Tig fantasized about being
invited
to sit at Regan's lunch table only to refuse the invitation.
That
, she had tried several times to explain to Kyra, would be the height of cool, but Kyra wouldn't buy it. She couldn't fathom why anyone wouldn't want to be popular.

“So, look, are you going to do it or not?” Tig asked.

“All right,” Kyra said. “But where are you going to get the other musicians?”

Kyra had a point. Tig didn't really know how she would go about finding the other band members, but she didn't want to admit that to Kyra and make it seem like she didn't have it all figured out.

“Simple,” Tig said. “Auditions.”

“Auditions?” Kyra asked. “Where? Who? When?”

“You forgot what, how, and why,” Tig said. “Look, I'll put up a sign on the bulletin board in the music store. We can have a cattle call audition.”

“At the school auditorium?”

No way
, Tig thought. She didn't want Will or anyone else at school to know about the band until they were formed and actually good. “How about at your church building? They have a stage there.”

“I could probably set that up, I guess,” Kyra said.

“Then it's settled. We'll have auditions a week from tomorrow.”

Chapter Four

A
week and a day later Tig and Kyra sat in the small auditorium of Kyra's church building downtown. They both had clipboards, although neither was sure what they were supposed to do with them.

“No one's going to show up,” Kyra said.

“Sure they will,” Tig said. “You're always saying to think positively.”

“Okay. I'm positive no one's going to show up.”

“Very funny,” Tig said. She was just about to start playing a game on her phone when someone walked through the doorway.

It was a guy. A high-school guy.

A cute high-school guy.

With a guitar.

“Is this the place for the auditions?” he asked. He had blond hair that fell over his forehead. He was broad-shouldered and had perfectly white, straight teeth.

“Yes!”
Kyra said. “Come right in!”

Tig cleared her throat. “What she means is . . . this is the place for the auditions for the
all-girl
band.” Tig held up a copy of the flyer she'd posted in the music store.

“Yeah,” he said. “I was thinking maybe that was optional?”

“Totally optional,” Kyra said.

“No, it's not,” Tig said.

“Tig!” Kyra whispered a little too loudly. “Are you
blind
? He's gorgeous!”

“He's also a guy,” Tig replied.

“Precisely my point!”

“I'm sorry,” Tig said. “But this really is for girls only. Thanks for coming, though.”

“Worth a shot,” the guy said.

“Call me!” Kyra yelled just as the door closed behind him.

“‘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.”