Rock 'n' Roll Rebel (19 page)

Chapter Forty-Eight

T
wo hours, three color processes, and one dramatic cut later, Tig was all done. She'd even had just enough time to stop in a shoe store on the way to meet the girls at the food court. They were still sitting outside the ice-cream place.

“What do you think?” Tig asked.

No one said anything for a full thirty seconds.

“Tig?” Kyra finally said. “Is that you?”

“I approve,” said Robbie. “One hundred percent.”

It was drastic, to say the least. The cut was angled so that it was shorter in the back and longer in the front, and one side was even a little longer than the other. The bottom was choppy, almost as if it had been cut with very large pinking shears. And the color . . . well, Tig was mousy no more. The roots were black, and black lowlights had been worked throughout, but most of her hair was peroxided to a white blond. Here and there, she had hot-pink highlights. To make herself almost unrecognizable, Tig had stopped by the accessories shop and picked up some fake glasses.

The oddest part about it?

Tig looked good.

“That actually really works for your skin tone,” Claire said. “I don't know how, and I wouldn't have ever imagined it, but it works.”

“You look . . . hot!” Olivia said.

“Really?” Tig asked. “Me? Hot?”

“Smokin'!” Kyra said.

“Kyra,” Tig said. “What do you think my mom's going to say?”

“She's probably going to kill you,” Kyra said. “But then, you knew that.”

“We're about to find out,” Robbie said. “It's almost nine. Better head out.”

When Tig's mom pulled up in the van, her mouth dropped. “What did you do?”

“I got my hair did!” Tig said, trying to sound jovial. “What do you think?”

“I think you've lost your mind! Let me see you!” Her mother turned Tig toward the crummy lighting in the center of the van's ceiling. “What is this?”

“You'll get used to it, Mom,” Tig said.

“I don't understand,” her mother replied. “Why?”

“Because, Mom,” Tig said, “I'm a rock star.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

T
ig's dad stared at her so much as she sat at the breakfast table the next morning, he nearly burned the Belgian waffles.

“Tell me the truth,” he said. “Did you pierce anything?”

“No, Dad.”

“Promise? Not your belly button or—Let me see your tongue.”

“Dad,” Tig said. “I promise.”

“And no tattoos?”

Robbie scoffed. “Tattoos are so last year.”

“Well, at least there's that,” her dad replied. “So, how does this work? Do you have to pick out clothes now that don't clash with your hair?”

Tig hadn't considered it. “I don't know. Do I, Robbie?”

“Clash away,” Robbie said. “It's all rock 'n' roll.”

“I suppose there are worse things,” Tig's dad said. “But when your grandmother sees you, I don't know you.”

“Fair enough,” Tig said. “Hey, Dad . . .”

“Yes?”

Tig walked up to where he stood by the waffle iron and whispered so Robbie couldn't hear. “It's not really that bad, is it? I mean, do I look . . . ugly?”

Tig's dad hugged her and kissed the top of her peroxided head. “You couldn't be ugly if you tried,” he said. “You'd be pretty even with no hair at all. But don't shave your head, okay? I don't think your mother could take it.”

“You look so weird!” her little brother said when he came into the kitchen. “Are you a Power Ranger?”

“Yes,” Tig said. “Yes, I am.”

He ran to tell their sister the good news.

After the waffles, Tig and Robbie went back to Tig's room to wake the other girls. “Tig!” Robbie said, stopping suddenly. “I just realized that we didn't get an outfit for you last night.”

“Covered,” Tig said. She took Robbie to her closet, where she pulled out a black tutu with a hot pink hem. “I wore this in my last ballet recital, back in fifth grade,” she said. “I figure, we pair it with ripped black leggings and a black rocker tee and these beauties I picked up last night.” Tig pulled out of the shopping bag the combat boots she'd bought on her way to meet the girls at the food court. “Like you said, you can't go wrong with combat boots.”

“These are spectacular,” Robbie said, running her hand along the faux leather. “You are coming along nicely.”

After the other girls had breakfast, the band practiced for a couple of hours before their parents picked them up. They sounded better and better with each run-through. Robbie worked on “choreography,” teaching Kyra to hold her head to the side and at one point to play with her back up against Robbie's. Olivia could do only so much while playing the keyboard, but she worked on making a fierce face when she joined in to sing backup on the chorus. Claire took instruction on how to do a little hop of sorts before she began singing and how to put her arms up every now and then to get the crowd—not that there would be a real crowd, but still—pumped. She felt ridiculous, but Robbie told her she'd feel less so the more she practiced.

“Own the stage,” Robbie told them. “Own it.”

Since Tig was already moving both arms and legs as fast as possible, she worked on trying not to do an overbite, which she often did without realizing it. Maybe she'd work on learning how to twirl the sticks before or after the song—something to add a little flavor.

They watched a clip of the real band playing “Submission” to see if they could get any ideas, but Johnny Rotten, their lead singer, cussed a lot and ranted about British politics, so there wasn't much they could use.

“We need to make it our own anyway,” Tig said. “How about every day next week we practice for one hour after school? I don't think my mom will go for any more than that.”

The girls agreed. When practice was over, one by one, the girls said good-bye. Claire was the last to leave. As she got in the car, she said, “See you at school.”

Oh yeah. School.

Tig had been so focused on making the video, she forgot she had to go to school. With this new hair.

That should be interesting.

Chapter Fifty

W
alking into the gym that Monday morning wasn't easy. Of course people stared. But Tig noticed that no one laughed. At least there was that.

“That's not helping,” Regan said when Tig walked by the Bot Spot. “What? Did you just decide to embrace the ugly? Go all the way with it?”

“No, I just wanted to see if I could look worse than you, but no matter what I try, it's just not possible.” Something about the hair emboldened Tig. She felt now that she looked the part of the tough chick she wanted to be.

When it was time for class and everyone was packed in the hallways, Tig heard a man's voice say, “Whoa!” and then an arm stretched out in front of her like a bar, forcing her to stop. It was Coach Cook.

“What is going on here?” Coach Cook wasn't even her teacher. Was he going to hassle her?

“Just something new,” Tig said somewhat nervously. She lowered her voice. “See, I'm in this band—”

“You're in a band?” Coach replied. “What do you play?”

“Drums,” Tig said.

“Cool.” He pointed to himself. “Guitar.”

“No way!”

“Way!” Coach Cook smiled. “My hair used to be down to
here
!” He drew an imaginary line with his finger across his bicep.

“Get out!”

“Hair is all part of the package,” Coach said. “I dig it. Rock on.”

Tig walked away, smiling. She almost ran straight into Will.

“Excuse me. Have we met?” Will asked. “You sort of look like a girl named Anti-gone.”

“Go ahead,” Tig said. “Take your shots about my hair.”

“And the glasses?”

“And the glasses.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I got nothing,” Will said. “I think you look great.”

Tig was so surprised, she barely knew what to say. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Will said. “But what else is new? I've always thought that.” Will gently nudged her toward the door of the computer lab, which was still locked, so that they were standing alone in a little nook while the sea of students flowed past. “I know I've given you a hard time sometimes . . . teased you about stuff . . . but it's only because I think you're fun to spar with.”

This was about to go somewhere. Tig could feel it.

She felt her heart flip a little at the way Will's blue eyes shone when he smiled at her. She remembered how helpful he'd been about teaching her drum fills at lunch the past couple of months. She thought about how great he had been to crash and burn with them at Kyra's party, how he'd continued to sit with them at lunch even when he could've easily blamed the whole mess on “girl musicians” and distanced himself from her and the rest of the band in order to hang on to some shred of dignity. But he hadn't. He'd stuck by them. And now he was being sweet, somehow sensing that Tig's whole self-image was at the moment tied into how people would react to her new hair, and he was making her feel good about herself. Because the bottom line was, Will Mason was a great guy. Total boyfriend material.

And Olivia had known it all along.

Tig had to make him understand how she felt.

“Remember what you said a while back, about how girl bands can't work?” she asked.

“I didn't mean that, Tig,” Will said. “I was just messing with you. Trying to get a rise out of you.”

“You said that girls couldn't be true friends because they're inherently suspicious of and jealous of one another. Always competing.”

“Tig, I was just—”

“You made a good point, Will,” Tig said. “Girls shouldn't be like that. Friends should have their friends' backs. And that's why I want you to really consider how wonderful Olivia is.”

“Olivia?”

“Yes. It's no secret how she feels about you,” Tig said. “Olivia is a terrific girl. And one of my best friends.”

“Oh. I think I get what you're saying here.” Will looked at the floor.

“And I'm really glad you're one of my best friends, too,” Tig said.

Will looked up. “I'll always be your friend, Tig,” he said. “No matter what.”

“So you'll think about Olivia?”

“I'll work on that,” Will said. “Just as soon as I'm able to stop thinking about someone else.”

Chapter Fifty-One

S
omeone was definitely thinking about Olivia. But it wasn't the someone Tig had in mind.

“My parents don't want me to do the video,” Olivia announced at practice that day. “They don't like the idea of their daughter performing a song by the S-e-x Pistols.”

“You do realize we can all spell, don't you?” Robbie asked.

Olivia blushed. “Sorry. My mom won't say that word in front of me. The whole thing makes her very nervous. She wants to know if we can pick another song.”

“But we can't,” Tig said. “The ad team picked the song because it goes along with the theme of the submarine pants.”

“I told my mom that,” Olivia said. “She suggested we do the Beatles' ‘Yellow Submarine' instead.”

“The video is in four days!” Tig said. “We can't learn a whole new song in four days!”

“I already have the sheet music,” Olivia said.

“Well,” Robbie said, “I can play almost the entire Beatles catalog.”

“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.”