The week before the concert flew by. There was a ton of stuff to do—all sorts of little things Harriet hadn’t anticipated.
The girls were so busy planning the concert that would raise money for Larry’s new guitar that they kept forgetting to deal with one tiny but oh-so-important detail: Larry would need a guitar to play at that concert. And not just at the concert, he pointed out, but before, too. The Radical Skinks hadn’t practiced in a while, and they couldn’t just pick up and play a killer concert out of the blue.
The obvious thing to do, the girls agreed, was to borrow a guitar for the week. Trouble was, while the boys knew plenty of guitarists, they were all using their instruments to practice for the Battle of the Bands.
Thankfully, Harriet possessed superpowers of persuasion. She paid a visit to Music Mania, the music store on Pecan Street, and struck up a conversation with the owner, a heavily tattooed woman named Mo. Harriet told Mo the sad story of how she’d accidentally destroyed Larry’s guitar—and possibly his dreams of stardom—and how she was doing everything she could to make things right. “The one thing we still desperately need,” she said, her eyes wide and hopeful, “is to borrow a guitar for Larry to practice with this week. Can you help?”
Mo hooked her fingers into the belt loops of her jeans. “What’s in it for me?”
“How about some free publicity?” asked Harriet with a smile. “We’ll put a stack of Music Mania brochures on the merch table!”
“Nah,” said Mo without hesitation. “Nobody takes brochures. What else you got?”
“Ummmm…” Harriet was surprised. Usually her soft sell did the trick, but Mo clearly required a hard sell. “We can hang a poster up behind the merch table.”
“I want ten shout-outs on social media from the lead singer’s account,” said Mo.
“Okay,” Harriet agreed.
“I’m not done.” Mo went on. Her face barely moved when she talked. She looked like a ventriloquist, just without the dummy. “I also want a shout-out at the opening of the concert. Including our address.”
“That’s a lot of conditions,” said Harriet. She couldn’t help but admire Mo’s negotiation skills.
“And,” said Mo.
“There’s more?” asked Harriet.
“I need a guarantee that your brother will buy his guitar here when he raises the money,” said Mo. She extended her hand toward Harriet. “Do we have a deal?”
“You drive a hard bargain,” said Harriet, pausing a moment. Then she reached out and shook Mo’s hand firmly. “Nice doing business with you.”
Larry was delighted to get his hands on a guitar again—especially the ChromaChord 3000.
“This guitar’s way better than Herbert, may he rest in peace,” Larry said. “It plays like a dream. I mean, with this ax, I could be Keith Richards.”
“You should get that kind, then, when we raise the money,” said Amelia. She’d come over for an organizational meeting about the concert.
“You think we’ll have enough money?” Larry asked.
“Depends. How much did Mo say this one cost, Harriet?”
“One hundred and forty,” said Harriet. “I bet she gave us a more expensive one on purpose! She knew Larry would fall in love with it.”
“She’s one smart cookie, that Mo,” said Amelia admiringly. “She must teach us her ways.”
“All I know is, I need this guitar,” said Larry. “With this baby, I could be Hendrix!”
“Hendrix?” whispered Amelia to Harriet. “Now he’s going too far.”
Thanks to the new ChromaChord 3000, Larry’s solos soared. The boys rehearsed every night for hours on end. Their long break from rehearsals had made them sloppy, and they had a lot of work to do before the Battle of the Bands.
The Radical Skinks’ work ethic was admirable—but it was also very loud. Harriet’s dad owned a pair of noise-canceling headphones, which he usually only wore when he worked on a painting or sculpture and needed to be free of distractions. These headphones became a hot commodity in the Nguyen household.
“Harriet, you’ve had the headphones for over an hour,” complained her dad on Thursday night. The boys had been practicing for two hours straight and showed no signs of stopping soon.
“What?” she asked. Sam was whaling on his drum kit, and she couldn’t hear a thing.
“You’re hogging the headphones! I need them!” her dad shouted.
“Oh no you don’t!” broke in Harriet’s mom. “I need those for my customer downstairs!”
“For your custard? You’re baking?” Harriet’s dad yelled.
The house, always loud, became deafening.
But every night, the band sounded better—tighter and more in sync. They sounded like American Supahstars.