Out on the stage, another song I don’t know is pounding. The dancers are still bopping under glaring lights. You can see them from different angles on big screens above and behind the stage. Colors and camera angles change. Out in front of the stage, facing it from about fifteen meters away in the dimness, people cluster at a bank of glowing computer screens and tech boards that look as if they could run a space station. The tallest person looks familiar. It’s Toby. I walk over.
“Spencer! Hey, how’s it going?”
“Good. Things have changed, but I think Bunny’s going to be okay.”
“Fantastic.” I’m so relieved about Bunny that when he raises his fist to do props, I match him.
I ask, “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, just hanging, you know. Turns out they’re using the software already.”
“Software?” I ask.
Toby sweeps back some perfect hair and says, “Just some stuff my older brother and I developed back when I was in junior high. Graphics stuff that interacts with sound and light effects. Highly effective for concerts. Apple bought us out, actually, before we could do much with it. I’ve just been making a couple of suggestions.”
“Oh,” I say, “right. AmberLea told me.” I shrink back to normal in my cowboy boots. “Looks like AT has your hat,” is all I can come up with to say.
Toby laughs. “Oh. Yeah. He has a way of latching on to things.” In this light, Toby almost looks as if he’s blushing. Somehow it lets me ask, “So like, you and AmberLea, are you, like, how long have you…?” That’s as far as I get before someone jumps on his back. AmberLea.
Toby laughs and shrugs her off. Then he gives her a hug. “I called your mom, Hot Lips. She’s cool. Told her I’d be along in about an hour. Just wrapping up here.”
“Going good?” AmberLea gives him a private look. I’m thinking, Hot Lips?
“Going good.”
I shrink a little more. Since the boots make me an inch taller, maybe no one will notice. Besides, a free Bunny is the main thing.
AmberLea and I head back out into the cold. It’s bright after the shadows of the soundstage. “You should’ve stuck around.” She nudges me. “They were so into it, I got us ten percent of the publishing on AT’s arrangement of the anthem, plus a last visit to the cottage before they tear it down.”
“Wow. Thanks for persuading them,” I say. “How did you do that?”
“I dunno.” She shrugs. “My father’s in advertising.” She pauses. “You know, I’m good, but that was almost too easy. Didn’t you think?”
Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Who cares? You saved Bunny.”
Her chin has gone in. After a second she lifts it and squints a smile back at me. “Maybe our families are just meant to help each other,” she says.
The SUVs are gone. As we get into the Cayenne, I clear my throat. “Uh, how come, um, TobycallsyouHotLips?” The last part spills out all in one word.
AmberLea blushes. The color goes great with her hair. “Ever seen M*A*S*H? The movie? Toby teases me that I look like the nurse character, Hot Lips Houlihan.”
“Oh. I should check it out.” Dumb, dumb, dumb. It’s also a little late to say, “No, you’re prettier,” isn’t it?
AmberLea starts the car. “That anthem is the real thing, right?”
“Hey,” I say, “you found it.”
“I know, but…did it sound familiar to you when AT hummed it?”
“Kind of.” I reach for my seat belt. “Yeah, it did.”
“To me too.” AmberLea digs out her iPhone.
I laugh and say, “Maybe that proves it’s authentic: Zoltan Blum’s Wikipedia entry said he got accused of plagiarism on some of his songs.”
“Maybe he should have on this one. Check this out.” AmberLea plugs her phone into the SUV’s sound system and dials something up. Elvis Presley gushes out, Love me tender…
We stare at each other. It’s the same song. AmberLea says, “So either AT was faking and can’t really read music, or Zoltan Blum was a cheater. Guess which one I’m betting on?”
“Holy cow,” I say. “The guy ripped off Elvis?”
“Obviously, he wasn’t big in Pianvia. Anyway, I don’t think Elvis wrote it either, but he sang it. Your grandpa played music, right? Do you think he knew?” She puts the SUV in gear and we pull out.
I shrug. “I dunno. Why?”
“Well,” says AmberLea, flicking the turn signal at the exit to the parking lot, “I was just thinking of—”
“Where we found it,” I join in. Together we say, “Elvis belongs in the outhouse.”