Lark’s mind was preoccupied for the rest of the day. Knowing that a music executive (one who didn’t just happen to be her own mother) thought she “had the goods” filled her with confidence. It was an entirely new feeling for Lark; she was used to doubting her ability to share her talent with an audience.
It occurred to her now, though, that maybe she’d been leaning a little too hard on that old “stage fright” excuse. After all, she’d survived the talent show, and she’d even improvised a bit backstage at the Hatfields’ concert—unintentionally, of course, but she’d gotten through that too.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she almost didn’t notice the note that landed on her desk in history class, from none other than Alessandra Drake. She turned to Mimi, who sat two desks away and looked as surprised as Lark. Lark gave her a look that said, What should I do?
Mimi shrugged. Open it, she mouthed.
Lark opened up the folded piece of paper carefully, as if it might explode.
Wanna go to the mall with me and Mel after school today? it said.
Lark blinked. This had to be a mistake. Ally must have misjudged her throw; maybe she’d been aiming for Josh Pell’s desk. Josh was a skater dude who wore baggy pants and slouchy knit beanies, and although he didn’t exactly strike Lark as the mall type, he was the only other official A-lister in the room and therefore the only person Ally ever communicated with during class.
But when Lark snuck a glance across the aisle, she saw that Ally was smiling at her, awaiting a reply.
Lark gripped her pen and held it poised above the creased paper. She stared at the unexpected invitation, written in Ally’s loopy script.
Ally Drake wants me to go to the mall with her, she thought, imagining herself sauntering through the airy, fountain-dotted corridors of an upscale shopping plaza flanked by Ally and Mel. She saw glossy shopping bags swinging from their wrists, their hair bouncing on their shoulders as they flitted from store to store …
It wasn’t until Lark realized she was picturing it all happening in slow motion that she recognized how ridiculous it was.
Because Ally didn’t want to be Lark’s friend; she just wanted to get one degree closer to Abbey Road.
Thanks, but I can’t, Lark wrote back. Then, with a grin she added, Mimi and I have plans to hang with Ollie, Max, and Teddy all afternoon.
This was absolutely true, of course, though it may have been a little mean to rub it in Ally’s face like that. But it was far less unkind than Ally pretending to want to be friends with Lark when in truth her motives were purely selfish.
Lark folded the note and threw. It landed square in the center of Ally’s desk.
Keeping her eyes on the front of the classroom, where Mr. Corbin was finishing up his lecture on the First Continental Congress, Lark heard the whispery crackle of the note being unfolded.
Part of her wanted to sneak a glance across the aisle to see the expression of shock on Alessandra’s face. After all, getting rejected wasn’t something that happened to her often. But another part of Lark was content to simply focus on her teacher’s description of the events that had taken place at Carpenters’ Hall in 1774.
Because she was beginning to understand that in the scheme of things, Ally Drake just wasn’t that big a deal.
Lark arrived home with Teddy and Mimi to find that the foyer had been set up as a makeshift photo studio, with cameras on tripods and umbrella-shaped light reflectors all over the place. Ollie was posing in front of a white backdrop, while a girl with blue lipstick held a light meter up to his chin. A guy with a makeup brush in one hand and another clamped between his teeth was dusting Ollie’s cheeks with bronzing powder, while a woman wearing stiletto heels that looked like stilts fussed with his shaggy blond hair.
“Let’s hurry it up, people,” the photographer scolded. “He looks fabulous, now get out of the way so I can shoot him!”
The hair and makeup crew scattered and Lark watched as Ollie struck a pose.
“Perfect!” said the photographer, whose skinny jeans looked as if they’d been painted on him. “That’s perfect. Now smile. No! Wait, don’t smile.”
Ollie put on a brooding expression.
“Excellent,” cried the photographer. “Very enigmatic.”
Very grumpy, thought Lark.
The explosive flash that followed nearly blinded her.
“Who’s next?” the photographer barked.
“Max,” said the male makeup artist, pointing in the direction of the family room. “But he’s being difficult.”
Teddy laughed. “This ought to be good.”
Lark, Mimi, and Teddy watched as the girl with the blue lipstick stomped from the foyer to where Max was lounging on the family room sofa. She planted herself in front of him, but before she said a word, Max vehemently shook his head.
“We’re not having this conversation again,” he said firmly. “I already told you there is no way I’m letting you tweeze my eyebrows!”
“Tweezing is so last millennium!” said the girl. “It’s all about waxing now.”
“Tweezing, waxing,” Max grumbled. “I don’t care if you’re planning to take a lawn mower to them, I meant it when I said nobody was touching my eyebrows!”
It was at that moment that he spotted the onlookers in the doorway and waved them over. “Can you believe this? She actually wants to melt hot wax and apply it to my face! What’ll she do next? Put me on the rack and break my bones? Stick me in an iron maiden?”
“Isn’t Iron Maiden a heavy-metal band from the eighties?” said Teddy.
Max chuckled, but stayed on topic. “Point is, she thinks she’s got to resort to medieval torture to make me appealing,” he said gruffly. “Tell them, Lark. I’m not that ugly!”
The makeup artist turned to Lark with an expectant look and Lark felt the shyness settle over her as if it were hot wax.
“He’s not ugly,” she managed to say. “Not ugly at all.”
“I never said he was,” the girl with the blue-tinted lips insisted. “He’s adorable! His brows are just a little scraggly, that’s all.”
Lark resisted the urge to peer more closely at Max’s eyebrows. She honestly thought he was perfect the way he was, but this girl was a trained cosmetologist, after all. She was about to suggest that Max just succumb to the grooming when Donna came thundering into the room.
“I can’t believe it. Yolanda canceled!”
“Who’s Yolanda?” asked Lark.
“Only the most sought-after stylist in Los Angeles,” said Donna. “She just called to say she can’t make it for the fitting. And after she sent over all these possible ensembles.”
Only now did Lark notice that the room contained several rolling racks filled with clothing.
Mimi sauntered over to the racks and examined some of the outfits hanging from them. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she observed, eyeing a neon-green tuxedo. Next to it hung a pair of seersucker trousers, paired with a light-blue and pale-yellow argyle sweater and a seafoam-green button-down shirt.
“Preppy with a vengeance,” she proclaimed, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Whoever wore this would look like human cotton candy.”
Oliver plucked a fedora from the rack and set it jauntily on his head. “What do you think?” he asked, grinning at Mimi.
“You look absolutely fedorable,” she said, quickly whipping out her phone and snapping a photo.
“How are we supposed to find a stylist on such short notice?” Donna muttered. “I booked Yolanda weeks ago.”
“Mom, guess what!” said Lark. “I got an A on a short story I wrote for English.”
Donna looked up from her phone, where she was Googling wardrobe consultants, and peered at Lark closely.
“I said, I got an A on my story,” Lark repeated.
“Yes, yes, that’s excellent, honey.” She abandoned her Internet search and began to examine Lark’s hair, then checked the condition of her nails. “Hmm. I wish I’d thought to schedule an appointment at the salon for you. You could use a little trim, maybe a manicure.”
Lark looked at her strangely. “Why?”
“Why not?” Mimi joked.
Without another word about Lark’s story, Donna left the room, her eyes glued to her phone as she continued to search for a stylist.
After Max and Teddy were finished with their photo shoots, they all convened around the kitchen table to feast on Fitzy’s latest creation: butterscotch-and-bacon blondies.
Lark was surprised to find the unexpected collision of sweet and savory oddly satisfying. She and Mimi each had one large blondie, but Donna recoiled at the thought of such a high-calorie snack. The boys had no such concerns and scarfed down the remainder of the batch.
“I suppose we’re lucky to have dodged the green-tuxedo bullet,” Donna said, sipping the kale smoothie Fitzy had whipped up for her. “I haven’t been able to find another wardrobe consultant on such short notice. So we still need to find great outfits for you three to wear for the Rise and Shine interview tomorrow morning.”
“The thing is,” said Max, brushing blondie crumbs from his chin, “you’ve always said that Abbey Road’s vibe should be that we’re just normal, ordinary guys.”
“Right,” said Ollie. “So why don’t we just do what normal, ordinary guys do when they want to look good?”
“What’s that?” asked Donna.
“They go to the mall,” said Max. “And Lark and Mimi can come along to help us shop.”
Donna frowned. “I suppose we don’t have much choice,” she said, digging into her purse to fish out the Lotus Records company credit card. She handed it to Lark. “One outfit per band member, plus something cute for you.”
“Me? Really?” Lark was thrilled; she hadn’t treated herself to new clothes in a while. “Thanks, Mom.”
A few minutes later they all climbed into the SUV, headed for the mall.
“Just normal, ordinary guys,” joked Ollie. “Hanging out at the mall. What could be more typical than that?”
At that moment, Abbey Road’s hit single, “Wounded Pride,” came on the radio. As the group sang along to their own voices, Lark couldn’t help but smile. There was nothing ordinary about these boys, and all thoughts of “typical” went right out the window as soon as they began to sing.