After ice cream, the girls piled into Mrs. Ripley’s minivan and rode to Tig’s house. They changed clothes—Tig couldn’t wait to get out of that dress and back into her usual jeans and a tee—and went to the studio, which was really just a small building on Tig’s family’s property.
“Ooh, I have something for y’all!” Kyra said. She opened her backpack and took out five file folders. Each was a different color with a different pattern. She handed one to each girl. “I took the liberty of making everyone a band folder,” she said. “Inside you’ll find a calendar for the rest of the year, with each practice date in aquamarine type, and monthly band sleepovers at Tig’s in marigold yellow. Also, you’ll find a current set list in coral.”
“Pretty!” Olivia said.
“Look, she even used a label maker for the folder tab!” Claire added. The labels said PANDORA’S BOX.
“You sure went to a lot of trouble,” Robbie said.
“I wanted them to look nice,” Kyra said.
“Thanks, Kyra,” said Tig. Everyone else did the same. “Now, let’s get to practicing, shall we?”
They were only a minute into the song before it fell apart. “Hold up,” Robbie said. “I’m sorry, but, Kyra, you’re killing me. You’re in the wrong key again.”
“No, I’m not,” said Kyra.
“Yes, you are,” Tig said.
“Should the rest of us just change the key?” Olivia asked. “Maybe that would be easier.”
“I don’t think I can sing it in that key,” said Claire. “Sorry, Kyra.”
“I don’t know what y’all are complaining about,” Kyra replied. “I am so not in the wrong key!”
Robbie put down her guitar and went over to work with Kyra on the bass. Meanwhile, Tig set down her drumsticks, and Olivia took her hands off the keyboard. Olivia, Claire, and Tig looked at one another. They were all having the same thought: What are we going to do with Kyra?
“Okay, let’s try it again,” Robbie said, putting her guitar strap back on her shoulder.
The girls ran through the song again. This time Kyra played in the correct key. But she started acting really weird, popping and slapping the bass during the chorus. “Kyra, what was that?” Tig asked.
“Isn’t it cool?” she said. “My dad was watching an Earth, Wind & Fire concert on TV, and I saw their bass player do this stuff, and I wanted to try it.”
“You do realize that we are playing music in a genre that doesn’t even remotely resemble funk, don’t you?” Robbie asked.
“So?”
Robbie sighed. “So, in other news . . .,” Robbie began. Tig was glad she’d changed the subject. Every time the band practiced, Tig feared that Robbie would finally let loose on Kyra about her lackluster bass playing. “What about my request to add a rhythm guitarist?” Ever since they’d made the fake commercial a few months before, Robbie had been lobbying to add another girl to the band. She had a point. Much of the band’s success relied on her, since she was the best musician they had—well, unless you considered Claire’s kick-butt voice an instrument, which Tig totally did.
Tig kind of suspected that one of the reasons Robbie wanted to add a rhythm guitarist was so she could have the luxury of showing off a little bit as lead guitarist. Tig couldn’t really blame her: if she had been Robbie Chan, she probably would’ve wanted to show off at least a little bit too.
“I’m not opposed to the idea,” Tig said. “But where are we going to find one?”
“Yeah, it was tough enough just to get y’all,” Kyra said.
“And we all agreed . . . no boys allowed,” said Olivia.
“Yeah, Chan,” Tig said. “There’s kind of a limited number of girl musicians in Tuscaloosa.”
“In Tuscaloosa County, yes,” Robbie said. “But I’ve got this friend from camp. She’s from Pickens County, and she’s supercool. Name’s Paris Nichols. Pickens isn’t so far that it couldn’t work. And she’d be down if we asked; I’m sure of it.”
“And she plays guitar?” Olivia asked.
“Well,” Robbie said, “she took lessons in third and fourth grade, but she didn’t really stick with it. But since she has some background, I’m sure I could teach her. Paris’s really smart and she could learn fast.”
Tig wasn’t so sure about this. It would’ve been one thing to bring in a guitarist who could already play. But to bring in someone who was practically a novice and who’d have to come all the way from Pickens County every single time? That was a half hour outside of town.
“Just meet her,” Robbie said. “She’s so awesome. You’ll love her.”
Tig was a little surprised that Robbie was so impressed with a girl from the country. As far as Tig knew, a lot of people out in Pickens County had actual farms, with actual livestock and stuff. Robbie, whose folks had moved her here from New York, was so cosmopolitan. It struck Tig as odd that Robbie was so taken with this Paris character.
“Okay,” Tig said. “Bring her to our next practice. Does she have a guitar?”
“Does she have a guitar?” Robbie laughed, then got serious. “That’s actually a good question. I’ll tell her to get one if she doesn’t.”
Great, Tig thought.
Soon the girls packed up their instruments, and the mom vans/SUVs began arriving for pickup. “Whose car is that?” Olivia asked.
The girls looked outside to see Kyra’s dad’s red Alfa Romeo, the vintage sports car he’d bought a few months ago but rarely drove.
“Uncle Nick busted out the spy mobile?” Tig asked. She’d always thought it looked like a car from one of those sixties movies with the British secret agents.
“Yeah, Mom’s had a lot going on lately,” Kyra said. “She has this friend out of town who’s been really sick, so she’s been gone a lot. Mom’s never liked the car, so Dad uses it whenever she’s away.”
Tig walked to the door with Kyra and waved to Uncle Nick. He waved back but didn’t make any effort to get out of the car and chat. Tig found this a bit odd, since Uncle Nick was usually so personable.
Robbie was the last one to leave. “Ripley,” Robbie said, “I don’t want to cause a family rift for you, but seriously.”
“I know,” Tig replied. “Kyra stinks. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t just boot my cousin out of the band.”
“Do you think she really even likes playing in the band?” Robbie asked. “I mean, she doesn’t seem to enjoy it at all, and she’s always complaining.”
“Oh, trust me, I know,” Tig said. Whenever Tig had to scold Kyra about not practicing, she’d launch into a whine that would completely wear Tig out.
“So, if she doesn’t like being a musician, why is she doing it?”
“You know why,” Tig said. “‘The sky’s the limit!’ Kyra doesn’t want to be a musician. She wants to be a celebrity.”
Ever since the fake commercial, Pandora’s Box had become B-list local celebrities of a sort. They weren’t exactly up there with the UA football coach, but their picture had been in the paper, and with that day’s local news show appearance, popularity-wise, they were gaining on the old guy who did the commercials for the local Chevrolet dealership.
“Well,” Robbie said. “If she’d put half as much effort into practicing her instrument as she does making cutesy little folders, she might improve. I just don’t know how much longer we can keep up this charade of her being our bass player. She’s either got to get with it or get gone.”
“You’re right,” Tig said. Of course Robbie was right. But that didn’t make it any easier. “I’ll talk to her one more time about getting serious about her instrument.”
“Good luck,” Robbie said.
“Thanks,” Tig said. And, boy, was she going to need it.