Girl vs. Boy Band (7 page)

“Settle down,” Mr. Corbin warned. “Open your books.”

Lark's hands trembled with anger and embarrassment as she dug her history text out of her backpack.

“So what do you have next period?” Alessandra whispered from behind her. “Intro to Rodeo Clowning? Or is it Advanced Bull Riding?”

“Actually,” Mimi snapped from the next row, “those happen to be totally unique, handmade boots. But you wouldn't recognize genuine style if it bit you on the nose.”

To Lark's surprise, Jessica piped up. “I really like them.” Then she gave Alessandra a grin. “But don't feel bad, Ally. Those sandals you're wearing are nice, too. In fact, my
grandma
has the exact same ones!”

Mimi let out a snort of laughter.

Alessandra's eyes flashed with fury.

“Ladies!” said Mr. Corbin. “That's enough.”

As the girls opened their history texts, Lark saw Mimi give Jessica a thumbs-up and mouth the word “thanks.”

Lark knew she should have been the one to thank Jessica (whom she barely knew) for having her back, but she was afraid that if she so much as made eye contact with Jessica—or anyone else—she'd die of humiliation.

Or worse, cry.

So she buried her crimson face in her history textbook and said nothing.

For the next fifty minutes, Lark tried to concentrate on the historical significance of Edward Braddock and the Seven Years' War, but her attempts were useless. Behind her, she could feel Alessandra's disgust wafting over her like a dark cloud, and she imagined that every time Mr. Corbin turned to face the Smart Board, every kid in the room was sneaking amused glances at Lark.

When at last the class bell rang, she sprang to her feet and dashed for the door, painfully aware of her angled heels clunking loudly across the floor.

On Monday, she resolved, she would thank Jessica for her support.

And she would definitely wear sneakers.

At home, Lark slammed the front door behind her and tossed her books on the foyer table. The weekend lay ahead, but that did little to cheer her up.

Is it just me
, she thought, shucking off her beloved boots as though they had somehow become poisonous,
or does everyone feel like middle school is an emotional torture chamber?

What she wanted—no, actually, what she
needed
—was to just drop herself into the overstuffed chair by the window of her music room with her guitar cradled close to her. She knew that the moment she felt those familiar strings against her callused fingertips, her whole miserable day would melt away like ice cubes in a glass of sweet tea on a hot Tennessee afternoon.

Does every seventh grader come home from middle school feeling like they've been hit by a truck
, she wondered,
or is it just me?

Despite her gloomy mood, Lark smiled. The thought sounded like the start of a lyric.

And besides, the day hadn't been a total disaster. Teddy Reese had spoken to her. Not just some random, mindless hi in the hallway, either. He'd sought her out, waited for her, and said nice things about her musical talent.

He'd said he wanted her to accompany him on her guitar.

He'd said, “It's a date.”

So what if Alessandra Drake-the-Snake had made fun of her favorite boots? What did
she
know? Little Miss Granny Sandals.

Lark was feeling a zillion times better as she climbed the back staircase to the sprawling room above the garage. She was already composing a tune in her head when she pushed open the door.

And then it all came back to her.

Because there they were, in all their British glory, taking over her music room just as William Pitt's English forces had laid siege to Fort Duquesne in 1758. (Okay, so maybe she
had
understood some of what she'd read in history class. But that was
so
not the point!)

Ollie was lounging in Lark's comfy writing chair with a purring Dolly in his lap; his shoes were off and he was plucking the strings of her acoustic guitar with his big toe! Max was banging away on her electric keyboard (sounding terrific, given that he was the drummer, but also not the point), and she counted three different Victoria's Secret catalogs scattered about the carpet. Aidan was leaning against the wall flipping through her songwriting journal, and there was a half-eaten tuna sandwich in the middle of the floor surrounded by several empty soda cans and candy bar wrappers. And if that weren't bad enough . . .

Whoa. Wait a minute.

Aidan was flipping through her songwriting journal.

Feeling queasy, she flew across the room and snatched it out of his hand.

“What do you think you're doing?” she demanded, glaring furiously. “That's private.”

“Donna told us to make ourselves at home,” he said with a smile. “So that's what we're doing.”

“Home?” She clutched her journal to her chest. “Then I guess y'all live in a pigsty, because that's what this place looks like.”

Max's fingers halted on the keyboard; he glanced around the room and gave her an apologetic look. “We're supposed to be writing a new song, but Aidan and Ollie couldn't stop bickering long enough to accomplish anything.” Then he turned to the others. “Lark's right,” he said. “We're behaving like swine. Come on, guys. Let's show a little respect and tidy up.” He reached for the sandwich and the soda cans.

Ollie gently nudged Dolly aside and started collecting the catalogs.

Aidan removed himself from the wall to assist with the cleanup. As he brushed by Lark to reach for a candy bar wrapper, he nodded toward the journal. “Good stuff,” he said.

Lark didn't know whether she wanted to hug him or strangle him. And something told her this wasn't the last time she'd be feeling this way.

Ollie nodded to the chair he'd just vacated. “It's all yours, Lark. We'll go outside, maybe play a little football, and give you your privacy.”

“No,” said Lark, grabbing her guitar and feeling like a complete fool. “I shouldn't have yelled. I'll find somewhere else to work. You stay.”

“Nah, don't go,” said Max. “We weren't getting anything done anyway. Stick around and tell us what it's like to be an ordinary American kid.”

Lark felt the words like a slap. Ordinary! Why hadn't he just called her plain and average? Thoroughly dull and completely insignificant!

She must have looked stung, because Max quickly shook his head. “I didn't mean that like it sounded,” he amended. “I just meant—”

Lark forced a smile. “It's fine. I am ordinary. No big deal.”

Max opened his mouth to dispute this, but suddenly all Lark wanted was to get away from there. She felt silly and out of place, which was ridiculous, since this was her house.

Is it just me, or do you feel this way, too?

I'm feeling so lost, like I don't have a clue.

Is it just me, thinking life's not on my side?

Is it just me, swimming against the tide?

Lark scribbled the lyrics onto a fresh page in her songwriting journal, silently lamenting the smudged chocolate fingerprint Aidan had left in the bottom corner.

She'd been locked in her room for nearly two hours now, and she had two good, solid verses to show for it. The page was dotted with notes, many of which she was sure would change a hundred times before she was through. She liked the melody for the most part, although she had a hunch it could be better. How exactly, she couldn't say, but she knew the solution would come to her eventually. She was sure of it. The best songs were always elusive to begin with, hovering just out of reach, teasing her until finally the melody revealed itself in a flurry of sharps and flats, key changes and rests. Musical notes that hadn't existed in precisely this order before would mysteriously come together, arranging themselves (with a little help from Lark) into a unique tune.

This song had a much more pop-y feel than her usual compositions, which were country through and through. But the bridge was giving her trouble and she wasn't sure where to go with it.

“Time for an expert opinion,” she said aloud, putting down her guitar and reaching for her laptop. Minutes later she was listening to the mechanical singsong tones of a video call being placed, eagerly waiting for her father's face to fill the blank screen.

“Hey there, darlin',” came her dad's voice through the computer speaker.

“Hey, Dad!” Lark peered closely at the screen and laughed. “What's that you got on your face? Did y'all give up shavin' or somethin'?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Her father chuckled and rubbed his scruffy chin. “Not by choice, though. It's for the tour. The band thinks the ladies might prefer me this way. They say it makes me look dangerous.”

Lark had to admit that the stubbly, five-o'clock shadow was an excellent look for her already handsome dad. It took a second before she realized what he'd just said.

“Wait.
Ladies? What
ladies?”

To her father's credit, he looked a little embarrassed. “Ya know . . . the female fans.”

Lark wrinkled her nose in disgust. She didn't like the idea of “ladies” having dangerous thoughts (or any other kind) about her dad. She knew her parents were almost officially divorced, but the thought of Jackson Campbell dating made it feel much too final. Dating
groupies
, no less!

“Well, it looks real itchy,” Lark observed curtly. “I think you should get rid of it.”

Her father, who knew her better than anyone, understood exactly what she was thinking. “Come on, now, Songbird,” he said gently. “We've been through this. Your mom and I aren't getting back together.”

“I know, I know.”
But that doesn't mean I don't hate it.
“Anyhow, I didn't call to talk about your love life.”

“Well, that's good, because at the moment I don't have one.” Jackson smiled. “So what's up?”

Lark's reply was to play him her new song. When she got to the bridge, she shrugged. “I'm stuck. Any ideas?”

They spent the next half hour working as a team, her father far away—where was he, anyway? Chicago? Las Vegas? New York City?—strumming his guitar and making suggestions, and Lark, sitting cross-legged on her bed in LA dashing off notes, trying out chords, adding new lyrics.

They were just finishing up when she heard a loud thud, followed by a hoot of laughter just outside her door.

“What was that?” her father asked.

“Our new houseguests,” said Lark, rolling her eyes. “Three teenage boys from England. They were probably horsing around and accidentally knocked a painting off the wall, or maybe one of them got cheeky and broke another one's nose.”

This casual report had her father looking stunned. “Did you just say ‘cheeky'?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“I don't understand. Is this some sort of student exchange program for school?”

“Nope. They're a brand-new boy band Mama found in London. She just signed them to her label and now they're staying with us so she can keep a close watch on them and I guess save some money.”

“Oh, really?” Dad raised an eyebrow. “So my little girl is living in a house with three strange teenage males who need to have a close watch kept on them?”

“Well, they're not
that
strange,” Lark joked.

“You know what I mean, Songbird,” her father said in a serious tone. “This feels like trouble waiting to happen.”

“It's fine, Dad,” Lark assured him. “They're too busy sniping at each other to even give me a second thought. As far as they're concerned, I'm like an annoying little sister. And besides, they really don't need all that much lookin' after. They might be a little mischievous, but I honestly don't think they're . . . ya know”—she paused, then grinned and rubbed her chin pointedly—“
dangerous
.”