Then the third girl sang "Don't get bitten! Don't get stung!"
As they kept up the rhythm, the girl's lines began to change to warnings about how tarantulas and gila monsters seek shelter from the cold in the fall, and then the trio ended up singing an admonition:
When they finished, they urged the class to come to madrigal tryouts on Wednesday, then departed amid fervent clapping.
As class finished, Olivia came down and delivered Bron's new iPhone, along with $10. He was delighted by the phone, and lunch money. Other kids came to admire it as he opened the box. All of the kids seemed to know Olivia, so it wasn't too weird to have your "mom" handing out presents at school. But he was hungry, so he went outside to the concession stands to buy lunch.
Whitney Shakespeare had never believed in love at first sight, but her mother had warned her that it could happen.
It happened that Monday. At the Green Show Theater, during lunch, she was singing with her band. She had a drummer, a base guitarist who wanted to play lead, a keyboardist who only hit the right notes about ninety-eight percent of the time. She hoped to recruit some better musicians with a tune that she had written three weeks earlier. "I see you coming, babe, and panic creeps- why can't I breathe? You say 'hello' and walk right past me— why can't I speak?
This happens every day, five times a day— what's wrong with me? And on the weekend I'm alone at home, and I dream...
The song had a country pop beat, and Whitney sang with a youthful innocence. She drew from several inspirations—Taylor Swift, Katy Perry, maybe even a hint of Adele. The song required a lot of emotional range—longing one instant, hurt and pleading the next.
Choreographing the song to dance required Whitney's total concentration. She was lost in the music when she saw Bron.
Suddenly her heart began thumping to a whole new beat, and she remembered something her mother had once said: "When you see a boy and fall in love, don't hide your feelings. Just try to claim him as a friend. That way, even if the feelings don't stick, you might still have a bud."
She instantly recognized Bron. All morning, she'd heard how Mrs. Hernandez had adopted a hunk, and rumors were flying. Some said she was adopting him because he was a fantastic sculptor, others said it was because he was a tortured soul. Whitney's old boyfriend, Justin, had warned that Bron was a loser, already in deep trouble with the law.
Whitney took one look, and saw something amazing: Bron was handsome,
heartbreakingly so, yet he had a timid smile. There was no sign of the conceit that had ruined her relationship with Justin. More than anything, Bron looked a little lost and frightened.
But there was something more. Bron watched her sing, but he wasn't just looking at her. He was connecting to her song in a way that few people did. He was nodding in rhythm to the music, as if he'd captured the beat of her heart, and when he looked at her, his eyes focused off in the distance, as if he could see through her.
Whitney sang her second chorus, then stepped backward while her guitarist, Damien, took the lead.
Damien couldn't quite keep up. He normally just played base. The whole reason for playing on the green today was to try to attract a new lead guitarist, and maybe someone for keyboards. Damien had the rhythm down, but he tried a couple of flourishes in his solo and tripped over his own fingers.
Bron was deep in the music, too, zoned out, and suddenly Whitney saw a gleam in his eyes, and he smiled.
He sees how to make this better, Whitney realized.
It wasn't a great song, she knew. It was what the Germans called an ohrwurm—an earworm—a. piece of music whose rhythm gets stuck in your head. Most musical hits aren't masterpieces of composition, but simple earworms.
Whitney launched into the third verse, and when she reached the chorus she did something bold. She danced up to Bron and sang to him:
As she sang, she put her hand up and made the phone signal, and got in his face.
Whitney was pretty, she knew: with cinnamon-colored hair, a dazzling smile, and a lithe body. As president of the Madrigals, she had to be a triple threat. She'd worked hard to reach her position.
But she wasn't wealthy, not since her father's suspicious death. In fact, she was so poor, sometimes it hurt, and she was afraid that Bron would look into her eyes and see right through her.
It took him a minute to realize what she was asking, but his eyes widened and he pulled a new cell phone from his pocket and handed it to her. She quickly pulled up his contact list, and was glad to see that it was empty.
She typed in her name and number, put herself on speed dial, handed it to him, and sat next to Bron.
"Wow," she said, "a brand new phone, and only one person to call. That should make life easy."
Bron grinned shyly, as if girls never threw themselves at him.
"Just a minute ago," Whitney said. "I saw light bulbs going off over your head."
He was at a loss for words, so he just said, "What?"
"There were great big ones!" she went on. "Like the flash on a camera. There were beams of light shooting out your eyes, too, and rainbows flowing from your ears. So what were you thinking about?"
"I..." Bron had a hard time responding. "I was thinking about the song, the guitar riff. I might have a way to make it better." He went on with guitar-geek speak. "The problem is, the guitar is punching out the words with strong beats when it should be flowing into the phrase. The focus is all wrong. It should be a pickup, not the destination, you know?"
Whitney nodded, interested.
"The guitar needs to keep moving, keep telling the story. You lose momentum during the solo and the song never really recovers. It can be done, but the guitarist has to choose his notes more carefully, make them count."
Whitney smiled, "I can see that."
"Yeah," Bron continued. "So you over-compensate vocally to try to regain the magic. You start pushing, but it's already gone at that point."
"So what should I do?"
"You need a better bridge into the solo, one that builds momentum and launches the solo like a rocket. Then the solo needs to keep the groove going while soloing in the margins. Then the guitar has to stop once it's had its say and give it back to you."
Whitney stared at Bron, measuring him up.
"Most importantly, the guitarist has to keep his focus on the story and the vibe and connect with the audience without losing the connection. He's too... self-conscious. The song isn't about him and his guitar solo. The song is the story."
"I'd like to hear what you've got in mind," she said, wondering if she'd just found a new lead guitarist, or maybe a composer. "Where's your ax?"
"At home," Bron apologized. "It's just an acoustic."
"Tomorrow then," she said. "Play it for me at lunch." She smiled wide, leaned in close, and as he glanced down at her chest, she had a revelation.
"You're not gay!" she said.
"What?"
"Some guys were having a debate in the hall," she said. "They thought you must be gay, because your hair is too cool for a straight, and you're too buff. Without much in the way of athletics in this school, we don't have many hunks. Still, we couldn't be sure. But just now, you were checking me out."