All those times she’d waited for just the right moment to talk to Claire . . . about joining the band . . . about whether Regan had turned her against them . . . those were over. A new day had dawned for Tig, one where caution was overruled by a burning desire to play a kick-butt song with her kick-butt band. Well, they’d be kick-butt eventually, wouldn’t they? Tig couldn’t wait. She had to know. She caught Claire at her locker. No Regan, no Haley, no Sofia. Perfect timing. “Ever hear of a band called the Sex Pistols?” Tig said, skipping any small talk or conversational niceties. “Are you kidding?” Claire said. “My dad has a framed poster of their album cover in his office.” Yes! Tig thought. “Well, just imagine how proud your dear old dad would be if his daughter’s band recorded one of their songs.” “The band? That’s still on?” Tig didn’t like the way Claire’s voice sounded—like she’d hadn’t thought about the band in some time. “Yeah, it’s still on,”
