Page 92 of Spark

“Wow, Ruby,” Titus says, perusing the lavish offerings on my board of snacks. “This is the fanciest thing I’ve ever seen you make. What’s gotten into you?”

I’m not offended. Everyone in the band, including my brother, knows I can’t cook for shit. “Kendrick’s kitchen is so pretty, it inspired me to become the next Martha Stewart.”

Titus scoffs. “This is cool, but I’m pretty sure MarthaStewart makes stuff that’s more complicated than a bunch of snacks on a tray.”

“Actually,” Kendrick says, “I’m pretty sure Martha Stewart is the one who invented charcuterie boards.”

“See?” I say to my brother. “Don’t yuck my yum, dude.”

“I wasn’t. I just meant?—”

“Don’t bother. I just moved you one space higher on my kill list.” I turn to Kendrick. “Thank you for defending my honor, KC. Just for that, I’m going to make you a sandwich worthy of Martha Stewart tomorrow.”

“Awesome. You know how much I love me a big, fat Ruby Deluxe.”

“How much longer are you staying here?” Titus asks me. “I could have sworn you were supposed to be back in your place by now.”

“I was, but unforeseen problems keep popping up. Yesterday, my building manager texted me with yet anotherdelay.”

Out the corner of my eye, Savage shoots Kendrick a smile—one I’m interpreting as a show of sympathy for me being here far longer than originally planned.

“I offered to go to a hotel,” I say to Savage. “But Kendrick won’t hear of it.”

“I like having you here,” Kendrick says. “I’m having fun.”

Blushing, I address the group. “It’s felt like old times.”

As everyone else says, yes, they remember that era, Kai asks with a snicker, “Did Kendrick swallow your face back then, too?” He’s referring to the kiss from Reed’s party, since the show recently released clips of it as part of their marketing blitz. Our group chat has been rife with clips and teasing about it over the past couple of days.

“No, because we weren’t being paid to pretend to be a couple back then,” I snipe back.

Again, Savage shoots Kendrick that same pointed smile from earlier. Only this time, the gesture makes my stomachtighten. Did Kendrick tell Savage what’s going on between us, despite our agreement to keep mum about the situation?

“So, should we start the writing session now?” I ask with a clap of my palms. It’s a good idea for us to get going, regardless. The damned song’s not going to write itself. But I’m also feeling a strong urge to change the subject.

Everyone agrees we should get started, and Kai instructs everyone who’s got notes of any kind, whether on their phones or in a journal, to share with the group. It’s our usual process, taught to us by Kai himself years ago, back when he was the older, wiser music student, and the rest of us were excited little sponges.

“I’ve got an idea for a riff that might lead to something cool,” Titus offers. He grabs his guitar that’s leaning against the end of the couch and plays it, and everyone agrees it’s got potential. But since Titus never supplies lyrics or melodies, that’s all that happens for now. Unfortunately, though, only a long, awkward silence ensues after Titus’s guitar goes silent.

“Or maybe not,” Titus jokes.

“Sorry, man,” Savage says with a yawn. “It was cool. I think my brain is depleted right now.”

“No worries, we’ve got you,” Titus says. He looks at Kai. “Do you have anything for us?”

Kai shrugs. “Not really. I wrote a few things in my journal during the tour, but nothing all that great. Sorry, guys. Since we got back, my brain’s been pretty dead. Mostly, I’ve just been sleeping and smoking bowls.”

Our writing sessions don’t normally feel like pulling teeth. Normally, somebody has something exciting to contribute out of the gate. But then again, it’s not typical for us to come together this soon after a tour—and it’s certainly not normal for us to try to write a song we’re going to be performing, live, for the first time, in front of millions of people on TV.

“We can’t overthink it, guys,” I say, my heart rate increasing. “If we focus on the massiveness of the opportunity, we’ll never be able to write anything. Treat this like any other writing session. Throw in whatever ideas you’ve got, even embarrassing ones, because they might lead to something epic.” I glance at Kendrick, letting him know I’m hoping he might relent and throw “Spank” into the mix, despite his embarrassment about it. But when he shakes his head, confirming that’s not happening, I return to the group with an exhale. “Whoever’s got something to share, come on, let’s hear it.”

With another yawn, Savage pulls out his phone and starts scrolling—presumably to find something in whatever voice memos he might have recorded to himself—while Kai and I throw our physical notebooks into the pot and then start scrolling on our phones, too.

“Where’s your journal, KC?” Kai asks his brother.

“I didn’t write anything in it this time,” Kendrick murmurs. And nobody presses him on it, because, like Titus, it’s more typical for Kendrick to contribute musical ideas, or to add to something someone else has offered.

We spend the next hour or so brainstorming, sharing tepid ideas, riffs, and melodies. But nothing hits any of us like a ton of bricks, which is what we need for an opportunity this big.

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