Page 38 of Wylder and the Almost Rockstar
11
“Packer, stacker.
“Tracker, McCracker.
“Green lacquer.
“Baxter.”
“Those only work if you say ‘tractor’ with a southern twang, and you’re stretching it with that last one.” Wylder scrolled through a list of words on Google.
“How about reactor?” Logan shoved his computer aside. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not feeling inspired by the fruits of my internet search.”
“Ooh, how about ‘my tractor is a velociraptor?’” Wylder looked up from her phone with a grin. “No? How about ‘my tractor manufacture is a big ol’ protractor?’”
“That first one has potential.” Logan ran a hand through his hair, scribbling a few more words into his notebook.
“Potential for a giant F on this assignment, maybe.” Wylder tossed her phone on top of Logan’s computer. “That’s it. None of the songs about tractors on Spotify are any good.”
“Good, huh? I think you’re setting the bar too high, Wylds. We’re looking for decent at this point.” Logan propped his feet on the coffee table. “Let’s just make this easy and write a fun, stupid kind of tractor song since we aren’t the ones who are going to have to sing it. And then we can spend the rest of our evening eating pizza and watching movies.”
“Yeah, that sounds good in theory.” Wylder tucked her feet under her. “But right now, someone is out there writing a song about cornfields or something equally lame, and we’re going to have to sing it and make it marketable. We need them to take this project seriously, so we have to do the same.”
“You do make a good point, but consider this.” Logan turned toward her. “What if we write the best tractor song the world has ever heard, and our cornfield counterparts just wing it? Then we have to do twice the work trying to make their crap song just as good or better than our amazing, chart-topping tractor song.”
Wylder nodded. “So you’re saying we should write an okay—decent, if you will—tractor song, but it shouldn’t be so great that it outshines whatever polished turd of a song we get to perform.”
“Exactly.”
“I like the way you think, Logan Cook.”
“Just one problem.” Logan tapped her blank notebook. “We still don’t have any lyrics.”
“We’re going to need snackies.” Wylder hopped up and went to check Logan and Killian’s food situation.
“Sure, Wylds. Help yourself.”
“What is this?” She held up a box of high carb protein bars.
“Nutritious post-workout food.”
“This is appalling.” Wylder pulled a bunch of bananas from the cupboard. “I know for a fact Killian keeps Oreos for his ‘cheat treats’ but where are your study snacks?”
“You’re looking at them.” Logan laughed. “Bananas are rich in potassium. Good brain food.”
“You clearly don’t know how to snack.” Wylder closed the cabinet door. “We’re going to need to move this to my place. A person can’t be expected to study under these conditions.”
“You might be a little ridiculous.” Logan’s phone chirped, and he frowned at the caller ID. “It’s Luke. He never calls. He’s the prince of texting.” He lifted the phone to his ear.
“What’s up, Luke?” He jerked the phone away.
Wylder could hear his brother’s frantic voice but couldn’t make out anything.
“Slow down, man. Say that again?” Logan scooted to the edge of the couch. “What? They can’t do that!” He shot to his feet, running his hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry, Luke. This is my fault.”
“… Yes, no, it’s my fault…. No, what are you, nuts? It’s a huge deal. What does Uncle Bruce say?
“Uh-huh? Well that’s crap… No, you’re right. I will. Bye.” Logan dropped back onto the couch.
