My 90s Boy Band Boyfriend: A YA Time Travel Rockstar Romance (Teen Queens Book 2)

by Jennifer Griffith

  ***

  While they ate their cereal—he downed six bowls, and she realized he probably hadn’t eaten in … well, twenty-three years—they talked first about cell phones. It was a mundane topic, and frankly probably lame. But Oakley wasn’t ready to broach anything much deeper quite yet. The earlier revelations needed to soak in.

  “Cell phones have changed a lot since Zach’s on Saved by the Bell.”

  After that, she’d shown him how smart phones worked. Well, make that how lame, older-model smart phones worked since she only had her own phone as an example. After initial shock, he seemed to catch on pretty fast. He didn’t even seem fazed by the fact that someone could search the internet on a handheld device.

  “I spent a little time in Tomorrowland at Disneyland in the Innoventions exhibit. They were talking about these even back then. And I always knew the internet would catch on and be a lot more useful.”

  Everything he said went a little farther to convince Oakley more that he was who he said he was. She did resist it naturally. What sane person wouldn’t? But the resistance walls were coming down.

  They shot the breeze about what life in the twenty-first century was like. She told him about music, about school these days, about the social media culture, and what history she could regurgitate from her mind like a couple of wars and some presidents. He soaked it all up with the thirst of a huge sponge, disbelieving some of it, and laughing at other things, like national politics. Those, he stoically refused to accept.

  “You’re not alone,” she said. “A lot of people can’t believe it.”

  Both their stomachs filled up on Life Cereal and Cinnamon Toast Crunch, as well as a bowl or two of Captain Crunch that Oakley managed to find at the back of the pantry. “At least the Captain hasn’t changed,” Hudson said. “Are there any great movies I definitely need to catch before I go back?” He had kicked back on the barstool and was fiddling with the phone. “Uh, that is, if I can,” he said. It hung in the air for a moment, like a flash of lightning before thunder.

  He was going back. Why should that notion suddenly make Oakley feel disappointment?

  But the thunder-after-lightning didn’t sound. Instead, Hudson grabbed the phone and started a search for what? None other than himself.

  “How typical.” She patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. Everyone always searches for themselves first.” But before he could click on any of the ten million results, Oakley rotated on her barstool and slid his mom’s scrapbook toward him. “This might be better for what you want to know. More comprehensive, at least.”

  He deserved to know everything, at least everything there was to be known, about his disappearance. Lucky for him, a pretty good sampling of that information was contained here in Mom’s obsessive collection, and it was probably more accurately curated content than what anyone would find online, especially in the day and age of encyclopedia by democracy.

  “I don’t want you to freak out.” It was a bad preface, she knew. She held a hand on the cover, preventing him from opening it, at least for a second. “It might be a little hard to look at.”

  While they’d talked, Oakley’s mind had been at work. If she told him about his supposed death, she’d be opening a can of worms, including the fact that all his band mates had died, either in the fiery crash or drowned thereafter in the river, like Mom had explained to Oakley this afternoon.

  “I need to know.” He was being a man about it. Good for him. He cracked the first page and began to scan it, turning page after page, slowly, scanning some and reading other pages in depth.

  Oakley read it at an angle, not having done more than scan the headlines herself. She absorbed the details of the events leading up to the day, as reconstructed by her mom’s obsessive research: the Portland concert, the rain storm, the pilot’s inexperience, the jet’s likely faulty engine, the worsening weather, the pilot’s escape, the crash. She saw Hudson swallow hard when he got to the clippings of the obituaries of each of the other guys from Girl Crazy.

  His friends were all dead.

  “Wow. That’s really hard to look at.”

  Oakley couldn’t imagine. “Tell me about them,” was all she could say.

  “Nick was a great drummer and also a really good guy. Chris was like a brother to me, too. And Al—despite the stupid cowboy clothes they made him wear, he was the genuine article when it came to being a friend.” He cleared his throat, as if to remove the telltale emotion. “It’s so weird. I feel like I just saw them day before yesterday. I swear, they’re breathing now. It can’t have been that long.”

  People always said things felt like yesterday, but in his case, that was probably actually true. It was hard to imagine how he must be feeling, but Oakley tried. What if Brinn were to suddenly die, or even Clyde? Or Mom? Oakley’s heart pinched at merely imagining it. But Hudson had suffered a true loss.

  “Good guys,” he whispered again before turning the next page.

  He came to the section about the search for the bodies. That was by far the biggest section of the book. He looked at Mom’s maps, her little strings, the Xs and the notes in the margin—there were a lot of them. After a while he looked up at Oakley.

  “She really did all this for me?”

  Oakley nodded at the accurate assessment. It had been for him. After a second of meeting his eyes, she said, “She honestly, truly cares about Hudson Oaks.”

  Slowly, Hudson began to shake his head. “It’s been a long time since I thought of anyone other than the band and our manager possessing sincere emotion toward me. Like they cared about me for me, not just about what I could do, or what I meant to their bank account.” He frowned, and at the same time he turned the page to a list of quotes about the disappearance.

  “Your manager?”

  “This guy.” He tapped his finger on the face of a pudgy, balding guy. The caption read Levy Questioned in Crash Incident. He looked vaguely familiar, but Oakley couldn’t place him. It had been a long day. “He was the last guy I talked to before the plane …” He shook himself, looked at the article again, and then looked up, perplexed. “It says Manny died, too.”

  Manny was the pilot, apparently, according to the obituary.

  If he really was Hudson Oaks and not an impostor, this was going to be hard. He was going to have to deal with this loss over time, no matter when he lived out the rest of his days, now or back in the past. Oakley sensed this need to take time to heal, and she didn’t press him.

  “It’s okay.” She put a hand on his shoulder, and he lifted his own hand and rested it on hers. A tingle spread up her arm, which it shouldn’t have—for so many reasons—but there it was. “We don’t have to look through all of this right now. It’s a lot to digest. It’s getting late. You had a long hike today, and I have to go to school tomorrow. I can’t miss again since I already missed school this week.”

  Reality slammed her, like a sledgehammer to the gut. She hadn’t studied for her math test.

  “What’s the matter? You look kind of sick all of a sudden.”

  “I have an algebra two test.” All the worst math fears jammed through her chest. She had no idea how to take the asymptote of x and make a parabola of anything, and that had been explained on the day she’d been in Portland singing for those The Next Radio Star judges, and she hadn’t gone to Clyde to have him tutor her, since she’d been too busy catching up during school hours and getting nearly hit by cars and meeting time traveling boy-band stars after school—and now she was sunk.

  “Hey, don’t look so glum.” Hudson pulled a one-sided grin that showed his very nice teeth, and his eyes crinkled on the one side. “I’m aces at algebra two. My manager—for what little else he was worth, as I’m beginning to discover—did well by us by hiring great math tutors.”

  “But it’s been twenty-three years.”

  “Not to me.” He gave that winking grin again, and a little place inside Oakley that she had always protected broke open and let him in for a second.


  “Maybe, but I can’t remember stuff after twenty-three minutes.”

  Hudson looked down at his fingernails. “I was working on the point-slope formula just a couple of mornings ago. Got it all up here.” He pointed at his temple.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look a little like that actor Tom Cruise?” Speaking of celebrity crushes, Mom had harbored one for the Mission Impossible star off and on as well. No matter how out to lunch the tabloids reported him as being, Tom Cruise still had aircraft carriers full of charisma few women could resist. With the exception of Oakley, of course.

  “Of course I look like Tom Cruise.” Hudson, to her surprise, brushed off her compliment like it was nothing. “That was the whole point.”

  “What was the whole point?”

  “I mean, publicity-wise. Nick was the complicated one. Chris was the Rambo look-alike. Al was the winsome cowboy that all the girls would go puppy-dog eyes over.” He looked a little sad at this, and Oakley let him have a moment before she asked him to continue.

  “And you were?”

  “The Tom Cruise who could sing.”

  “You must have missed Rock of Ages. He sang in that.”

  “The Def Leppard song? Trust me, Tom Cruise was not the lead singer on that album. I know my Def Leppard.”

  “Oh, they made a musical of it a few years ago.” Oakley realized he had a lot more history to catch up on, including music history—a lot more than could be covered in one night. “Look, I’d better get some sleep.”

  The back of her head was hurting again, now that she’d remembered the algebra test. It wasn’t like Einstein here could take it for her, even if his crack-wiz math tutor had taught him well.

  She got off her chair to head upstairs, but her knees buckled and she had to grab the countertop to steady herself.

  Just then her mom walked into the kitchen, smiling and blinking at Oakley.

  “You were right, dear. So right.” She was clutching the wedding album to her chest, grinning just like she had on the day she’d married Sherm. “Orange and vanilla swirl.” Her eyelids fluttered, and Oakley knew that despite today’s horrendous blip, things were going to be okay.

  “Mom? I’m feeling a little … spinny again.” Oakley’s hand on the cold granite countertop supported her, but the earth was spinning like the carnival ride again. Tilt, whirl, tilt, whirl.

  “I’ll carry her up,” Hudson offered, sweeping her into his arms like she was his bride. Was this how he’d carried her home? “She needs a good night’s rest. Today’s been a big day. What with the near-miss car accident and all. Maybe she should stay home tomorrow.”

  Was Oakley mistaken, or had Hudson’s eyes just twinkled?

  That had to be the stars she was seeing from her head injury.

  “Just so.” Her mom didn’t protest. What? She was okay with a gorgeous pop star carrying her daughter into a bed?

  Okay, this really was a parallel universe. “Mom? I really can’t skip school tomorrow. I have a big test.”

  “Oh, a math test. Right.” At least Mom looked very concerned for her daughter’s health as she followed alongside them while Hudson carried her up the stairs, not missing a step and making her feel like a feather in his arms. “I don’t know. You did hit your head pretty hard. I’d rather get you in to see a doctor, but let’s see how you’re feeling in the morning.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Her grade already teetered on the brink of a B, and if she botched this test, she’d be squarely in no scholarship for you, loser territory. “I’m serious.”

  Hudson placed her gently on her bed and pulled first the sheet and then the yellow eyelet lace comforter up over her, pressing it gently against her shoulders. He was looking down into her face, though his next words were directed at Mom.

  “I’ll go to school with her if you want, Stacey. Just to keep an eye on things. Make sure she’s okay.”

  No. Just no. Oakley could not have a gorgeous pop star who’d time-traveled from the past trailing her through the halls of Wood River High all day. The last thing she needed was to draw any attention to herself, let alone all the attention of every hot-blooded female in the school of any age. Because the office staff would see Hudson and go all Tom Cruise is here on him, no question. And the high school girls would have their hot-guy-radars all tuned to him inescapably.

  She was about to open her mouth to say, Bad idea, when her mom chimed in with, “What a perfect idea, Hudson. I’ll call my friend the principal in the morning and let him know you’re staying temporarily with our family and need to be in school.”

  Great. Just great.

  And what did Mom mean by staying temporarily with our family? He wasn’t staying. Not here. At their house. Day and night. Was he?

  Oakley might have offered to help him, but she hadn’t been thinking clearly at the moment. If he stayed here, she might start letting her own hot-guy-radar get its signals mixed up and start pointing at Might-Be Hudson Oaks.

  Scene 7: “Flying Without Wings”

  The first bell for classes was ringing already as they walked quickly across campus toward the three-story brick building. Despite the fact that there was a lot of stuff Oakley and Hudson still needed to resolve about his life, school wouldn’t wait.

  “Sorry we couldn’t reach your parents this morning.” Oakley huffed as she climbed another stairway to her first hour classroom. “I think they must have changed the number. A lot of people dropped their land lines and just went to cell service.” Sooner or later, she’d have to go into more detail on that modern phenomenon so he’d understand.

  Meanwhile, they’d tried again with her mom’s phone in the morning while they were rushing to get to school. However, even with her better phone, all they’d gotten was that same old lady, and after a while the woman had gotten angry and told Oakley to quit bothering her, as no Giselle lived there.

  “We’ll find them,” he said. But that wasn’t the only huge problem they were facing, and Oakley knew it. Another issue made her stomach flip over when she thought about it: the question of whether or not Hudson was going to try to find out how in the heck he’d ended up in this decade, and how to get back.

  Honestly, it was too far-fetched for logic, so they hadn’t broached the subject yet, either one of them. But Oakley’s mind was working on it constantly, and Hudson’s must be, too. He just had the look of someone whose wheels were spinning all the time, whenever they weren’t talking. Which wasn’t often.

  Somehow they seemed to have a lot to say to each other.

  “And you’re saying Sting is still singing. Making songs.”

  “He did a number with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “I’m being totally serious.” She pulled up an online video of the performance, and he marveled briefly at the ability to watch a video in your hand, but was more impressed with the music. They got to the classroom door, and he held it open for her.

  He. Held. The. Door.

  What modern guy did that? It took her a second to react and walk through it, but she finally did.

  “I like that you have a sense for the ironic in music.” He sat down beside her at the back of the biology classroom, and they kept whispering until the bell rang. Mr. Leavitt gave a two-second nod of acknowledgment to the new student and then launched back into the lecture on cell biology he’d begun the day before. Oakley took copious notes, and Hudson asked to borrow a piece of paper and a pencil.

  When she glanced over at his notes a while later, she could tell he hadn’t drawn any kind of cell wall, or the nucleus or anything. He was scratching out what looked like a poem.

  “What’s that?” she whispered.

  “I’ll tell you later.” He shook his head, like his delay wasn’t so much based on the fact that he didn’t want to interrupt Mr. Leavitt, but that he had a creative project he wasn’t ready to share yet. Oakley totally got that. When she was messing with the lyrics of “Sweet Sixteen” for her audition, she’d re
fused to show even Brinn until she felt sure of herself.

  It took until hallway time between first and second hour, but the inevitable tidal wave did hit. She should have seen it coming—and she did, just not the magnitude. Oakley should have been more prepared.

  Hudson had excused himself to find the men’s room, Oakley waited near her locker, trying to keep her head down, as always. Before she knew it, a gaggle of female Populars had surrounded her, and they all had poison in their gazes.

  “Hey, Shoe Girl. Saw your shoes aglow in their terrible glory on the KKSA page.” A girl towered over Oakley—one she didn’t recognize, but the sneer looked all-too familiar. She’d seen it a hundred dozen times on the faces of the Populars, as in any time they’d taken notice of Oakley in the past couple of years. “I watched the first thirty seconds of your audition.”

  Oh. The embarrassing part.

  “I let everyone else in school know about it, too.” The girl was older and one of the sportier Populars. All the Populars played sports—really well. Until now, they’d never talked to Oakley directly, just muttered sneers and insults in passing.

  It had all started over a year ago, on the first day of freshman year, when at lunch time she’d inadvertently bumped into the King of the Populars, her shoe somehow landing right in his tuna sandwich.

  The same shoe she was wearing today. At least it didn’t still smell vaguely of tuna, like it had most of last year.

  In a show of loyalty to the King, the whole group of older kids had instantly hated her, giving Oakley the inescapable nickname and never letting her live it down.

  Now she was Shoe Girl to everyone except Brinn and Clyde, and like the kid who got the Cheese Touch in Diary of a Wimpy Kid, everyone else except Brinn and Clyde ostracized her, afraid they’d catch whatever communicable Unpopularity Disease she carried.

  Teenagers could be brutal.

  But being spoken to directly was new. And highly unpleasant. If Brinn were here, she would have shouted them down or threatened to make them eat a knuckle sandwich, and probably would have gotten suspended, but Oakley was more passive.