“Look who decided to join us,” Mom says.

“The sky is freaky,” Delia whispers.

The sky, blue before I entered the sound tent, is now overcast. I hold my breath as the band shifts gears to the one song in A New Hope that is made for the clarinet: “Cantina Band.” Dad’s favorite arrangement has always been a clarinet quartet.

Today it features Reid as clarinet #1.

Except the signature melody is barely audible, apart from the steady beat of the drums. Because of me.

It sounds… worse than I imagined.

“Oh no,” Mom mutters under her breath.

Reid continues to play, either oblivious or assuming the glitch will be fixed.

Seconds later, the speakers blow.

Shit. My heart pounds in my chest. Did I—?

No. I unplugged one audio line.

Dad cues the band to stop and everyone lays their instruments in resting position, wide-eyed and confused.

“We’ll take five to figure this out!” Dad yells, his hands cupped around his mouth because there is no microphone.

This can’t be prank-related. One rogue XLR cable does not cause a speaker explosion.

Mom stands. “I’m going to see if I can help troubleshoot.”

“This is high-key embarrassing,” Delia says.

Five minutes become ten.

Ten become twenty.

Attention spans are short. The audience thins.

The sky darkens, ominous—as if given a directorial cue.

The timing of my prank is a coincidence.

“Natalie.”

I look up to see Reid in his band tuxedo, rogue curl and all. Reid’s voice is jarring, but when my eyes meet his, he looks… genuinely upset.

Not at all accusatory or suspicious.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Technical difficulties.”

“Obviously.”

It comes out sharper than I intend it to.

“Obviously,” Reid repeats, raking his hand through his hair, an edge in his voice. “Albany Institute faculty are in the audience, so the speakers blow. Obviously.”

I didn’t know that.

“That sucks.”

“Extremely. Now it looks like it’s going to—”

“Natalie—?” Dad’s voice cuts Reid off. As my parents approach me, the sky gets darker with every step. It’s only a moment before they are in front of us, arms crossed, Dad’s right foot tapping in three-four. “The entire system is shot. They don’t know what happened. Everything was set and tested, multiple times. It was ready to go. And they have been the only two people in the tent. Well, apart from you. Right?”

I swallow.

“Natalie.” Mom’s expression hardens.

Reid’s eyes widen—and I see it, everything clicking into place.

The moment I open my mouth to respond, thunder cracks and the sky splits open.

The punishment violates the first rule in Natalie vs. Reid. Never apologize.

Therefore it cannot be done.

“No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”