Dad tucks my phone into his pocket and walks backward toward the door as tears stream down my face because he doesn’t even try. Sometimes it feels like something is so broken between us, as if my clarinet past and its tumultuous conclusion snapped us in half.

I wipe my tearstained cheeks. “He doesn’t get it.”

“You blew out his concert, Natalie.” Mom’s expression softens as she sits next to me and rubs my back. “It’s not an excuse, but he’s in triage mode. It’s not exactly getting… the sort of attention he’s used to.”

She shows me a video and… oh no. It is captioned “When the force says no!” It’s only ten seconds, but it’s brutal. Someone superimposed Angry Baby Yoda over the band! The clarinet quartet is barely audible! Then there is a pop… and the speakers blow.

Oof. TikTok is ruthless.

Mom locks her phone. “Never mind the previous forty-five minutes of excellence. These ten seconds are going to haunt your father for months.”

“Me too,” I say.

“Pranks are funny, not mean,” Mom says, echoing the rule book. “I thought you two outgrew that and are strictly Awkward now. But maybe next time you’re going to prank Reid… less public is the way to go?”

“That’s fair.”

Mom stands and sighs. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Delia, who doesn’t even pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping, leans against the doorframe, her hair falling into her face as she scrolls through her phone, one earbud in.

“Henry thinks you’re dead. I informed him that you’re only technologically maimed.”

Shit. Asking my parents to go to his house tonight is a nonstarter.

I’m missing the final HAVE A HE(ART) rehearsal.

“Tell him I’ll relive it all in horrifying detail on Monday.”

She hops into the empty spot in my double bed. “He expects nothing less. He also wants you to know that he’s got this—whatever that means.”

“Thanks, Dee,” I say.

“You could text him yourself if you apologized,” Delia says. “Reid has been extra stressed about his preconservatory audition thing—especially knowing that Albany people would be at the Harvest Festival. He didn’t even quote all of Regina George’s lines when we watched Mean Girls last weekend. It was weird.”

“Weird,” I repeat, the image of Reid watching Mean Girls with the sisters oddly endearing.

She places her phone down on my night table, yawns, and rolls over onto her side. “Are you nervous? About tomorrow?”

I shake my head even though Delia can’t see it. “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry about Dad,” Delia says.

“I wish he were,” I say.

Delia sighs. “Men.”

“Men,” I repeat.

Delia nods off and I stare at the ceiling, wishing I could stop thinking about Reid’s face, his genuine confusion when he realized I had ruined his moment at the Harvest Festival.