“He gives them dinner,” Mom puts in. “Right, Anders? And free drinks.”

“You draw crowds for him every week,” Dad goes on. “Now two nights a week. And he still expects you to do it for free?”

The tendons along my neck go tight.

Ike has been offering to pay us for months. I remember him striding toward us across the Crow’s Nest after a set last summer when we had completely packed the house. Ike could win a Henry Rollins look-alike contest any day of the week without even changing his clothes. He smiled his dry little hint of a smile. “With the way you’re pulling people in, I think the time has come for me to start paying you.” He looked around at the three of us. “You’re not open mic material anymore. You’re a draw. And I know it.”

Ike had been there for us, given us a stage and support and free sandwiches ever since we were the sloppiest of open mic material. I didn’t want to take more. Not from him.

“We want to keep things pure for now. You know?” I said. “Get in our ten thousand hours of practice before we make the jump to pro.”

Behind me I heard Jezz suck in a breath.

But Ike just grinned. “So you’re not ready to sell out yet.” He folded his beefy arms. “Just make sure when you do that you do it for the right people. Or at least for the right money.” Then he turned around and strode away.

“Dude,” Jezz had said, jabbing me in the side. Patrick had just stared.

We had a fight about it later, but at the end we all agreed that we wouldn’t sign any contracts or take any official payments until we had graduated, just to make things clean and simple. I kept up the lie about wanting to keep Last Things pure for now. Because I couldn’t tell them the truth: that I didn’t really deserve any of this. That the way everyone saw me was based on a lie. I couldn’t tell Ike Lawrence, and I couldn’t tell my own band, and I sure as hell can’t tell my dad.

I just shrug, looking down into my cereal bowl.

“You know, pretty soon, you’re going to have to stand up for yourself. Declare that your time has value.” Dad turns his coffee mug in a little circle. “You’ve made it clear that that’s your plan.” His voice gets harsher with each sentence. We’ve had this fight so many times, it’s like one big patch of scar tissue. “If you’re going to try to do this music stuff for a living, even as a side job, you’re going to have to stop letting people talk you into giving it away.”

I should defend Ike. But it’s easier just to shrug again.

“You put it to him this way,” Dad plows on. “You tell Ike Lawrence he can at least cover your expenses if he wants you three to be his unpaid house band.”