I take a breath.

Patrick is not the kind of guy you’d normally find on a stage. He’s the kind of guy you’d find in the back of a garage, modifying an antique car or fixing a short in an electrical circuit. He’s in on this because he likes the music. He likes the drums, because they’re the perfect mix of physical strength and technical precision. He likes Jezz. And he likes me, most of the time. When I’m not being a jerk.

Patrick and I stare at each other for a second. His expression doesn’t soften—nothing about Patrick is ever really soft—but eventually I see it shift, and then there’s nothing bitter in it anymore. It’s just my best friend, looking back at me.

“And I’m sure as hell not going to write anything,” Jezz cuts in. “Unless I can just set some Dr. Seuss words to a Rage Against the Machine bass line. So it’s a good thing we’ve got Mister Other Sphere writing for us.”

“Yeah,” says Patrick. “Right.”

“I know I’m right.” Jezz’s tone brightens. “Hey. What do you call a drummer who just broke up with his girlfriend?”

Patrick blinks. “I don’t know.”

“Homeless.”

Patrick gives a one-syllable chuckle. “Good one. So, a drummer walks into a bar . . . Ba-DUM-chick.”

Jezz laughs his crazy laugh. I want to laugh, too, but I don’t think the sound actually comes out of my mouth. I’m still feeling something—something heavy and dark, down in the pit of my stomach. Like the sign of something bad about to start.

Jezz slides sideways off the couch, hopping to his feet at the last second. “You guys want a can of pop? There’s more Mountain Dew in the fridge.”

“Throwback or regular?” says Patrick in the way someone else would say, “Cabernet or Zinfandel?”

“Both, I think.” Jezz turns to me, eyebrows up. “Anders?”

It’s too warm down here. My skin itches, like the words of the article are still crawling all over me. I lurch to my feet. “Actually, I’ve got to go. I need to get to the studio a little early today.” A lie. What I really need is to be outside, alone, away from that article, away from the reminder that somebody is always watching, listening, waiting. “See you guys on Monday.”

“Okay,” says Jezz. “See you Monday.”

“You don’t need a ride home?” asks Patrick.

“Nah.” I can’t quite look at him now. “I can walk. Or call home. But thanks.”

I charge up the basement stairs. Yvonne’s case swings heavily in my hand.

It’s bright outside, everything tinted yellow by pollen and clear sky and late April sun. My first impulse is to hit something. A cinder block. A cement wall. Something hard enough that what gets hurt is me.

You can’t be the lead in something without it putting other people in the background.

And you can’t just keep taking what you didn’t earn. You need to pay for it somehow.

But you can’t just stand outside punching a wall, either. Not in the middle of a small town, where everybody knows your name and your parents’ names and your grandparents’ names, on a sunny Saturday morning.