“You read it?”

“Sasha and I read it together.” She throws me a coy look, one eyebrow up. “They made you sound like a mysterious musical genius.”

I don’t even know what to say to this. I almost say, When actually I’m just an awkward musical dork, but I don’t want Frankie to know this. Let her think that I’m a mysterious musical genius. It’s much better than the truth.

“It’s funny, though,” Frankie is going on, because I haven’t answered. “It made me realize that I don’t know anything about your songwriting. Like, at all.”

I shift on the seat. “You’ve heard my stuff.”

“No. I mean, I don’t know how you write your songs. Where they come from. If you start with the melody, or with the words, or with the concept for the expensive music video you’ll make someday, or what.” She pauses again. I don’t speak. “So—this sounds totally corny, but where do you get your ideas?”

We’re heading past the park, along a road where the houses grow thinner and the trees grow thicker. Green walls surround us.

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Oh. So you are a mysterious musical genius.”

“No. I just—I can’t really explain it.” And then I tell her the truth. Partly. “I’m not controlling it. It just happens.”

“Hmm.” Frankie lifts that eyebrow at me again. “Maybe you have a muse.”

“What?”

“You know, how people used to think that art came from some goddess coming to you and inspiring you. They all had weird names, like Euterpe and Calliope. . . .”

“Euterpe?”

“I don’t know why that one hasn’t caught on as a baby name.” Frankie shrugs with one shoulder. “So, maybe you have a muse. Maybe some force is coming in and giving you your songs.”

There’s a gust of wind around my unzipped heart. I take a deep breath. Maybe some force is coming in . . . Yeah. She’s pretty close. But it’s not like some filmy Greek goddess is slipping into my head. It’s more like she’s breaking in with a sledgehammer. I stare down at Frankie’s bare knee until I can get my thoughts in a row again. Jesus. Even Frankie’s knee is perfect.

“It just makes being praised for it seem stupid,” I say after a minute. “I mean, if something is just giving it to you, then it’s not really your work at all.”

“I don’t know.” Frankie shrugs lightly. “It’s only stupid if you think muses are real.”

We skim along the road. The pavement is so dark with shade that it looks wet. Even with the sky bright above, the woods are thick enough to rinse us in their chilly shadows.

I want to reach over and touch Frankie’s hand. See if it’s as cold as before. I want to run my fingertips up the underside of her light brown arm, where the skin is like silk. I want it so much I can already feel it. I clench my fist instead. I keep my fingernails long, for playing the acoustic. I clench until the fingernails dig into my palm, and I keep my face rock-star blank the whole time, keep my breath steady, even when the pain starts to spear up my arm. I clench until I feel like I’ve paid, at least a tiny bit, for all of this.