Now, at my lesson, Flynn and I sit facing each other on padded folding chairs. Flynn has a long, square chin and a close-lipped smile that’s warm even though it doesn’t reveal any teeth. He’s always so clean-shaven I wonder if he can grow a beard at all. Flynn could pass for thirty, if it weren’t for all the gray in his hair. That and the age of his T-shirts.

I’m holding Yvonne across my lap. My knuckles are still raw. There’s no way to hide them here.

But Flynn doesn’t say anything about that.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s hear that Dream Theater piece.”

I start the intro. Arpeggiated chords in an easy-to-mess-up pattern, unexpected dissonances.

“Okay,” Flynn stops me halfway through. “That’s great. But I think you can speed it up even more.”

“I was just worried about pushing the tempo too much.”

Flynn spreads his hands, smiling at me. “The other guys aren’t here. You can push it all you want.”

I grin back at him. “Yeah. Okay.”

I play it again. Almost twice as fast. My fingertips are a blur. Everything feels strong and clear, liquid, but controlled. The joy of it pulses through me.

This time Flynn doesn’t stop me. He just sits back, listening, his eyes on my hands.

I lift my fingers and break the last note.

Flynn shakes his head. He’s grinning broadly. His voice is soft. “Wow, man,” he says. “Wow.”

Flynn is pretty scanty with his praise. I mean, he’s said nice things before, lots of times. But I don’t think he’s ever said “wow” quite like this. I tuck my chin to my chest and let myself smile, too, just a little.

Flynn kicks up one foot, crossing his legs. “Hey,” he says. “Speaking of the band, how was the show last night?”

“All right. Good crowd. I think they were close to capacity.”

Flynn nods. “You must be making Ike Lawrence a happy man.”

“Yeah, he keeps threatening to pay us in actual money. Especially now that we’re going to do two nights a week.”

“‘Threatening’?”

I look down at Yvonne’s neck and pretend to adjust a peg. “Yeah. And I keep telling him no.”

Flynn’s eyebrows quirk. “Still? Why?”

“Because that would make it—I don’t know. Something it’s not.”

He smiles. “Professional?”

“No, just—we all made a deal to keep things not professional until we graduated. Plus, it’s cool that there are no expectations, you know? We can just play. We know it won’t be that way once—”

“Once you’re huge rock stars?” Flynn supplies, grinning wider.

“Well.” I shift my shoulders. “I wasn’t going to say it.”

“I know. That’s why I said it.”

I feel my cheeks start to flare. Jesus. You can’t be a metal singer who blushes. “Anyway . . .” I say, looking at the pegs again. I’m so good with these excuses now, they come out like the chorus of a song. “I don’t want to make that kind of deal with the audience until we have to. Because once there’s payment, things have to change, right? Like, ‘Hey, I paid you, now entertain me.’ Or like, ‘Here. This thing I made up just sitting around in my boxer shorts deserves your money.’”