The librarian shushes in their direction.

“You know they don’t do covers anymore,” Sasha says to Carson a second later. “Weren’t you there Friday night?”

“No. I wasn’t. Thanks so much for noticing.”

“Where were you?” Sasha demands. “Why weren’t you there?”

“Because I accidentally backed my dad’s truck into the garage door.”

“So the truck’s in the shop?”

“No. The truck is fine. There’s, like, a two-millimeter scratch on the bumper. But my dad blew a gasket.”

“Why do people say that?” asks Frankie. “‘Blow a gasket.’ What is a gasket?”

“It’s the part that regulates the truck’s emotions,” says Will.

Frankie laughs.

The librarian’s voice slices the dusty air. “Keep it down over there, or I’ll have to separate you.”

“Sorry, Ms. Schmidt,” says Frankie.

“Uh-oh,” whispers Sasha. “Ms. Schmidt’s going to blow a gasket.”

“Ms. Schmidt can blow me,” mutters Carson.

Frankie smacks him again.

I turn the page. Sacajawea in faded gray ink points the way down a craggy hillside.

“God.” Sasha lets out a sigh. She flips open a textbook. “Why am I even taking physics? When am I going to use any of this?”

Will tugs the pencil out of her fingers. He opens his hand and the pencil falls to the table, rolling across the scarred wooden surface. “Look. You just used physics.”

“So, you’ll be at the Crow’s Nest tomorrow night, right?” Frankie asks Carson. “If your dad’s gasket has been repaired, I mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What else are you going to do in this town on a Friday night?” Sasha pushes. “Count how many times you can drive up and down Main Street on one tank of gas?”

“Come on,” adds Frankie. “Everybody’s going to be there.”

Carson shrugs. He leans back in his chair, trying to look bored by everything. “I’ve heard all their stuff a hundred times already.”

“You have not. They’re writing new stuff all the time. Anders says they’ll have at least two brand-new songs tomorrow.”

Carson sticks his hands into the pockets of his letter jacket. “It’s kind of crazy that they have time to write songs at all, with their busy devil-worshipping and animal-sacrificing schedules.”

Frankie tips her head. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. Don’t all metal bands worship the devil?”

“I don’t know,” Frankie says. “Don’t all football players keep roofies in the pockets of their letter jackets?”

Carson pulls his hands out of his pockets.

“Speaking of new songs.” Sasha shoves her textbook to the side. She taps Frankie’s hand with the end of her pencil. “That soft one, that ‘Deep Water’ one. Is that about you?”

Frankie tucks her hair behind her ear. It makes a perfect, pointed curl against her jaw. She smiles. “I don’t know.”

“I think it’s definitely about you. There’s that line about ‘Her eyes are so dark I can only see myself. . . .’”

“Narcissistic,” murmurs Will.

“And ‘I wonder what she’s hiding, deep deep down where no one wanders.’”

“And dirty,” Will adds.