“What?” Patrick’s sticks stop. “We’ve got three new songs already.”

“Three out of fifteen isn’t that many.”

“We won’t be ready.”

“We will if we practice enough now.”

“Dude.” Patrick scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. “This is, like, sweatshop music. You keep cranking out the songs, and we keep assembling the pieces.”

“I have to,” I say. “Or they just pile up, and it’s—” I flick at the strings with my fingernails. “Okay. Fine. Whatever. We’ll just play old stuff.”

“I’m not saying I want to just play old stuff.”

Jezz flops down on an overturned crate, settling in for the long haul.

“I’d rather play stuff we’ve actually polished. Stuff that’s decent,” Patrick finishes.

“Play ‘Blood Money’!” shouts Ellie’s voice from the backyard.

“We haven’t done that one in forever,” Jezz points out.

“Do we really want to play stuff we’ve already done a thousand times?” I ask the guys. “That’s like watching the same TV show over and over and over.”

Jezz shrugs. “People do that.”

“Stoners do that.”

“Dude, stoners are people, too.”

“Let’s just play a decent mix of old and new stuff then,” Patrick says, twirling a stick through three fingers. “Four new songs. Max.”

“Or you could do some of the new songs on your own, Anders,” says Jezz. His tone is light, but I feel the air turn cold again. “Much simpler.”

I look down at the greasy cement floor. Seeds from the backyard’s drooping birch tree are scattered everywhere, like tiny bread crumbs. “No,” I say. “One solo song is enough. More than enough.”

Jezz slides off the crate. “Is the writer from the Tribune going to be there?”

I keep looking at the floor. There’s a grease stain the shape of a huge hoofprint just to the left of my foot. “I think so.”

“All the more reason for us to keep the new stuff pared down,” says Jezz.

“All the more reason for Anders to do more solos,” says Patrick. “That’s why they’re coming anyway. Right?”

“That’s not why,” I say. But I’m not sure he even hears me.

“Come on,” Jezz tells Patrick. “Anders might be an obsessive-compulsive weirdo, but he’s not an asshole.”

“I didn’t say he was,” says Patrick. He taps both feet impatiently on the pedals. The big drum pounds like a racer’s heart. “I just think he likes being in the spotlight.”

Now I look straight into Patrick’s eyes. “I don’t care about the spotlight.”

Patrick’s mouth curls.

“I don’t.” A lie. He knows it. “I just wanted to be good at this.” I shake the guitar on its strap. “I don’t care about the rest.”

“Sure,” says Patrick.

“I don’t.” I’m lying to both of us now. Without recognition, what proof do you have that you’re any good? And I need that. I need to know it. “I’m not in this for some kind of fifteen-minute, freak-show fame,” I say loudly. “It’s not about me. It’s about us. It’s about our music.” Then, because Patrick is still glaring at me, I go on. “Look. I just got a call from S&A Management. They were practically begging me to meet with them. And I turned them down.”