I’m still nowhere near being able to sleep. I pull Yvonne back into my lap. Scales now. Then fingerwork, my hands flashing in the moonlight. Precise. Perfect. Then the song again, polishing the intro, and then—

Then someone knocks. But not at the door. At the window.

Yvonne jerks in my hands, the melody breaking off.

I look up.

Frankie’s face smiles through the glass at me.

It’s dark outside. Getting colder. When I open the window, the gust of air chills my sweaty shirt. Maybe sweaty and gross is better than damp and shirtless, like last time Frankie showed up. Either way, I feel exposed, unarmored, without a guitar between us.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey. What are you doing here?” This comes out even more unwelcoming than I mean it.

“Visiting you,” says Frankie. Like I don’t already know this.

I glance past her, into the woods. “Who else is out there?”

“With me?” Frankie shrugs. “Nobody.”

“Nobody?” Frankie Lynde, alone. The words don’t even sound right together. “Are you sure?” I ask, even though this is a really stupid thing to say.

“I’m sure.” She leans her arms on the windowsill. She’s wearing a soft, wide-necked sweater. Her fingernails are painted dark purple, or at least they look that way in the moonlight. “So. How’s it going?”

“Not great.” I rub the side of my head. “There was a stupid fight with Jezz and Patrick today.”

Frankie nods. “I heard.”

Of course she heard. This freaking town.

Frankie tips her head to the side. Her eyes are black ink, sharp and soft at the same time. “Do you think it will blow over?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see.”

Frankie’s eyes move over me, outlining my face, traveling down. “What’s that?” she asks.

“What? Oh.” She’s pointing at my forearm. “Song lyrics.”

Frankie reaches through the open window and grasps my arm. Her touch makes my whole body ignite.

“‘Amplify . . . the hugs we hair?’”

“‘The things we hide,’” I say. She still hasn’t let go of my arm.

Frankie laughs. It makes the air sing. “Your handwriting is terrible.”

“In my defense, you are reading it upside down.”

“Maybe I should come in and read it the right way around.”

“Um . . .” Something starts to fizz in the pit of my stomach. Alone. With Frankie Lynde. In my bedroom. I turn an ear toward the door. The occasional distant laugh track from the TV seeps through the wood. “I guess you could.”

Frankie slides through my window, head first. She reaches out so I can grab her before she hits the floor. “Thanks.” She clings to my hands, laughing at herself. “Please don’t remember how gracefully I did that.”

She’s wearing tight pants and high-heeled boots. Her hair is glossy. I can smell it—her—even a few feet away. I take a step backward. Our hands unclasp.

Frankie takes a long, slow look around my room. “Wow,” she says. “It’s a metal museum.”

She trails along one wall, checking out the posters, the stickers, the torn-out articles. I follow her with my eyes. She leans into the mirror, studying the ticket stubs wedged around the frame. “You’ve seen a lot of great bands. And a lot of bad movies.”