That feeling, that connected, electrical feeling, is the best thing in the entire world. It’s like a shot of adrenaline that goes on and on until your whole body is practically throwing off sparks, and you feel like you could run straight up the side of a building and dive up into the sky.

I hate that it ever has to end, even for those couple of seconds between songs. When I’m not playing, I’m just me. Standing there. Getting stared at by a hundred people who all know my name. That’s why I always jump into the next song as fast as possible. It’s why, even when I’m not onstage, I’d rather be playing than doing anything else.

I’d rather be the guy with the guitar.

The guy with the guitar might actually be worthy of people screaming his name. That guy would know how to deal with journalists and fans. He’d always be able to find clothes that say rock star, not garage sale poser. I’m pretty sure he’d tell any little metalhead complaining about the side effects of fame to suck it up, loser.

I mean, Last Things isn’t famous. Not really. But we’ve got the bite-sized, backwoods version of fame. Okay, is it a little weird to have girls who’ve seen you in your school gym shorts asking for your autograph, and to start recognizing your very own stalkers, the ones who hang around until the very end of the night, staring at you but never saying anything at all? Yeah. Sure. But isn’t it also worth it about a million times over?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Plus, there’s just one thing I have to remember to put everything back in perspective. They don’t love me. Even the obsessive online fans who say they do. They don’t know me. They don’t know me at all. They just love the music.

I get that. I feel exactly the same way.

I lean toward my reflection again. I put on the rock-star face. My chin rises. My jaw goes tight. Suck it up, loser.

“Anders?” Mom’s voice calls from outside the bathroom door.

If there’s anything that can immediately make you feel not like a rock star, it’s your mom calling to you through a bathroom door. I back away from the mirror. “Yeah?”

“How did it go tonight?”

“Fine,” I shout back.

“Good crowd?”

“Yeah. It was pretty full.”

“Did you play anything new?”

I guess this isn’t going to be a short interview. And there’s no point telling Mom I can’t hear her. She’ll just wait and follow me down to my bedroom. I tuck a frayed towel tight around my waist and open the door.

Mom stands in the hall, still dressed from a long day at the front desk of the Greenwood-Halmstad Hospital, in her blue sweater set and beaded necklace.

“A couple new things,” I tell her. “Mostly old stuff.”

“I’m sorry your dad and I couldn’t be there,” she says. “I had that staff meeting tonight, and it went late. Really late.” Behind the glint of her glasses, Mom’s eyes are tired. “But that should be the last one for a while.”