Mom and Dad haven’t come to a show at the Crow’s Nest in . . . I can’t remember how long, that’s how long it’s been. I know Dad hasn’t been to a show since I announced I’d be taking a year after graduation to see where this music thing leads. For Mom, it’s been almost as long. And that’s fine. It’s harder to keep up the rock-star face when your mom is in the audience, beaming up at you.

“That’s okay. It’s the Crow’s Nest.” I give her a half smile. “Not really your and Dad’s scene.”

Mom opens her mouth, mock offended. “You know we can headbang with the best of them.” She pauses. “That’s what they call it, right? Headbang?”

Now I give a whole smile. “Yes, Mom. That’s what they call it.”

Mom smiles back. “Are you hungry? I could make you something.”

“Nah, I ate. Thanks.”

“Where did you eat?”

“Crow’s Nest. They gave us sandwiches.”

Mom’s eyebrows tighten. I can tell her mind is already going to the wallet inside her old faux-leather purse, counting the cash. “Do you owe them for it?”

“No. Don’t worry about it. Ike says it’s payment.”

“Well. That’s nice.” Mom looks at me for a minute. She smiles slightly, her head tilted to one side. She looks like she’s staring at a painting, trying to figure out exactly what it’s supposed to be a picture of.

“Well,” she says again. “Good night then.”

“’Night.”

Mom reaches up and rubs my bare shoulder. I let her. Down the hall, I can hear the TV blaring the noise of a baseball game. There’s a hiss and click as Dad opens a beer can. Then Mom’s hand glides away. She turns and heads toward the living room.

When I was younger I had all these daydreams about what I’d do for Mom and Dad when I became a huge rock star. I’d buy them a mansion and fancy cars and a speedboat and nice clothes, and they’d never have to worry about money again. Little-kid fantasies. Now I mostly think about how much money I’ll save them just by taking care of myself. Then they won’t have to pay for my guitar lessons, or the picks and strings and sheet music, or the car insurance that shot up when I got my first speeding ticket.

Mom tries to keep money stuff quiet. But Dad’s not so subtle. I know things are tight. And I know that my spending every spare minute on music instead of washing dishes at some crappy local grease pit is making Dad’s blood pressure climb even higher.

Sometimes I imagine handing him a huge check, back payment for everything he’s had to pay for in my entire life. And then all the threads of guilt that tie me here will be snapped, and I’ll get out of Greenwood for good.

I grab my clothes from the bathroom floor and head down the hall.

My room is at the opposite end of the house from Mom and Dad’s. Dad designed the house himself, before I was born, and oversaw the crew that built it. He hasn’t designed anything since. Over the last few years, he’s done less of a lot of things. Nobody’s building houses in Greenwood anymore. Our place is a long, low ranch house covered in rough wood shingles. It looks like a giant pine tree fell over and someone hollowed it out and moved in. The house is surrounded by other, actual pines. There’s a carpet of moss and pine needles on the roof, in the yard, everywhere. My room faces the woods. You can see out the window into trees that go on and on.