I shake my head. They don’t need to spend a bunch of money on something that doesn’t deserve celebrating anyway. I’ve got no plans left. No future that I can even really picture. “Everybody grills out. Let’s just have cake.”

“Well,” says Mom, “that just leaves the big question then.” She pauses dramatically. “What kind of cake?”

The kitchen phone rings before I can answer.

Mom pops up. “I’ll grab it.”

Her voice comes back to us from around the corner. “Hello? Yes? Oh, good morning! How are you?”

Dad points at me with a loaded fork. “I mean it,” he says. “This is good.”

I give him a half smile. “Good.”

“You know, you could get a restaurant job this summer. Maybe at Roxy’s. Maybe at the golf course. Pay would be decent.”

I slosh some orange juice into my glass. “Restaurants always want you to work weekends.”

“Hmm.” Dad pauses. “And you’re still planning to play those two shows a week. For free.”

The realization hits me. I won’t be playing those two shows a week. I won’t be playing any shows at all. The future is as empty and flat as a sheet of paper.

I nod anyway.

“So,” says Dad. “Did you talk to Ike Lawrence about him covering your expenses?”

The tightness in my chest pulls again. “No.”

“Are you going to get on top of that?”

Mom reappears around the corner. The receiver is pressed against her chest. “Anders,” she says, in a hushed voice. “Did you see Frankie Lynde after the show last night?”

I set down my fork. What townie gossip is calling my house to ask my mother about our stupid fight?

“Yeah,” I say warily.

“About what time did you see her last?”

Something in me stiffens. “I don’t know. After we played. Probably around ten.”

“And then she left?”

“Yeah. I think so. Yeah.” I stare at Mom. “Why? Who’s on the phone?”

“It’s Mrs. Lynde.” Mom blinks back at me. “Apparently Frankie didn’t come home last night.”

The room goes gray.

“What?” I say.

Mom just goes on looking at me. Dad sets down his fork, too.

“Maybe she just—” Maybe what? I can see Frankie’s face—her perfect, furious face—turning away from me under the dim lights of the parking lot. And then what? Then I was alone with the anger and the sickness burning me up from inside. But what about Frankie? Frankie is never alone. My voice sounds brittle. “She probably spent the night at a friend’s or something.”

Mom nods. “That’s what her parents are thinking, too. That’s why they’re calling everyone she knows.”

“She’s not at Sasha Nelson’s? Are they sure?”

“I don’t know. But you saw her leave at ten? Was she by herself?”

The parking lot. The rage thumping through me. I try to remember.

“I think so,” I say. “Yeah. I think so.”

I hear Mom repeating my words into the phone.

Dad sips his coffee. I look at my plate.