“Are you ready for rehearsal?” Mari asked.

“I WAS JUST TELLING GEORGIA THAT YOU GUYS SHOULD PERFORM RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW!” Rhonda screeched. “IT’LL BE LIKE A DRESS REHEARSAL!”

From across the lawn, I heard a noise like an animal dying, and saw Rafe fall to his knees with his hands over his ears. “DON’T DO IT!” he wailed. “YOU STINK!”

Remember a few paragraphs ago? When I thought my brother wasn’t so bad? I was over that now.

“Sure, Rhonda,” I said. “I think that’s a great idea.”

Mari shrugged. “Why not?” she said. There were only three other people at the garage sale, anyway: our nosy neighbor Mr. Stanley, ancient Mrs. Bloomgarden, and her Yorkshire terrier, Wilson. They looked like they could stand to rock out.

We set up our stuff in the garage while Rhonda handed out orangeade and acted as the goodwill ambassador for the band. “YOU WON’T BELIEVE HOW AMAZING THEY ARE!” she told Mrs. Bloomgarden.

“She’s right—you won’t believe it,” Rafe agreed.

I strummed a chord. “One-two-three-four!” I shouted, and the band burst into our first song. I have to say that we were getting better. I didn’t even get my fingers caught in anything. When we finished the song, there was silence.

Until Rafe hopped up onto a table to do his own performance.

The sad part was that Mrs. Bloomgarden actually applauded—for Rafe, not us.

That was all the encouragement he needed to keep going. We Stink was going to have to work hard to drown out my brother.

“Crank it up,” I told my friends. So we did.

The Aftermath

We Stink finished our fifth and final song, and the crowd went wild. And by wild, I mean that Mr. Stanley finally took off the earmuffs he had been trying on for the past four songs, and Mrs. Bloomgarden managed to coax Wilson out of the file cabinet, where he had been hiding. She sniffed at me as she carried Wilson away, cooing to him, “Don’t worry, poopsie! The big scary noise is all over now.”

But at least a couple of people were clapping. “WE STINK RULES!” Rhonda screeched.

Sam stuck his fingers in his mouth and let out a deafening whistle. Yes, that’s right—Sam Marks showed up at my garage sale. I guess Rhonda must have told him about it.

I managed to smile at Sam, but I was feeling kind of seasick. After all, here I was, playing lousy guitar at a garage sale. So humiliating.

Clap. Clap. Clap. The sound of sarcastic applause. I looked around to find out who could be that rude, but I should have been able to guess.

Missy Trillin, standing by a stack of sweaters. Gah! What’s she doing here? My stomach shriveled in fear.

“Wow, I really liked your performance, Georgia,” Missy said with a sneer. “I really liked when it stopped.”