Wyatt looks at my nightstand and pulls something off of it. “Here they are.” He tosses them toward me, but I make no effort to catch them, letting them hit my stomach with a jingle.

I pick myself up.

Wyatt’s mostly dressed in his school uniform; the obviously secondhand blazer has been thrown casually on his bed to be hung up later. I suppose the music club is off if he’s here already. I throw my bag on the floor and fall face-first onto my bed, relishing the feeling of the plush comforter. And then I let out the loudest groan possible.

“Yeah?”

I don’t answer him.

“Rough day?”

“Stop talking,” I moan, my voice muffled.

“Did something happen?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Whatever you say,” Wyatt drawls out. I don’t know where Wyatt was born exactly, but I do know he’s from North Carolina. He’s said as much himself. And even if he hadn’t, his accent alone would’ve told me he’s as southern as the biscuits and gravy that seem to be on nearly every breakfast menu in Charlotte. His words are slow except when they aren’t, when he mumbles so much that I can’t understand a word he says.

“Just stop talking,” I beg him again.

Wyatt whistles, turning up the same indie bullshit that he’s always listening to or playing on his guitar.

“Turn that down,” I tell him.

He ignores me.

“Hey, I said turn it down. Didn’t you hear me?”

“I did,” he says. “What I didn’t hear was a ‘please.’ ”

“I’m not going to beg you to turn the music down.” I turn my head so I can see the smug smile on his face and that stupid gap between his two front teeth.

“It’s not begging,” he says. “It’s called having manners.”

“Whatever.” I’m not going to fight with him over this. I just want to sleep. I don’t even remember when I decided that a nap would fix the things wrong with today, but I’m deciding that now. Except the bass is kicking in on his song, and a beat comes in and it’s super noisy, so I stand up fast and walk over to where Wyatt’s ancient iPhone is sitting on the shelf (I mean, it still has a home button, come on) and I turn off the music.

“Hey!” he protests.

“I asked nicely.” I get back in bed.

“That’s the one thing you didn’t do.” He goes over and turns the music back on.

“I was trying to nap.”

“What’s up with you today?” he asks. “You never talk to me this much.”

“You’re lucky I’m acknowledging you at all,” I mumble back into my pillow. “I’m just in a bad mood.”