Point is: he gets that parents are bullshit. Mine, his—them all.

“ ’Sup, dude.” I nod in his general direction.

“Hey.” He slouches down in his chair and splays his legs out in front of him. I see one of the girls behind us glancing over once, twice, nudging another girl with her elbow and nodding our way. I flush and duck my head. Most likely, she’s thrilled to be back at school after break so she can stare at Conor. Girls love him, even when he’s not onstage singing. Always have, always will. It’s been this way since we became friends in third grade and has gotten even more annoying since freshman year, when he started booking shows with his band.

It’s just gotten a little disconcerting since everything went down with my mom. Since then, people have started staring at me, too. And unlike Conor, I don’t revel in the attention. Unlike Conor, it’s not ’cause girls think I’m hot or mysterious or talented, or whatever they think about him. I’m just…whatever. Normal. Average. I used to be invisible. I miss those days.

The bell rings, and at the front of the room, Mr. Ames clears his throat. Rules and teachers and authority have never deterred Conor, and he immediately starts talking to me.

“You comin’ tonight? To our practice? We’re auditioning new drummers, since f’in’ Lockett went AWOL last week. What kind of monster does that? We have our first gig at the Orion next week, man, and he just up and leaves us ’cause he needs a job or some shit?”

I slide down in my seat as far as I can go without melting onto the floor. Why does Conor always have to draw attention my way? Ames is sending death glares at us as he begins to drone on about whatever the hell is on the syllabus today in dead-European-white-guy history.

I mutter my response under my breath as quietly as I can. “I thought he got his girl pregnant. That’s why he needs a job, no?”

Conor’s basically deaf, since he refuses to wear earplugs at his shows, so he has no idea what I just said and makes a confused face in response. I shake my head and mouth, “Never mind,” all exaggerated, but there’s no stopping Conor, not when he really wants something, and he says at top volume, “WHAT?”

Maybe he doesn’t really shout, but it sure as hell sounds like a cannon going off to my ears, and Ames appears to agree. He interrupts himself and marches over to our seats, bending down so he’s at eye level.

“Want to share whatever it is you’re talking about with the class, Simonsen? Since it’s apparently so interesting that it can’t wait?” Ames always sounds like he taught himself how to speak to students by watching crappy 1980s sitcoms.