Psychic Karaoke wasn’t the only game the girls used to play at the Fro-Yodel. The other relied on Finn’s skills. “Gimme a minute.” She spooned Zadie’s yogurt into her mouth but did not swallow. Instead, she let it turn to fruity liquid on her tongue and waited.

Finn remembered the first time her mom had taken her to the Fro-Yodel. She was sloppily eating chocolate yogurt with gummy worms when a song got so viciously stuck in her head that she dropped her spoon on the floor. “The yogurt tastes like music!” she gasped. As a kid, Finn was prone to silly outbursts, so her mom probably thought nothing of it, but over the next few months, her proclamations became more and more specific:

“This one tastes like jazz!”

“This one tastes like a banjo!”

“This one tastes like the drum solo from ‘In the Air Tonight’!”

Each Friday, Finn would eagerly anticipate what music she’d “taste” later that night. She wasn’t sure why the Fro-Yodel triggered so many musical memories. Her best guess was that they were linked to whoever had made it that day. However, it was more fun to pretend that the yogurt itself was singing to her.

“Well?” Zadie had been waiting on Finn for almost a minute.

Finn silently asked for more time by holding up an index finger. A few more seconds passed; then a song began playing in her head. It was in another language—French, maybe—with an accordion and what she thought was a washboard.

Finn finally swallowed the warm yogurt and looked up at Zadie. “What’s that type of music they play in New Orleans?”

“Zydeco?”

“Yeah. That’s it. Wait—” Steel drums began playing a competing tune. “Did you get a swirl?”

Zadie nodded. “Passion fruit and coconut.”

“Oof. Those two songs do not work together.” Finn shook her head, trying to knock the cacophony between her ears loose. “You should have gotten plain vanilla like I did. That one sounded like acoustic guitar.”

Finn’s echo died off at the same time the man onstage started singing “We Didn’t Start the Fire” by Billy Joel. Hopefully, by the time the song was finished, Finn would figure out how to tell her sister about her big idea. She’d spent the thirty-minute car ride rehearsing it in her head. First, she’d tell Zadie about her echo. Then, once Zadie had recovered from the shock of it, she would pivot toward her plan. It would be a hard sell. Her sister liked surprises even less than she liked talking about their mother, and Finn’s idea involved both.

The performer had only just finished singing the names of Soviet politicians when Zadie beat Finn to the punch. “So what’s this thing you needed to tell me?”

Finn swallowed. “I had an echo.”

“I know. You told me.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t tell you whose memory it was.”