I don’t take it at first. What if it’s death metal or screaming punk? What if I literally curl into a ball and cry at the first note?

He sighs. “Just trust me, okay?”

I don’t trust him. Not yet. But I do put the earbud in as he puts in the other, because right now Well is my only maybe-friend and I can’t lose that. I watch him click play and cross my fingers I don’t freak out.

It starts off easy enough. A simple guitar solo. And then I hear a tenor voice. High and sweet as summer. It’s a guy singing about going back to school in the fall. He meets a friend. They climb a fence and walk to the park. “Walk with me, Suzy Lee,” he sings, and I look over at Well. He’s smiling and nodding along and biting into his ice cream bar. A piece of chocolate falls onto his shirt collar. I close my eyes to listen better. Simple strumming. Simple melody. It’s beautiful.

I let it play all the way until the end before I open my eyes. And when I do, I feel calm and happy—that mood that only music can make. How did Well know? I turn to ask him, but he’s opening and closing his mouth without saying anything.

“What?” I yank the earbud out, panicking, because even though I haven’t known him long, I know a speechless Well is not normal.

“You, Lou, have been hiding something.”

He points a black fingernail at me.

“What? No!” I shake my head.

“Yes. Oh yes,” he says.

Whatever he’s about to say can’t be good. I have no good secrets. Just embarrassing or terrifying ones. I get up, let the earbud fall onto his jacket, and start to go.

“Wait!” he shouts, and runs after me.

I speed up. And so does he until he’s speed-walking next to me.

He holds up his phone and blurts, “You, Louise, can sing.”

I stop, confused.

“What?”

He shakes his phone at me, like it holds all the answers.

“You were singing out loud,” he says.

“Oh, that.” I didn’t even know I was doing it.

“Yes, that. You’re like a bluesy lounge singer hiding in Tinker Bell’s body,” Well says, sounding impressed.

I have no idea how to respond to this, so I settle for finishing my ice cream bar.

“Stop staring at me,” I say.

“I can’t. You might be the next American Idol.”

I turn away, but then I’m facing the bleachers again, and there’s nothing left to do but start walking toward them, because it’s better than Well staring at me like I just levitated.

“How can we not talk about this?” Well says, catching up.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Nothing to talk about? You are a diva!”

“No, I’m not.”