I’ve considered asking his real name about a hundred times in the last twenty-four hours, but he never asked mine—he just calls me Peak—and I kind of like the mystery now. He’s everyone and no one, ever evolving, a living thing, like music. He is a pleasant program that lives in my phone, and I’m happy to have him.

A close-up of a baby bat’s face appears on my screen, along with the caption hello.

I send him back two crying-laughing emojis and a heart-eye one, and I wait, a smile etched on my face, when the three dots appear.

BATS: Where ya been, Peak?

ME: Around

BATS: . . .

ME: School and stuff

BATS: School is overrated.

I snort—if only he knew he was talking to someone ranked second in her class academically (screw you, Ivy Pasternek; I’m coming for your rank next year)—and try to find the perfect meme to send back. I grin when I see it. It’s a tiny bat being held down with a single finger, and the caption says, No, stop touching me! I am the night! I press send with a little squeal and add you, probably.

I wait for those three dots to come back . . . but they don’t. The smile starts to slide off my face, and I wonder if I somehow actually offended him. And then I twist my lips into a full-on frown. I meant to ghost him, I did, but then I started thinking—if one weekend away from cello land could help me climb out of my musical rut this much, then imagine what text-flirting until my audition could do. Jayla didn’t exactly believe me when I told her my theory; her response was something like “for the music, sure, I believe that,” but still.

My phone buzzes in my hand and I grin.

BATS: More than you know.

ME: See, I’m onto you.

BATS: Let’s hope not for both our sakes.

ME: You’re such a dork.

CHAPTER TEN

Ridley

I CLICK THROUGH the website, tallying the missing assignments as I go. Eleven. Eleven assignments will get me back on track for graduating. Less than I thought, honestly, but more than I feel like doing. Keeping up with my high school work—online only now—was one of the requirements my mom set before agreeing to let me stay here. She must not have realized I was way behind before I even left.

Which means I probably have a very tiny window before she calls my dad to flip out on him about the missing assignments. Which would suck. I’ve been tallying the good days (the mental equivalent of a chalkboard saying It has been __ days since the last incident) and we’re at five now.