Which is fine, because it’s just harmless flirting, an attempt at getting the butterflies to last me through the audition. It’s the texting equivalent of crossing my fingers or wishing on an eyelash—just a little extra insurance that may not make a difference but can’t actually hurt. Jayla needs to relax.

“Are you coming to the soccer game tonight?” she asks, changing the subject, and shit, I forgot about the game. I nod anyway, because unless I’m super sick, I always go when they play their rivals.

“I’ll give you a ride after orchestra, then.”

“Are you sure you want to wait?”

Jayla and Nikki both have early dismissal, and I don’t. Jayla usually spends it getting in extra practice time, and Nikki usually walks home to check on her mom while she’s waiting for us to finish up. I think it’s awesome how dedicated Nikki is to her family, but Jayla says she wasn’t like that before the accident.

I guess Nikki’s dad does something in finance, and her mom used to be a pastry chef. They adopted her from Korea when she was two, and according to Nikki, they pretty much lived happily ever after until a drunk driver plowed through an intersection, hitting her mom’s car and changing their lives forever. That was about a year before I moved here, though.

On her good days, her mom still bakes the most amazing desserts, which Nikki always brings in to share. On her bad days, Nikki says she can barely get out of bed. I can’t imagine what it’s like to have your whole life shift like that in the blink of an eye. It kind of makes me want to take this whole embrace-life thing a little more seriously.

“I can stay today; my dad is off,” Nikki says, putting the cap back on her pen.

“You looking for something to do while you wait?” Ty shouts from the next table, but before she can respond, Mrs. Cavill, the librarian, is barking at him to quiet down and pack up.

“I’ll see you guys in a little bit, then.” I zip my book bag shut, and a picture of literally the cutest baby bat in all the world flashes across my phone screen.

“Gross,” Jayla says, but I ignore her and text back a bunch of heart eyes.

As I walk into orchestra, I text my mom to let her know I’m going to the game, then click over to my conversation with Bats, ignoring the group chat with my string quartet. They think it’s wild that I “waste my time” in a public school orchestra—their words, not mine—but I’ll take any chance I can get to play.