Well, aren’t you in a profound mood, Becky says.

Well, what do you think? James asks me.

My mind goes to Gabriel.

And strangely to my brother who always seems like he’s looking for something he may not recognize when he finds it.

What I say is, I think this guy has too much time on his hands.

That doesn’t keep Becky from wanting to call again at lunch the next day from the pay phone outside school.

Today, the voice simply says, Don’t be the wound.

What the hell? she asks.

Maybe it means not to make things worse? I offer.

Or not to be the thing that hurts? she counters.

Yeah, but you can’t blame something for hurting itself, right?

Obviously, she sighs, you haven’t seen my mother lately.

The paper in the fear room is full. I think I might have crabs is written next to I cheated on my French exam because I’m worried my grades aren’t good enough for college and my parents will kill me if I don’t get into their alma mater, and I’m not sure how I got home from Julie’s party on Saturday night.

I find a small square of open space and write about something that’s been eating at me. I got this flyer about an AIDS demonstration, but I was too afraid to go. And I kind of hate myself for that.

I stop in after school, expecting my mysterious writer friend not to have answered yet, but instead, there is this: No point in hating yourself. I’ve decided that living your life the way you want is the best revenge, he writes. I’m assuming it’s a guy. I mean, otherwise you’re letting those dicks win. And then what’s the point of anything?

I consider writing something about James. Or Gabriel. Or Connor who is still sick, and that fact scares me more than I’m letting on.

Instead, I write, Is that what you do?

Summer break is looming and B-Sides is hiring again. Something must be going on with my parents because this time, even they are warming up to the idea.

If you get a job, you can help with the groceries, my father says.

If you get a job, you might meet a nice girl, my mother says.

If you get a job, they won’t know where to find you and you can stay out all night, Connor says.

If you get a job, maybe you’ll be happier, Becky says.

If you get a job, you may never have time to write another song, says James.

I sometimes forget what being in school was like, James says.

I have a hard time picturing what real life will be like, I reply.

Really? James looks at me through his lashes. Who ever said anything about life is real?

Despite James’s concerns, I fill out a job application at B-Sides.

Name. Address. Phone number.

Experience.

Um.

I write: I’ve shopped here. A lot.

Then I cross it out and write: I’m a musician.