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it usually does, bled onto me and I feel decent.
    I’ve been home for hours and it’s almost time for Trip to pick me up for our Mexican feast when Oliver texts with the second part of the conversation—the stuff he “forgot” to ask me earlier.
    Can u send everybody directions to my house?
    You haven’t responded to them yet? Stupidly, I haven’t checked the band email in the last couple of days. I thought Oliver wanted to be the one “in charge” this time.
    I’m taking 3 APs man.
    Yeah ur a genius. But you couldn’t do it earlier?
    Whitney and shit.
    Come on.
    It feels like it takes ten minutes before he responds: My Dads got this thing I have to be in a tie for in 5 mins.
    I hope you choke on that tie.
    I know.
    Another wait.
    It’s cooler if the manager does it. Makes us more professional.
    I have to pause a bit before answering. Because it does. Look better. And Oliver still doesn’t know the names of half the streets in our neighborhood. It’s amazing he gets anywhere.
    So, will u? comes in.
    U aren’t the only one w/ plans 2night.
    Their #s are in the email box. U can just txt.
    “Ergh,” I growl, checking the kitchen clock. Ten minutes before Trip shows up.
    Fine , I type back.
    Righteous.
    What time shd I come over tmrw? I am still huffy. I wish he could see that clearly in a text.
    2:30?
    I’ll see you at 2.
    Cool.
    Though I can’t hear it, I know he is grateful, and I know he needs me to do this.
    Cool.
    I hit Send right as Gretchen and Darby thunder down the stairs.
    “Remind Mom I’m at Melissa’s. Darb’s getting a ride home from the movies,” Gretchen tells me.
    “ You tell her—” I shout behind them, though the slamming door cuts me off.
    How everyone—Gretchen, Darby, Oliver—just assumes I’ll take care of everything is really annoying. But since there’s no one else to do it, I check the computer and gather the numbers from Oliver’s exchanges with the band guys. After that I write a note to Dad and Hannah, explaining where their children are. Then, on the couch, I compose a decent-sounding text withOliver’s address and the audition time, debating how exactly to sign it. Manager? Charlotte? Charlotte, the Manager of Sad Jackal? As I do this, I wonder what Lish would say about me texting four different guys I’ve never met before. I can almost feel her gripping my arm, can hear her elated squeal. I debate calling her. I mean, it’s not like we can’t still talk . But just then the doorbell rings (Trip) and my phone chimes with another text from Oliver. Apparently, I’ve got plenty else going on already tonight.
     
    It’s much calmer in Trip’s car. Drifty, soft-voiced singing is coming through the stereo, and being in this incubator with him, and this music, chills me out, regardless of everything else. I ask who’s playing.
    “You’ve heard them before. Come on.”
    I twist my face. “No fair.” But then I try to listen. “Lavender Concrete?”
    “They sound similar,” he says, nodding. “But they’re more acousticky than this guy. Which is, I have to say, a really big hint.”
    But I am truly horrible at this game.
    “Um, Three Barn House?” It’s a random one I remember.
    “You’re being silly.” He punches the volume up a bit from the steering wheel. “I went to see him play? When he came to town?”
    “You go to see every one play.” The music floats around us. It’sreally pretty. “Come on, I want to know. I’ll remember, I promise. They’ll be our nacho dinner band.”
    “Hey, baby,” he jokes. “That’s nacho dinner. It’s mine.”
    “Exactly, see?”
    “Lorrie’s Castle,” he says.
    I punch my own thigh. “Oh god, I knew that. I really did. But now I will remember them as Nacho Castle.”
    He rolls his eyes, but in a fake you’re annoying way.
    After eons of trying to find a parking space, both of us are really hungry, and as soon as we get seated we dive into the menus, which are taller than our heads. Nachos, obviously, we