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biceps and the cutest freckles I’ve ever seen, he doesn’t deserve me after acting like a man slut.
    “Where are your parents, anyway?” I ask.
    “I dunno. Work? They don’t live here.”
    “This is your house?”
    “Yup. I bought it with my allowance.”
    That makes me laugh. But how is he ready to live on his own? I mean, Mom still has to remind me to set my alarm so I wake up in time for school.
    He carefully lifts an acoustic guitar off the wall and hands it over. “Play a song for me.”
    I sit down and get it situated in my lap, studying it. My fingers tremble and itch to strum the strings. It’s a Martin, just like mine, only a lot older and more valuable. “Is this from, like, the 1930s?”
    “Yeah…it was Pa’s—my great-grandfather’s—before he died.”
    “You had a cool Pa.”
    His mouth twitches. “I know. Now play a song for me.”
    I run my fingers over the wood and bite my lip. If my own band ditched me, do I have any business playing for a Grammy winner? Despite my different musical tastes, I thought my guitar skills were top notch and that I would be a huge asset to any band. But they wanted that guy Bryan instead of me. Maybe I’m not as good on guitar as I thought I was.
    He must sense my hesitation. “I’m gonna give you a bad grade if you don’t play.”
    “You’re not in charge of my grade.”
    “My uncle is, and if I tell him you didn’t do what I asked, you’ll probably fail.”
    I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I’m not willing to risk it. If I don’t complete shadow day, I won’t be allowed to graduate in the spring.
    I pull my lucky pick (it’s made of quartz and shaped like a teardrop) out of my purse. Taking a deep breath, I start plucking the first song that Jesse put out after he won Wannabe Rocker . He wrote “Mi Familia” when he was eleven. I played this song over and over in fifth grade.
    After the first chord transition, I get nervous, my fingers tremble, and I accidentally mute the D string, then miss the next transition. Jesse and I cringe at the same time.
    “Crap—I never screw up,” I say.
    “Maybe you haven’t been practicing enough.”
    That’s true. I haven’t played much this week. Without a band to jam with, my heart hasn’t been in it.
    “Go on,” Jesse urges, settling back into his armchair.
    I start playing “Mi Familia” again, but after a measure, he waves a hand at me to stop. “Play something else. Know any James Taylor?”
    “Obviously.” I’m more of an eighties girl, but any serious guitarist should know the classics. I start strumming “Carolina in My Mind.”
    After I play two verses, Jesse holds up a hand again. “Are you gonna sing or not?”
    I drum my fingers on the Martin’s tuners. “I don’t do solos.”
    He shakes his head at the ceiling. “I don’t have time for this.”
    “I thought you have all the time in the world. You’re quitting, right?”
    The expression on his face could kill. “If you won’t sing for me, you should leave right now.”
    “Fine, I’ll sing,” I shoot back.
    “I promise I won’t laugh at you,” he replies.
    “I’m not that bad a singer.”
    “Then prove it.”
    Game on, pretty boy, country jerk , I think.
    I start in on the first verse, and I make it most of the way through before my voice cracks. Normally I’d be embarrassed, but I don’t really care. A week ago, this would’ve been my big chance to show what I’ve got, but considering I don’t really respect Jesse, I don’t have anything to fear.
    So I just keep belting out “Carolina in My Mind.” Playing guitar feels so good, I find myself sinking further down into the soft couch, relaxing, and not wanting to cry. Which is good, because lately, I’ve been on the verge of breaking down. I don’t want to waste a single tear on Nate or my band, but it’s been getting harder and harder.
    On the second verse, Jesse leans back and closes his eyes. He joins me in singing the chorus.
    When we’ve