I raise my hand in the air like I’m in grade school.

“And it’s too late notice to find someone else. The opening is less than three weeks,” he carries on, ignoring my raised hand. “I’m already in the lineup, and I’ll be way too busy making sure things run smoothly to try to take on two sets.”

I bounce up and down in my chair, waving my hand in front of his face. “Hello? Can’t you see my hand?”

“I can.” He closes the notebook. “And I know what you’re going to say. The answer is no, though.”

My shoulders slump as I plant my ass back in the chair. “No to what?” I fake pout. “You haven’t even heard what I’m going to say.”

“But I already know what you’re going to say.”

“How so?”

“Because we share the same musical DNA, and twenty-five years ago, if I’d been sitting in your spot, I’d have asked the same question you want to ask right now.”

I jut out my lip. “You’re cruel.”

“No, I’m being a good father.” He shoves his notebook aside and rests his elbows on the table. “There’s no way I’m going to let my seventeen-year-old daughter and her band play at a club with a bunch of hardcore rock bands.”

“FYI, I’m almost eighteen.” I cross my arms and slump back in the chair. “You haven’t even heard us play yet. Maybe we’re as good as those hardcore rock bands.”

“It’s not that I doubt your ability, Lyric. I’ve heard you play and sing behind closed doors. You’re fucking talented.” I start to beam. “But…” he adds, and I frown—there’s always a but— “it takes a lot of prep time to play onstage. And I’m not just talking about practice time, but mental prepping.”

Aw, my parents and their concern for my mental stability. The worry seems to be expanding, too, ever since Ayden went into his depressive state, as if they believe we’re so in sync I’ll shut down with him.

I narrow my eyes, getting defensive. “Hey, we’re ready. More than ready. We fucking rock.”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure I’m ready for you to grow up that fast yet.” He scoots the chair away from the table to stand up. “The environment at these things … it’s intense.”

“You played when you were my age,” I argue. “Maybe not at clubs, but I’ve heard the stories about the parties you and Mom went to back in the day.”

He gapes at me. “When did you hear stories?”

I rise from my chair. “Every time you, Mom, Uncle Ethan, and Aunt Lila get drunk, you sit in the living room and reminisce about the good old days. And you’re really loud drunks.” I snatch up another cookie and stride for the doorway.

“Lyric, please don’t be upset,” he pleads. “This has nothing to do with your ability.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” I pop a chunk of the cookie into my mouth and raise my chin in confidence. “You’ve never really heard me sing. And I mean really sing. Because, if you did, you’d be overlooking your overprotective father thing you’ve got going on right now and let me own your opening.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. I’ve struck him speechless, which was exactly what I was hoping for, even though I’m totally being overconfident. Our band doesn’t even have a name, at least one we all agree on, and we haven’t played anywhere other than inside the four walls of Sage’s garage. But confidence can carry you a long way. Believe in yourself, and other people will, too. At least, I’m hoping that’s where this conversation goes.

“And P.S.,” I add, “a fantabulous Christmas tree is waiting in the back of Uncle Ethan’s truck for you.”

I walk out of the kitchen, leaving my father to stew in his thoughts, and go upstairs to take a shower. Afterward, I blow-dry my long, blonde hair straight, apply some kohl eyeliner, and then tug on a pair of black torn jeans and a red shirt. It’s nearing eight o’clock by the time I finish getting ready.

I glance out the window at Ayden’s bedroom. The lights are on, with the curtains shut. He’s kept them consistently closed for the last week, and I often wonder if he’s hiding something behind them. I could be overanalyzing his distant behavior, but I don’t know... There have been moments since his brother died when he’ll suddenly announce he has to go home, even if we’re in the middle of a movie or at band practice. He always goes into his bedroom and locks the door; at least, that’s what I heard Aunt Lila whispering to my mother the other day.

“I’m getting worried,” she said while they were unloading Christmas presents from the car, “about what he’s doing in there. Like, maybe drugs.”

They didn’t know I was listening from the garage, but I stepped out and gave them my input. “He’s not on drugs. You guys are overreacting. He probably just needs his space.” I didn’t bother mentioning that Ayden and I technically get high on secondhand smoke every other night at band practice since Sage insists he plays better when the garage is being hotboxed.

As I’m gazing out the window, I suddenly notice something odd on the sidewalk below. A middle-aged bald guy with a beer gut and a gnarly looking scar on his jawline is walking his dog. He pauses in front of the Gregorys’ home and stares at the house. He could easily be gawking at the freshly hung twinkling lights and decorations, but his attention lingers on Ayden’s bedroom window for far too long in my opinion. Then the man scurries away, tugging his dog along with him.