Eli taps the rim of the snare. “Okay. ‘Crimson High’ after ‘City Static’ in the set. We’ll test it Saturday. If they don’t look up from their cheap beer, we kill it. If they scream, it stays.”
“Fair,” I say. “Let’s be brutal.”
“I was born brutal,” Eli says.
“You were born loud,” Drew says.
Miles lifts a shoulder. “Same thing for drummers.”
Eli flips him off with a flourish. It’s almost elegant.
I write the set order along the margin. We’re always making lists, printing flyers, hunting for five-dollar strings on Craigslist, bribing the campus radio kid with pizza to do a ten-minute feature. People think the music is the job. The job is all of it.
“Rafe.” Drew’s voice is gentler. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I mean it. The coil of frustration that’s lived behind my ribs for a month has loosened. “I’m… good.”
He nods, and his mouth curves. “Cool. Because we’re going to be late for that open mic if we sit here and talk about your varsity boyfriend.”
“He’s not my anything,” I say.
“Yet,” Eli sings under his breath.
Miles stands and stretches, back cracking like a knuckle. “Pack it. Run ‘Crimson High’ twice more tomorrow. Then we don’t touch it before Saturday so you don’t overthink it.”
“Bossy fucker,” I say.
“Effective,” he answers.
We move. Cables coil. Cases close. The room cools from the heat of four bodies and a new song. I tuck the notebook into my backpack like it’s fragile. It isn’t. It’s a weapon if I aim it.
On the way out, Eli flanks me. “So, you’re bisexual, the campus captain is beautiful, and you’re writing about his face. Do we need to prepare for chaos?”
I snort. “I’m always prepared for chaos.”
He grins. “True that.”
Drew holds the door with an elbow. “What did your ma text you?” he asks, because he knows my phone has been buzzing in my pocket for ten minutes.
I check it. A photo of my little sister at the kitchen table back home, hair messy, colored pencils everywhere, a plate with two tortillas and beans shoved to the side. Mamá’s caption:Tu tía says hi. We love you. Don’t forget to sleep.A string of heart emojis that would get me roasted if anyone else saw them.
“Family,” I say, pocketing the phone with a smile I don’t have to practice. “They think I’m a genius. I’d like to live up to it.”
“You will,” Miles insists.
We spill into the hallway. It’s dimmer now. Outside, the early December sun is tilting toward that gold that makes the palm fronds shine like someone polished them.
As we head toward the exit, a pack of jocks laughs somewhere behind us, that big open sound that turns heads. My neck prickles, but I keep my eyes forward. I do not scan for a captain with a face I already put in a song. I’m not that obvious.
We go through the door to the outside steps, and the light slams into me. I blink into it and see the city stretching out beyond the campus—the low sweep of buildings, the grid of streets, the distant stain of smog on the horizon like a line somebody refuses to erase. It looks like possibility if you squint right.
“Open mic?” Eli reminds me, bouncing on his toes.
“Open mic,” I say. “We test ‘Crimson High’ acoustic after the third comic bombs. We own the room. We make them care.”
Drew salutes with his pick. Miles checks the time and nods, already crafting the set in his head.
We climb down the steps, four men who feel like a band again. I touch the leather bracelet at my wrist, a habit. I think about the sudden heat on a stranger’s cheeks, the steady way he carried himself, the way he looked surprised to be seen.
