It was Jake. “Hey,” he said as kids streamed past us. “Hey.” I’d seen him during the day, but I hadn’t known what to say after our talk at Emily’s party. “Can I show you something?” he asked. “Yeah, sure.” He led me back around the corner and opened the door to the music room. It was empty, except for the rows of chairs circling the piano. Our footsteps echoed, which reminded me of walking into a hospital late at night. Big and open and strangely quiet without people around. “Hold on,” he said. Then he ran to the back of the room, opened a storage locker, and came back with a sleek black case under his arm. Inside was a glossy guitar with a swirly red-and-brown body. He lifted the guitar. “Hold on,” he said again, as though I might vanish any second. Little did he know, I was so nervous, my feet felt glued to the floor, like I was in one of those dreams where you can’t walk no matter how hard you try.
