“Peachy,” I say briskly. “Listen, I’ve got a band for your party.”

“Ah, interesting.” Ari pulls his drumsticks back out of his crotch and starts tapping on his legs. “I know someone who’ll be glad to hear about this.”

I ignore this comment as hard as I can. “Knock it off. Also, your rudiments stink.”

Ari’s sticks freeze. “Like you’d know.”

“Actually I do. Your paradiddles are sloppy because your right hand is botching the double beats. You need to work on your fundamentals.”

Ari rolls his eyes, but he puts his sticks down again, this time laying them flat on his legs. “Obviously you’ve had a lot of time on your hands to study up on what real musicians do.”

Oh, Ari. His outsides may look like potato, but inside he’s pure turd. Invoking one of the classic barbs between clans of the PopArts tribe . . . God, I hate this. It’s one of my least favorite positions in all of life. When you need something from someone, they have power.

“Who’s the band?” Ari asks.

“Dangerheart,” I say. “They’re really, seriously good. And you know I know good.”

“Members?”

“The drummer is Matt Prader, freshman but seriously gifted, Jon Lim is on guitar, he’s that transfer, and then the singer is Caleb—”

“Hold on. Caleb Daniels? You want me to invite Mr. I-Just-Ruined-the-Best-Band-in-School?” He scratches his chin dramatically. “You know Android is going to be there, right? They’ll be majorly pissed if I give Caleb a slot. . . . Of course that does sound kinda fun. Band fights are always good for party legends, but . . . it’s gonna cost ya.”

“What.”

Ari’s smile returns, this time shading toward mischievous. “Be my date to the party.”

“Ha! No. Besides, I’ll be working with my band that night.”

Ari shrugs, letting his gaze drop to my chest again. He elbows his closest buddy to get his attention, then turns back to me and says, “Let me feel you up?”

Ari’s friends crack up, but it might just be over the terrible shrieking of some poor token female in their game.

“Did you actually just say that?”

“I did.” He grins moistly. I have actually heard females describe his lips as “yummy.” “Thirty seconds. It doesn’t have to be here. We can go to the janitor closet if you want. I’m good. Vanessa Quinn said I had the best hands in school.”

“She would be an expert,” I reply, again almost amazed by his bravado. It would be so sad not to be immune to it. “Can you please stop being so gross?”

Ari just shrugs. “Twenty seconds?”

I huff check my phone. “I’m late. And I’m right about this band. You want them there. You already know you can’t wait to see what Caleb does next, and your vile attempts at bargaining are going nowhere.”

Ari finally groans. “Okay, last offer: you do a Hakalaka Eruption with me at the party.”

“What’s that, aside from probably vulgar and most likely culturally inappropriate?”

“It’s a drink. Just have a drink with me at the party.”

I realize that I need to give him something, so he can save face. “There will be no touching.”

“I’ve still got time to change your mind,” Ari says.

“Believe what you want, but okay, we have a deal.” I allow a handshake.

Ari pulls out his phone and taps. “Just sent the invite to your school email.”

My phone buzzes, and I click to the invitation. Not surprisingly, it’s a photo of a woman’s midriff, with a coconut bra. “Where’s the info?” I ask.

“Under the coconuts.” Ari grins. I tap the photo and sure enough, the coconut coverings pop off and the set times and load-in instructions are written in curves around the flesh beneath. “Very classy,” I say, turning to go.

“I’ll tell Jason you’re coming,” Ari calls behind me. His friends hiss in appreciation of this comment. I pause, consider a comeback, but I knew that was coming, didn’t I? Jason . . . just the sound of the name makes my skin crawl. Remember, this is business. After all, he would. I keep walking.

I find Caleb in the Green Room after lunch. He and Matt and Jon are at a table by the espresso machine. As I approach them, I feel a little swell of pride, or relief, or both. There’s something about a band that immediately conveys strength. Dangerheart has had only two practices and they still have no bassist and yet just the presence of the three of them together suggests potential. They’re like a secret society, and you can’t help but be curious what they’re talking about. Which is funny, because it’s no big secret what bands talk about when they are clustered together: 30 percent is have-you-heard-this-band, 30 percent concerns the deeply technical features of music gear, and the other 40 percent is girls.

The room is full of other band clusters. Guitars in laps, drumsticks out. Two kids are playing around with a theremin, making wacky frequency sounds.

As I weave toward my band, I notice the two girls getting coffees eyeing Caleb. I don’t know them, and I can’t tell if they’re gazing with interest or disdain. Some of both? It occurs to me that there’s an upside to Caleb’s summer meltdown. It makes him seem unpredictable. Passionate. These are good lead-singer qualities, as long as he can exude that without looking like he knows he’s exuding it. Then it’s just posturing and that’s the worst. Luckily, at the moment he’s hunched over his journal, deep into some lyric writing. Perfect.

“Hey,” I say as I reach them.

“Hey,” Caleb grunts. He doesn’t look up. When I don’t get the dark glimmer of his eyes, that three-quarter smile, I have to swallow my disappointment.

I sit down across from him. “Did you complete the operation, private?”

He just shakes his head tersely and suddenly I feel lame for continuing our joke. But maybe he’s just nervous. I would not want to be in the position of trying to apologize to one person I dumped, never mind three. And I’ve learned that Caleb takes almost everything as seriously as it’s possible to take it.

“No sign of them yet, commander,” says Jon. He’s got his black Ibanez in his lap, his fingers dancing in a near blur over the strings, making a tinny flurry of notes. He winks at me. Jon is like Caleb tonic. He keeps everything light. He’s wiry and wearing skinny black jeans and a black T-shirt with an oil-painting image of John Denver and Miss Piggy that I’ve seen down at IronicTee. His teal sneakers match his spiky teal hair. His parents are from Thailand. He was on the waiting list to get into Mount Hope High for two years, after being at the ESL high school over in the Valley, so just being here still seems like a huge thrill.

“Hey, Summer, how’d it go?” Matt is on the other side of Caleb, a tablet in his lap. He’s a cute kid. So young! Freshmen are adorable. But he’s also pretty awesome. Optimistic, and fiery, and a sick drummer, with a real edge when he plays. He’s got dirty-blond hair and easy features, a little boy-band, and for a musician, he dresses kinda skater, with plaid sneakers, a gray hoodie, and purple jeans.

“What are you watching?” I ask him.

“John Bonham drum fills. He rules. Wanna see?”

Matt smiles hopefully. He’s kind of infatuated with me. Obviously he knows I’m with Caleb, but he can’t help it. I don’t mean that to sound cocky, it’s just that he wears it right on his face and it’s cute. I can’t help but smile at him. I already feel like he’s my younger brother.

“Maybe later,” I say, smiling back. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “But at the moment . . .” I fish into my bag. “Success!” I slide my phone over.

“Sweet!” Jon grabs my phone and immediately taps the coconuts. “Awesome.”

“Great work!” Matt holds up his hand for a high five, looking terrified, like he’ll mess it up and lose his chance with me. No worries, little brother, we can high-five.

No response from Caleb.

“Yep, it was no problem,” I say. “I just had to make out with Ari for a few minutes.”

Still nothing . . .

“Let him feel me up . . .”

Stiiill nothing . . .

“Caleb.”

Finally his eyes pop up. “What?” He’s got condition-critical Fret Face, with the bonus knotted brow of doom.

I try not to sound annoyed. “Did you hear me?”

“Summer got us the Trial,” says Jon.

It takes a second for Caleb to react, as if this is the furthest thing from his mind. “Oh, cool.” He looks past me, out into the room.

“Yep, you’re welcome,” I say. “I take it you haven’t talked to Android yet?”

“Here they come,” he mutters.

I turn and see Trevor and Cybil emerging from the practice hall, along with another guy. Trevor is all angles and zits, wearing a plaid hat atop his long, greasy hair. Cybil wears a peach-colored thrift-store dress that labors around her square frame. Her orange hair is pinned back with thick barrettes.

They have joined the short line for espressos when Trevor notices Caleb. He stiffens and says something softly to Cybil, who doesn’t look over.

Caleb stands up. “Hey, guys.” They don’t react until he steps over to them. I join him.

Trevor eyes Caleb. “What.”

“How’s it going?” Caleb asks. He shoves his hands in his pockets. I wish I could reach over and take one, but I don’t think it would help.

“Pretty excellently,” says Trevor. Man, is he still wounded.

“This is Alejandro,” says Cybil, indicating the boy beside them. He’s taller than us all and built like a truck, wearing a tank top, his arms wrapped in spiraling tattoos. “He’s our new singer.”

“Peace,” says Alejandro in a frighteningly deep voice. He could be our age, he could be twenty-five. It’s impossible to tell.