“The graduation. From your class,” I told him. “Mom’s been talking about it for ages.”

“You’re coming?” He sounded surprised.

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” A pause. “You don’t need to.”

“It’s okay. Mom said you’d filled out a form for me,” I told him.

“I did. But that was just for . . .” He trailed off. “It’s really not a big deal. I doubt anyone else’s family is coming.”

“Mom’s planning this whole thing, though.”

“She is?”

“Yeah.” I could hear my mom putting her keys in the door. “I’m, um . . . It’ll be good to see you. Finally.”

Silence, but a different sort. The kind that means not only that no one’s talking, but that something very specific is not being said. My mom came in carrying two bags of groceries, her purse over her shoulder. “Sydney. You’re home already.”

“Is that Mom?” Peyton asked.

“Yeah.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Sure.” I walked over to where she was beginning to unload her bags. “Mom. It’s Peyton.”

“Oh!” She turned, smiling, and took the phone from me. “Hey, honey. What a nice surprise. How are you?”

I went back over to the kitchen table, where I picked up the plate, now empty, I’d used for the slice I’d brought home with me from Seaside. I’d only stopped in, as Layla was with Spence and Mac was at band practice. My after-school piece of pizza had become enough of a habit, however, that I found I couldn’t miss it, even when I was missing them.

“Well, I told you. I heard about it from Michelle.” My mom reached up to put a can of soup in the cabinet in front of her. “The family liaison I’ve been meeting with, who’s helping me communicate better with the administration at Lincoln.”

I was putting my plate in the dishwasher. Something in her voice, suddenly defensive, made me shut it slowly, quietly.

“Yes, I did, Peyton. Several times, in fact.” She took out another can, but this one she just held. “No, I do remember that discussion. But you said you would be ready, eventually, which is why you did the form. And I thought this would be a great opportunity—”

Distantly, I could hear my brother talking. A lot.

“I’m fully aware of that,” she said after a moment, so abruptly it was obvious she was having to interrupt. Then, “Because I don’t agree that it means we should abandon you, or not acknowledge your accomplishments. And—”

I picked up my backpack, pretty sure it was time to make my exit.

“Well, that’s not what Michelle thinks. And it’s not what I believe, either.” She put the can down on the counter with a thunk. “Well, I hope that you do. I think that if you really take the time to look at it—”

Another interruption from Peyton, louder this time.

“I think maybe we should table this for now. You’re clearly upset, and—” I watched as she reached up, putting a hand to her face. “Okay. Yes. Fine. Talk to you later.”

The phone beeped off, and I heard her exhale. Not sure what to do, I turned to the window, slipping my backpack over my shoulders, then looked out at the street. A beat passed. Another. Then she left the room, her footsteps padding upstairs.

For all I knew, this was how many of their exchanges ended, as I usually made myself scarce when they talked. But it had been a while since I’d heard my mom upset, and I wondered if I should go to her. I didn’t have the right words or even know what those might be. So instead, I put away the rest of the groceries. That way, when she came back down, at least one thing would be just how she wanted it.

* * *

“Listen up,” Eric announced. “I have big news.”

I was the only one who looked at him. Eric was a fan of both announcements and pronouncements: never just information, always an exclusive. Everyone else had been around long enough to know not to fall for his conversational hype.

“Is this about the señorita?” Irv asked.

Eric looked at him. “Who?”

Mac, on the bench eating a Kwacker and doing his history homework, swallowed. “The girl from your Spanish group? The one you’re sure is obsessed with you?”

“Oh, no.” Eric flipped his hand: señorita, forgotten. “Bigger. This is about the band.”

Now, at least, he had Mac’s attention, if not everyone else’s. “The band?”

Eric, smiling, slid onto the end of the bench where I was sitting. “Well, it’s kind of about Layla. But also the band.”

“Huh?” Layla asked from my other side. As always, she had her phone in her hand, determined not to miss a possible midday texting opportunity with Spence. Cell phones were banned on the W. Hunt campus, and yet more days than not at this time he still managed to contact her. “What about me?”

Now that Eric had the floor, he was determined to keep it as long as possible. So we all had to watch as he pulled a paper flyer from his pocket, then unfolded it slowly before holding it up. “We’re going to enter this. And you’re going to help us.”

LOCAL YOKELS: A SHOWCASE, it said in large black type. FIVE BANDS, ONE PRIZE. ACCEPTING ACTS NOW. BENDOVENUE .COM/LOCALS FOR DETAILS.

“That’s the big news?” Mac asked. “We’ve done showcases before.”