“Sure. Probably lots of people. It’s a nuisance having something like that on your street. I mean, we bought here for a good deal, and we’re all sort of hoping the market will pick up again and we’ll have real neighbors over there.”

  “Are you saying Mr. Barringer isn’t real?” Detective Newman is the serious one. Andy asks the light questions. They work in tandem. Their part is rehearsed too.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” my dad says, leaning back with ease and laughing. He stretches his arm out over the chair with a cavalier attitude. It throws them off guard a little. I don’t think they were expecting this type of interview. That’s exactly why my dad wanted to go this way.

  “Would you say that his son is a real neighbor?” Andy’s eyebrow ticks up. He’s throwing a hook out.

  My dad takes a deep breath and leans forward.

  “Of course he is. Look, he’s a good kid. My daughter and he are…well, they’re serious. And believe me…rock-star’s son? No. No, sir—I did not want that for my daughter. But the boy is respectful and…”

  “Respectful?” Andy’s brow follows the same routine. He thinks he has something. This is exactly where my dad wants him though.

  “Are you suggesting something?” My father’s chin dips and his glare grows stern.

  The two detectives look at one another and laugh a little, Newman leaning forward now to go in for what he thinks is a kill.

  “Mr. Barringer tells us he couldn’t have started this fire because he was here that night…all night. In your daughter’s bedroom, sir.”

  That little accusatory, cocky tone makes my father’s eyes twitch a bit. His lips do the same. It’s so perfect, I almost forget this too is part of his performance. My dad swallows and my mom reaches to touch his knee, as if she’s trying to keep him from losing his shit. She’s already done this for real when we talked about the fact that Jesse slept here in my room with me. This time, it’s just for show.

  “I’m aware. And while I’m not happy about it, I’m glad they were here and not in some car parked in some back alley getting their kicks.” My dad flexes his jaw and gnashes his teeth. He flits his eyes to me and I shrink a little. This is part of the plan, but my shrinking is real. My dad’s glare has some truth to it right now.

  “I found them together…asleep. It was before the fire, and I dragged them out of bed and we had a long…very long talk.”

  “More like a yell,” I mutter.

  My mom holds my knee now and my dad groans. The officers lean back, frustrated, and we continue to bicker about this for their pleasure—or displeasure.

  “You’re damn right I yelled. You are seventeen, and under our roof!”

  “But I love him, Daddy!” I make a pained face and my mom stands up and holds her hands out for both of us.

  “Stop it. Not now. This is not the time for this.” She grits her teeth and her eyes flash to me first then my dad. We all communicate silently. This is going well.

  We settle back into the couch and wait while Newman and Andy try to regroup. This isn’t helping them. Not at all.

  “Why don’t you ask security? They had a guy out there all night, every night, just watching. Or they had cameras, at least when they started to move in the expensive stuff. I’m sure they saw something.” My dad didn’t practice this part with us; my mom and I look to him while he talks, the dimple on my forehead from genuine perplexity.

  “Yeah, we know. The guard didn’t see anything. Nothing on the cameras either.” Andy deflates. He’s giving up the chase here. We’re becoming a dead end.

  Both of the officers stand and close their books. They aren’t done with us yet completely, but they don’t have much to go on. Jesse is protected—not that he did anything wrong. There’s no way for Alton to even make it seem like he did now, though.

  With a cursory shaking of hands with each of us, the detectives make their way to our door. They stop just outside and hand my dad the third copy of their card—they left their first ones on our doorstep two days ago.

  “If you think of anything…” It’s an open-ended question. I doubt anyone ever suddenly remembers something. That’s what makes it so weird that my dad does now.

  “You know…” My dad holds up a finger and gazes off into the distance. “Those gels they use for lights…the colored ones? Like red and yellow, to make people’s skin look younger or whatever…I remember reading once about how flammable they are under the right conditions. Maybe…” My dad pauses to shrug and then stares Andy directly in the eyes. “Maybe one of the crew members left one on. It was Christmas Eve, so, hard to say how long it was like that, and those things can get hot.”

  I hold my breath while Andy studies my father. His pleasant face has turned hard, like a robot scanning his prey in a sci-fi movie where AI takes over and we’re all left for dead.

  “Maybe,” Andy finally says. His glare softens, but not by much. “Maybe,” he repeats.

  “Just a thought,” my dad says. He shakes both of their hands again, and leaves the door open, peering out, while they walk to their car. They sit in it for a while, so he closes our door and goes about the day as if nothing strange just happened at all.

  My mom glances to me and we both shake our heads nervously.

  “I don’t remember seeing security that night. Not anywhere,” I finally say. My dad’s back is to me and he’s moving around the kitchen, pulling out a plate and then the loaf of bread. He’s seriously making a sandwich.

  “They were there,” he says, focused on the two slices he’s taken from the bag. He twists it closed and folds the end under as he leaves the loaf on the counter, then moves to the fridge for mayonnaise and the pack of sandwich meat. He pulls out a hefty chunk, layering one side with ham and turkey before unscrewing the lid on the mayo to paint the other half of bread thick with it. He takes a bite and begins to chew, glancing up at me with a crooked grin.

  “Besides, anyone can be bought.”

  He takes another bite and keeps his eyes on me just long enough.

  I fall back and sit on the stool, but my dad just finishes his sandwich, then cleans up his mess. My mom hasn’t moved from the couch, and when my dad whistles his way through the middle of us to run up the stairs, we meet gazes and open our eyes wide with realization.

  “I’m gonna head in to the store now. It sucks that we had to be closed so much. I bet there are people waiting.” We wait for him to disappear up the stairs before uttering a word.

  “Mom!” My whisper is loud.

  My heart is pounding in my ears. My mom stands and walks the length of the sofa over and over again. She fixes the throw pillows, as if they need it. I whisper at her again and she hushes me, her fingers stretched out before she starts to rub her temples.

  “Let me think,” she says.

  I wait while she works through the details in her head. I know we both came to the same conclusion. I just don’t know why my dad didn’t tell us.

  He set that fire. He just told them exactly how he did it. I’m not sure how much it cost to get someone to leave their security shift, but I would bet that the store is going to run a little short this month—the busiest shipping month of the year. I think back to my father’s arrival on the day of the party. Sodas in his hands, a trip to the store made alone. He had plenty of time to talk to someone…anyone. Maybe he got someone else to leave one of those lamps on and maybe it was that day. Maybe he slipped in and turned it on himself.

  The whistling grows near again and my mom holds her finger to her mouth, spinning to look me in the eyes. She shakes her head, and I follow suit. We will not breathe a word of this.

  Not a word.

  To anyone…ever. We won’t even talk about it together. We won’t, because this is something that never happened.

  I’m good at this.

  “I’ll be home later. You take the day. You guys should go out, do something fun.” My dad kisses my mom on her cheek, then me on the top of my head as he jets out through the back door to his car—nothing out of the ordinary at all. Except, of course, the bomb of information he left with the clues only we could figure out.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  It turns out that Chantel’s Diner is the perfect place to celebrate someone’s birthday. I made Jesse let me blindfold him while I drove his car. He complained the entire way, but his smile gave away how happy he really was, even if I made him a little carsick.

  I’m pretty sure he knew this was where we were before I pulled the blindfold off and everyone yelled “surprise!” but he pretended well. His kiss was genuine. I wonder what his wish was when he blew out the candle on his stack of pancakes?

  The surprise part was Sam’s idea. There aren’t many of us, so it was easy to get a booth in the back. Rag brought Jesse a gift, a new set of pics with our band name emblazoned on them. Josh brought him a pair of sticks, and Logan gave him some book about rock history that he’ll probably never read.

  He has my present now, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

  “It’s a solo cup,” he says, pulling it from the small white gift bag. He turns it around and then looks inside, swirling his finger around. “Kegger?” he finally questions.

  I laugh out and take the cup from him, sliding the bag out of the way.

  “No, silly. It’s something better,” I say, turning the cup upside down and stretching my hands out against the table. Sam’s seen me do this plenty of times, but for the guys, this will be new.

  I test out the sound, rapping the top with my fingertips a few times until I get settled in the rhythm. The poppy sound picks up fast, and when I get it steady, I add in the slide, moving the cup to my left hand along the table and flipping it over. Two taps on the table and then I flip the cup over again to the right. Pop the top, tap the table, slide.

  I glance up to catch Jesse’s smile. I can’t help but grin back. I keep the beat going, several passes until the speed is just right. My voice isn’t great, but singing lightly, I can pull this off. I won an eighth-grade talent show with this very act.

  I decided to sing Imagine Dragons. “It’s Time” is the perfect song for this beat, and it’s the one I’m most comfortable with vocally. My voice is soft at the start, but when I hit the chorus, I have the coordination down, my hands independent of the words I have to say. I stutter when Jesse joins in, sliding the cup away from me and taking over the beat with perfection.

  The money I would pay to see this smile on his face permanently.

  I reach for Sam’s hand under the table and squeeze it to thank her for this spectacular idea, and I join in with Jesse, singing the lower harmony, which I’m more suited for anyhow. We’re an odd pairing, singing the opposite parts of what boy-girl duos usually sing. It makes it more special, and as the song stretches on, we get louder. I catch Jesse’s gaze and nod that I’m ready, and he slides the cup back at the perfect moment. I take it over, and he sings more. The guys have moved close, and they’re tapping on the tabletop in unison with me, Logan adding his weight to the vocals when the chorus comes again.

  We’re all smiling through the words, such a positive message about time, and how this time is ours. I start to nod as the end approaches, and I get everyone on the count with me, and when we sing the last note, I close the cup with my palm over the top for a hollowed pop.

  The cheering is unexpected.

  I jump in my seat and am shocked when I see the restaurant staff gathered behind us. When I turn and look at the patrons sitting on the backs of booths and standing on chairs behind the boys, I realize just how big our little show became. Someone whistles, and I wonder for a brief second if the mayor is in the house again.

  “Oh my God,” I say, cupping my cheeks and feeling the red from the attention. My smile hurts in a good way.

  “That was so good,” Sam says, sliding close to me and hugging me with one arm.

  “That was seriously the coolest shit ever. We have to do that. Have. To!” This is the most excited I think I have ever seen Logan. He takes the cup from me and tries to repeat the sound. Jesse shows him how it works, slowly, until Logan has it mastered. People all around us are trying to do the same, and others are hanging around hoping we’ll sing something else. I try to think of some of my other favorites when a woman about my mom’s age steps closer to our table and slides a card down in front of me.

  Her palms land on the table and she leans into it, her dark hair falling over her shoulders and her deep-red lips smiling. She’s wearing expensive makeup.

  “Do you guys do this often?” she asks.

  I giggle nervously and look to Jesse who does the same.

  “We’re a band,” Logan answers for us.

  I pull her card closer to read it—ETI ENTERTAINMENT. My eyes give away my shock, and Jesse tugs the card toward him. They’re behind some of the biggest hit talent shows on television, including the biggest of the big. On major network television. Around the world.

  “You guys should audition…with that,” she says, pointing her finger at the cup. Logan pats out a short rhythm, still not fully aware of what just happened.

  “Call me,” the woman says.

  I don’t even know her name yet. All I took in was the company. That was enough. She walks confidently out the door, and Jesse passes her card down the line and leans into me.

  “Holy shit!” He kisses me with puckered and stunned lips and we hold our mouths together long enough to feel the electricity.

  “The cup was my idea,” Sam says, inserting herself.

  I laugh and Jesse leans over me and kisses my friend. Her eyes nearly pop out of her head, and I laugh hard because it was the kind of kiss Bugs Bunny gives Elmer Fudd. Big, wet, and with a slurp at the end.

  “Jesse…not in front of your girlfriend.” My friend points to me, pretending to hide her hand behind her palm and mouthing the last word.

  I pull the card back to read it more closely. CAREN KRAMER.

  Her title may as well be miracle or dream maker. But Executive Producer will do too, I suppose.

  “What are we going to play?” Logan says. Rag takes the cup from him and moves it around a little, pounding out a few things. He lifts his head and looks right into my eyes.

  “I have an idea, but Ari’s gonna need to figure out how we do it.”

  I think I know where he’s going, and I think, maybe, we might just win.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I didn’t realize how long shows like Battle of the Bands USA took, but it turns out that it’s months. We soared through auditions, making it onto the live shows hosted in L.A. I’ve been living with three boys in a really tight apartment since March, and I had to finish my classes online.

  Eighteen is a lot harder than I imagined it would be when I fantasized about moving out on my own—maybe talking Sam into being my roommate or following her to college. I figured I’d be lucky enough to live at home and go to community college. So far, this is better than a scholarship. Music is all I want to do. It’s all Jesse wants. Logan and Rag want to stay on this ride for as long as they can, even if they have backup plans.

  Me? I’ve got nothing. Jesse doesn’t either. We have this—this shot to show people that we’re special.

  I expected a little more angst from my dad when I told him I’d need to move down here…and live with three guys. I think he’s better with three than he would have been with just the one. Not that Jesse and I aren’t alone in our room by ourselves all the time anyhow. Logan and Rag stay in the other room, and Sam, who basically showed up in lingerie on her eighteenth birthday and waited for hours in Rag’s bed, visits a lot, which means Logan…he gets the couch…a lot.

  The show pays for our set up, until next month. We better win, because without a sure thing and some steady income, Jesse and I are going to have to move back home. I’ve gotten used to waking up in his arms every morning and feeling his touch at night.

  I’ve also gotten used to the attention that rears its ugly head from time to time when Alton decides to come up from the sewers and spout off lies to the media. When we landed a spot as a finalist on the show, I knew he would try to tear Jesse down. This road has nothing to do with him, though. My dad was very clear in the language he made them add to our contracts, too, specifically calling Alton and his LLC out.

  Jesse’s dad—who we now just call the sperm donor—filed a suit. It won’t go anywhere, and he can’t even pay for legal representation to do anything with it. It’s karma at its finest.

  My dad solved the case of the fire, too. It seems things happened just as he said they probably did. We never talked about it as a family, but my dad got a copy of the report. Newman and Andy brought it by, and I think maybe they know deep down how that light really got left on. They’ll always be fishing. My dad can be a shark, though, or so I’ve learned.

  My nerves are starting to hammer at my insides the closer we get to showtime. We purposely saved our Imagine Dragons cover for this moment, hoping that it would come. Other than the early auditions, most of the world knows us as just a regular band with a really cute lead singer and a chick on drums.

  That’s how the chatter on Twitter refers to us. I’ve even seen some unofficial merch out there for Beautiful Wreckage. We’re going to have to really sell this, but I think we can. Rag and I perfected it in the weeks after the diner moment, and I talked him into holding it back just in case. We’ll never be able to top this if we do it right. And I had to call in some friends.

  Josh has grown a beard. It’s strange to see, because his face always seemed so young. He’s the lead drummer now for the line, though—a senior. When I called him, he got the rest of the crew ready and they practiced on their own until we were able to get together this past week in the apartment.

  The place where we live is mostly for performers. It’s a building owned by the studio, and people trying out for pilots or auditioning or landing roles stay there. It’s a good thing, because for the past two nights, I’m pretty sure the sound coming from our unit was annoying as shit. It was definitely constant.