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seem to have held. He’s holding his guitar up above his chest.
    He stares blankly at the sky, blinks, then finally takes a big breath. He examines the guitar. “Okay, it’s fine.”
    “What about you?” I ask.
    Caleb sits up, taking in his surroundings. “I suppose it would be a pretty lame cliché to say that this fits my current situation.”
    A little laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Yeah, please don’t.”
    He unplugs the cable and holds out the guitar. “Can you take this?” For a moment, his eyes lock on mine. Dark brown, like murder-mystery dark, especially in the shadow of his shaggy hair. Soft features that just seem to get out of the way of those eyes . . . oh, boy.
    I take the guitar carefully. “Got it.”
    Caleb pulls himself out and brushes off. “How do I look?”
    “Less like you just Dumpster dived than you could have.”
    “I didn’t think anyone would hear me out here,” he says, coiling the guitar cable as we walk back around.
    “I almost didn’t,” I say. “Why weren’t you up at the concert?”
    “Long story.” He turns off the amp, unplugs it from the extension cord, and stuffs the amp’s power cord into the back.
    “You mean the long story of how you blew up your old band and now you’re Least Likely to Get a Hug from a PopArts Kid?”
    Caleb looks up at me. “Word gets around, huh?”
    “That’s the point of words. They get around.” I hope that sounds witty. Then I worry it sounds dumb. But then I hate that I’m worried or trying to sound witty just because I’m around some band boy. Okay, a hot, dreamy, great-singing, possibly-with-a-deep-dark-side band boy. But still.
    Caleb lifts the amp and starts toward the door. It seems like he might just walk off, but then he pauses for me to catch up. “So why aren’t you at the concert?” he asks.
    I smile. “Long story.”
    We head inside. He bends, straining to grab the extension cord around the bulk of the amp, but I step in front of him and start looping it around my palm and elbow as we go.
    “Very professional,” he says.
    “Thanks.”
    “So, long story like the band you totally broke to the world dumped you and now you can’t stand being around bands?”
    “There go the words,” I say. “Getting around. But, actually, I came looking for you.”
    “It’s Summer, right? We were in chem lecture last year. I’m Caleb.”
    “I know. And yeah, I think we were.”
    “No, we definitely were. And in Spanish class sophomore year. You sat in front.”
    This is impressive and maybe has me a bit with the fluttery nerves. “ Si, senor . Aren’t you going to ask why I came looking for you?”
    We arrive back in the Green Room. Caleb slides the practice amp into a closet and locks it. “No,” he says, moving to the case racks on the far wall. “I don’t want to spoil it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Caleb pulls out his case, kneels and lays his guitar on the bed of burgundy fur inside. “Because you’ll say that you’re wondering if I’m going to put a new band together, because the ones you just saw up there weren’t good enough. . . .”
    “Which is just past confident and maybe slightly cocky of you to think.”
    Caleb shakes his head. “Just being honest. I used to care what sounded confident or cocky . . .”
    “But now?”
    “But now I’ll just tell you that I’m not going to put a band together. No one would have me anyway.”
    “Well, that might be true, but . . . why not? I heard youout there just now. It was good. Though I guess you know that.”
    “Really?” Suddenly he sounds like my opinion matters. “No, I mean, sure I can sing and play and stuff, but that song just now, I was out there because I didn’t want anyone to hear it.”
    “Why not?”
    “Same reason I’m not forming a band.”
    The bell rings. End of lunch. Time for sixth period, which for me is calc.
    Caleb stashes his guitar. We start out the door just as the first PopArts kids are pushing in and they