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I never had a doubt that Zack Ryan would accomplish whatever he set out to do with his life.

And, as far as his dream of being a rock star, we all knew he was going to take us places if we followed.

I continued to marvel at how stupid Parker had been to not see it.

Zack had something about him that screamed success.

That had nothing to do with why I was falling more and more deeply in love with him by the day—but it didn’t hurt.

By the time we had our show in Rocky Ford, Zack had written no fewer than three new songs—ones he felt confident playing in public—and I know he was disappointed that we weren’t able to learn them by showtime.

One of them was about sex, which would have made me curious and excited had I not suspected he was telling the tale from firsthand experience.

Another was about music and the last was about performing in front of an excited crowd.

Unfortunately, the bar we played in the second time didn’t really seem to appreciate our style. Besides, we hadn’t coordinated our look like I wanted to .

But Zack was unfazed by that point. He had an unwavering faith in what he was doing, and no one could put out that fire.

He got a part-time job washing dishes for a dive in downtown Dalton, a place where a lot of the local MC guys hung out, and my mom and I had only ever eaten there once.

Zack’s job curtailed our practices, but we were still able to meet two days a week, and Zack promised he’d get us more gigs in the summer.

But he wanted money for t-shirts with our logo—and lots more. He wanted a mixing program and better amps and clothes.

And he was saving up to get a tattoo for his eighteenth birthday in January.

One Monday night over Christmas break, we were practicing the three new songs—along with a brand-new one that I hadn’t figured out the lyrics to yet—and Zack announced that he was going to drop out of school.

“Dude, we all should. That way we could practice whenever we felt like it.”

“I need time to write, too. This job and school are sucking me dry. And there’s no reason for me to finish.

It’s not like that stupid piece of paper they hand me will do shit for me anyway.

” Zack took a long pull on the beer he was drinking and then hid the bottle behind an amp so his mom wouldn’t see it if she came in the room since it was her night off. “My life’s gonna be doing this.”

Then, as if my thought had manifested his mother, she appeared in the doorway, waiting for Zack to look at her. When he did, she said, “What was that you said?”

Zack had a sheepish look on his face, but I wasn’t sure why. “I said, ‘My life’s gonna be doing music’.”

“No. Before that.”

“What? About dropping out?” She nodded, but I couldn’t read her expression. Her hair was dark like Zack’s, only she had just a little gray at the temples. It was pulled back into a severe bun, making her look older than I figured she was. Zack said, “So what?”

“What do you mean so what ? We’ve talked about this, Zack. Education’s important.”

“I’m educated, mom. I’m not gonna learn a whole lot more in just a few months of school.”

“You’ll learn enough—and you’re gonna stay in school, or I’ll beat the hell out of you.”

I might have been shocked, but Zack’s face told me her words were just talk. There would be no beating. “I’m almost eighteen, mom. Then I’ll be an adult and you can’t tell me what to do.”

“Yeah, and I can also change the locks on my own goddamned house. Think about that .” He didn’t respond, instead tightening one of the strings on his guitar.

“And that goes for the rest of you, too. I know you’re all cocksure that you’re gonna make it big, but there are thousands of people out there who feel the same way.

And they’re like Zack here, washing dishes just so they can play a show for a few bucks every night.

Go ahead and dream, kids, but don’t be stupid.

You have a better chance of being a full-time dishwasher for the rest of your life than you do getting played on the radio.

And I don’t know about you, but I’d rather get paid better and do something else.

You need to finish school. That’s your back-up plan. ”

“That’s the quitter’s plan.”

Zack’s mom grabbed one of his ears—and a chunk of hair with it—between her fingers and pinched. “Enough sass. You’re finishing school. I can’t make the rest of these kids do it, but I sure as hell can make sure you do.”

“Dammit, mom. Stop that.” Zack swatted away her hand .

“Stop talking nonsense. I love you and want better for you than what I have.”

“You have got a good job.”

Letting out a sigh and turning to leave, she muttered, “The money’s good.”

Once she was out of the room, Zack made a pained face and shook his head. “Let’s practice.”

Something I witnessed that night that Zack explained to me later was how his music was like a pill. If he felt like shit, he played his guitar. If he was depressed, pissed, furious, feeling down, the music brought him back up. No antidepressant could replace what the music did for him.

That day, it was like a transformation. Zack had been frowning, his brows furrowed, jaw tight, but after playing through the first verse of his newest song, he smiled and nodded at us three bandmates.

Music was the cure to all his ills...even when Zack Ryan didn’t remember it.

Even Cy was growing to tolerate being around us more often.

Sometime before Thanksgiving, he’d started joining us during our school lunch breaks, because we talked band stuff the whole time.

The second week in December, about a week before Christmas break, Zack had teased us earlier in the day that he had a huge announcement planned for lunchtime.

Although I felt tortured having to wait, I knew Zack wouldn’t disappoint us with whatever news he had—and I realized much later that Zack knew innately how to promote and market, and teasing was a great way to build interest.

He had much practice with me and his other two bandmates.

While standing in the lunch line, he still refused to tell us his news, obviously planning to draw it out as long as he could. When we finally sat down at a table, Braden and I were ready to throttle him. Cy, as usual, seemed the calmest of us all. “Enough, Zack. What’s the news?” I asked.

Grinning, he opened a mustard packet and spread it on the hamburger patty. “I,” he said, pausing to draw it out. “Got us…”

Although Cy only raised an eyebrow, Braden said, “Spit it out, dude!”

“A gig…” He stirred the blob of ketchup on his plate with a fry before finally putting us out of our misery. “In. Denver .” With that, he popped the fry in his mouth.

Braden and Cy were vocally cheering but my jaw was wide open. Braden asked, “Dude, is this gonna be a paid gig?”

“Yeah, of course. No more freebies. We might not have a following yet, but we’re good enough to demand money now.” Placing an index finger under my chin, Zack pushed up to close my mouth. “What? You in shock, Dani?”

“I guess. A little. I’m just wondering how we’re gonna get there.”

“Just like the last two shows.”

“But Denver’s more than a few miles away, so are we gonna spend all the money we earn on gas?”

“Don’t be negative. This is a good thing.” Shit. Until he’d called me on it, I hadn’t realized how much I’d sounded like my mom. “Plus, don’t you want to try out our new look on a huge audience?”

Cy asked, “How big?”

“A few hundred, but I don’t know exactly how many yet.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.” Zack dunked another fry in the puddle of ketchup. “You think you guys can be ready to play all our new stuff for a few hundred people?”

I knew I would be. Drums were becoming second nature to me, and once Zack explained what he wanted for a particular song, it was simple enough—after practicing it a few times, I’d have it.

I was convinced I’d be a horrible drummer for any other band and I felt like my lack of training was a dirty little secret, but I’d made it my mission to be so good that no one would ever know.

But that was just my part.

Braden said, “Yeah, if we practice enough.”

“Son, you’re gonna have to practice on your own. I’m working now.”

Braden rolled his eyes but nodded. “Yeah, boss. Got it.”

“Cy?”

“You’re crazy, Zack. A lot of that stuff’s too complex for me to get it right away—practicing five hours a day or not. I don’t learn music that way. I have to absorb it, let it settle in—and that takes time. I can’t just magically beat it into my head.”

I could see the disappointment in Zack’s eyes, but he didn’t explode. “What about…what if you just played rhythm? And then we could split the solos if you felt like you could learn those in time.”

While Cy might have been a closed book, I could tell he wasn’t thrilled with that solution. His ego was grappling with the suggestion. “How about I play rhythm on some songs but I tackle lead on some of the other ones? Maybe split it all down the middle?”

Zack stuck out a hand. “Deal.” My friend, while he wanted to be a guitar god, had a humility about him that would rival people twice his age.

That’s not to say that he wasn’t proud of his skill or creativity, but he also seemed to understand he couldn’t do it alone.

Like he’d told me ages ago, a drum machine couldn’t beat a live person banging on the drums. “I’ll be able to concentrate more on my singing for the parts where I’m playing rhythm. ”

Cy nodded, a smile on his face, as he picked up his own burger. Zack’s had looked like a slider in his large hands but Cy’s looked normal. I was still staring at Zack’s hands thinking that when he said, “We good, Dani?”

Pursing my lips into a smile, I hoped my cheeks wouldn’t turn red, mainly because I’d been dreaming of Zack’s big hands running up my back or stroking my cheek.

“Yep. Good!”

“All right. So let’s figure out the set list.”