Kellan gets there about twenty minutes late. He’s wearing a blue beanie that Riley bought him for Christmas. I guess he didn’t like his hair. I push my way over to him and sit down, smiling.

“Hey. You okay?” I ask. He looks at me, eyes a little sullen. Maybe something happened. My sister senses start tingling, as they often do when one of my siblings looks slightly less cheerful than usual.

He sits beside me, and I put my hand on his knee. Then he begins to speak. “I couldn’t do it.”

Couldn’t do what? Take off the hat? Profess his undying love to Nina Mariani? Eat a pickle sandwich that Dash and Jaxon dared him to try?

“I couldn’t ask Nina. I just… didn’t feel like it was the right time.”

“So this isn’t about your hair, then?”
“No, not about my hair.” he pauses a moment.

“But now that we’re on the subject…” he slowly lifts the beanie off.

“What. Did. You. Do.”

Well, here we are again. Did you miss me? Freshman year had bad haircuts, Jack Kelly, Nina Mariani, and a fight with my sister that still hasn’t quite settled. But sophomore year? Sophomore year’s going to be different. Because I’m alone.

Not alone alone. I have Jaxon. I have Nina. But I don’t have the one person that’s always been there. All because I chose to carry a grudge for a little bit too long. Now I’m stuck pretending I hate the best person I’ve ever known.

My sister.

I’m not trying to be poetic about it. I just didn’t expect the quiet to be so loud.

Delaney and I used to joke that we were born stage left and stage right—always entering scenes from different angles but somehow ending up in the same spotlight. Now the stage is just… mine. And I don’t even know if I want it.

I duck into the auditorium after lunch, claiming “preaudition prep,” which is mostly code for “hiding.”

It still smells like sawdust and burnt gels, the way it did when I accidentally found my way to the starring role in Newsies last year. There’s something comforting about the echo of my own footsteps and the dim haze of work lights overhead. No pressure. No audience. Just the empty stage and me.

On the first day of junior year, I hit Harrison Fields.

Right in the stomach.

And he deserved it, too.

He was running his mouth about how my brother’s girlfriend was “ugly” and “skinnier than last year.” Like—yeah, genius, Nina is skinnier than last year, because she literally almost died. Dumbass.

Which, honestly, feels like adding insult to injury.

Because if there’s anyone who deserves detention, it’s Harrison. Not me. But here we are.

And the cherry on top? I can’t even call my girlfriend afterwards to complain about it. Because I don’t have a girlfriend. Not anymore.

Skylar dumped me. For a college girl.

And yes, I know Skylar’s technically also a college girl now, what with her “I’m moving on to bigger, better things” and “high school drama is beneath me” routine. But that doesn’t make it feel any less terrible.

Cressida Voss is crying in my basement.

Her little brother is bouncing around the room while we wait for the woman who will become his hero—Shari Ennis. Finn and Soren? Square-dancing. In the middle of my carpet. With zero music. Finn keeps hollering “do-si-do your partner” while Soren twirls like he’s auditioning for Oklahoma!

Kellan, meanwhile, is actually horrified.

“This isn’t funny!” he hisses, wringing his hands like a suburban dad who just watched a car back into his mailbox. “Egg is supposed to be a nickname, not a bloodline!”

Zoey is beaming, though. She’s perched on the arm of the couch, her pink hair shining like a neon sign, and our Yorkie is wagging at her feet like it knows something I don’t.

And her eyes?
Fixed on Theo Voss.

Theo, who’s bouncing around in my Sharpay-themed beanbag like he just drank five Red Bulls. Theo, who keeps chanting, “Egg! Egg! Egg!” along with Jaxon and Sloane. Theo, who just told Kellan he wants to shave his head and “transcend his braids.”

Reader, I think my little sister likes him.
Theodore Voss.
The boy who looks like Laura Ingalls.

We will step into the auditorium. There will be the paper sign-up sheets with those tear-off lines that make your name look like it’s standing in a chorus. I will write ZOEY PETERMAN in my neatest drama-kid printing, not too big, not too small. Lucia will check the box that says Crew (ASM) like she’s signing a treaty. Theo will hover, thumb tapping his thigh to a rhythm only he can hear, and then choose Lights or Percussion or maybe both, because he contains multitudes. Someone will inevitably whisper, “Peterman.” I will drop a quarter in an imaginary jar and keep writing.

Brooks will appear out of nowhere (she has teleportation; it’s canon) and say, “No discounts for dynasties.” Then, because she is secretly mushy, she’ll glance at my purple hair and add, “Bold choice.” I will nod like I meant to be brave on purpose.

After school, we’ll go to Riley and Maddie’s. We’ll eat pancakes for dinner and watch something we’ve already memorized. Theo will press the voice chip in Sir Eggward and it will play the soft recording he hid there months ago: “Partners, always.” I will pretend that doesn’t make my heart do jazz squares.

Theo

Hi, reader.
I’m Theodosius “Theo” Voss.
I’m sixteen.
I play the drums (and I’m learning guitar).
And I am not an egg.

I feel like that’s an important thesis statement. Hi. I’m Theo Voss. Sixteen. Drummer. Only son of two artists who cry at sunlight and own more houseplants than chairs. I used to have braids so long my sister Cressida could turn them into rope for a school project. Then I cut them off in a basement full of theatre kids and a legend named Shari, and a camera caught me smiling like I’d just met myself for the first time.

People called me Egg 2.0 after that. Cute. Historic. A little culty.

I liked some of it—the feeling of being brave on purpose. I didn’t love the part where my head became community property. So, sophomore year, here’s who I am: I’m Theo. I drum on tabletops, thighs, steering wheels, and once, accidentally, a teacher’s stapler (sorry, Mr. Larkin). I make playlists like love letters and I actually label them things like “walk-in music” and “safe landing.” I tap my thumb in 5/4 when I’m anxious and 4-on-the-floor when I’m fine. I am very in love with Zoey Peterman, who currently has red hair that could set off a fire alarm and a laugh that already has.

Zoey

The rumors are true. The fall musical is The Music Man.

And I think I might be able to convince Theo to audition.

You know, ‘cause drums.

Brielle and Ben practically parkour to the sign-up board. She’s already practicing a Zaneeta squeal; he’s pretending not to be practicing a Harold Hill grin. I do not move. Not yet. I am waiting for someone.

“Sorry I’m late.”

I smile.

“I have a question,” I announce. Theo’s eyebrows raise. The cobalt streak at his temple catches the hallway light like a secret.

“Will you audition?” I ask, plain and loud enough that the nearest sophomores flinch. “With me. For this.”

He looks at the poster like it might answer for him: a brass cornet, bold fonts, a whole small town about to be scammed into band class. “I thought…pit? Percussion? Safer.”

“Counter-offer,” I say, stepping closer. “Tommy Djilas. Teen heartthrob. Maybe a drum cameo in ‘Seventy-Six Trombones.’ Suspenders. Chaotic good. Also… I want you where I can see you.”

His mouth does that tiny not-smile he thinks I don’t notice. “You want me in suspenders.”

“I want you in a plotline,” I say. “And, fine, yes, in suspenders. Do not judge me.”

I catch myself staring at the painting again. Me, at thirteen, deciding to jump before I knew if I was ready to fall.

I think about him. The little boy with the freckles and the braids and the best friend that is Zoey Peterman.

I think of eight. The day we met.

I think of the drawing she made of us that day.

It was after lunch, art period. The room smelled like glue sticks and those fat crayons that lie to you about being skin-colored. The assignment was “draw your favorite place.”

I drew the creek behind our old apartment. Badly. Too many lines pretending to be water. A tree that looked like a fork.

Zoey sat across from me with her tongue between her teeth like a scientist. She kept glancing up, not sneaky at all, and then she started over on a fresh page. When the bell rang, she slid it to me without looking. Two stick figures on the blacktop, chalk halos under our feet. One had braids. One had a barrette drawn like a comet. Above our heads she’d written, in bubble letters too big for the paper: PARTNERS.

Zoey

Wednesday morning. 7:38.

Theo pulls up.

I am seventeen. I could theoretically get a driver’s license. I do not.

“Third day. How’s the bee today?” I ask.

He taps twice on the steering wheel.

“Busy,” he says. “Friendly.”

I show him my wrist.
be.

He flashes his.
bee.

“Permission to pet?” I ask.

“Granted,” he says, already smiling. I do the one-second sweep. Velvet thunder. My favorite meteorology. We pull out. Windows cracked. The world smells like pencils and someone else’s cologne.

“Set at Marco’s was good.” I declare.

“Leo produced a handclap,” he says. “Lucia paid him in muffins.”

“Union man,” I say, proud the way you get proud of people you’ve helped grow even a millimeter.

He queues the morning track. “Be(e)” demo. Piper’s guitar like honey. Austin being floor. Theo being heartbeat.

We listen to ourselves being real. “Common App essay title?” he asks.

“‘How to Build a Person Out of Pancakes and Stage Light,’” I say.

He snorts. “Accepted.”

Theo

From the doorway, a wave. Mr. Larkin. And next to him—Henry. Small. Pale. Eyes bright like he’s trying to memorize everything before someone says time.

Jamison spots him, softens. “You must be the Larkin I keep hearing about.”

Henry lifts a hand. “Hi. I like cues and… this.” He gestures to the room like he’s sorry he can’t say all the parts of it out loud yet.

After the meeting, I beeline. “Hey, I’m Theo. We met last week. If you remember.”

“Henry,” he says, shaking my hand with both of his like the world might slip. “I made the—uh—list.” He glances at his dad and corrects himself, braver. “The transplant list.”

There is a silence I know better than drums. It’s the kind that asks you not to look away.

“Okay,” I say. “We count with you.”

He blinks. “Like… in fours?”

“In every way.”

He smiles like that answer fits. “I heard you at the rec center. The plant song.”

“Yeah. Houseplant,” I say, and try not to apologize for the metaphor.

“It made my dad cry,” he says, and then he rushes to add, “In a good way. Not like when my mom died.”

I put a rhythm on the metal chair with my knuckles, soft as you can. He taps back, a little off, then less off. His dad watches like he’s watching sunlight learn the floor.

Zoey

I’m at the door by 7:38 out of habit.
But Theo isn’t here.

He’s still inside his dorm room, asleep.
His first class doesn’t start until 10:30.

So I sit.
I text Piper, who should be getting to Westwood right about now.

Me: hi
Piper: habit?
Me: of course
Piper: miss your voice
Me: miss yours too

I open my notebook and start penning down some lyrics I’ve been seeing in my mind’s eye.

A braid of a chorus.
Not the whole thing—just a loop:

arrive, don’t announce it
be gentle with the door
i’ll meet you where your breath lands
we’ve been here before

Ben rounds the corner like a friendly stagehand, keys soft, coffee louder. He clocks me, the 7:38 posture, the notebook.

“Peterman,” he says, voice still waking up. “Hydration patrol. Breakfast opens at eight. Vending machines are cowards before then.”

“Copy,” I whisper. “I brought my own chaos.”

He nods at the yarn in my pocket like it’s a hall pass. He tucks a neon sticky under our whiteboards: Try. Then, lighter: “If you need a walk pretending to be a mission, I’m doing one to the lobby at 7: fifty.”

“I’m journaling a riot,” I say.

“Legal,” he says, and keeps moving. Keys and calm.

Theo

Last night was our first fight.
Ever.

The only other time Zoey Peterman and fight have ever landed in the same sentence out of my mouth was in the fifth grade.

Some kid called me “Dorotheo”, and she punched him in the arm.
Hard.

It was kind of funny.
But back then, it felt like that kid punched me in the heart.

But today we are better.
Honest.
Capable.

And I am sitting in my room.
I peek over at the other bed.

Nobody.

I am in a single.
Well, a double.
By myself.

Zoey has a roommate.
Her name is Abby something.

I’m alone.

The only other person I can think of who is probably alone right now is Kellan.

So I call him.
I text first so it’s not a surprise.

Me: alone together?
Kellan: always, baby les

It has been eight years since Kellan and I did Newsies together and he still calls me Baby Les.
I still call him Jack.
Even though I’ve been Jack now, too.

Phone rings.

“Seize the—no, recon the day,” he answers. I can hear a dishwasher and a podcast about baseball in the background. Kellan-sounds.

“How’s the first Saturday?” he asks.
“Echo-y,” I say. “Zoey’s with a roommate. I’m with a second pillow.”

Back at home key, Zoey and I have a quick dinner of pancakes and french fries.

She goes into the bathroom with her headphones on when the clock strikes eight.
“I’ll just be in here, listening to my stories.” she says.
She means her true crime podcasts.
She is very cute.

“Fabulous” rings on my phone.
Finn paid me twenty bucks to set it that way.

I answer.
They are sitting on a blue couch in their Denver apartment.
Behind them is a pride flag and a giant poster of Ashley Tisdale.
Sharpay is still queen.

“Your favorite guncles are here. Tell us everything.” says Finn.
Soren’s glasses fall off.
Of course.

Finn wiggles his eyebrows; Soren’s glasses slide south like a retreating glacier.
Tools.
Ask / Want / Why.
Ask: debrief the roots file, schedule your witness slots, no crying unless your couch consents.
Want: ten minutes each, describe-not-review, snacks, stop = win.
Why: Forever Day wants the weather, not the legend.

“Green,” Finn says, already dabbing at nothing with a tissue he produced from a sleeve like a magician. “But also—tell us everything.”

“Everything, but short,” Soren clarifies, shoving his glasses back up, missing the first try, succeeding on the second. “And then we poetry-punch your vows punctuation later. Lucia is good, but I am feral for commas.”

I give them the trimmed cut: lamp, remote, mute-first, low-second, bee key labeled roots. Zoey’s two shots: hands, blink, brave. Shari’s lines taped to cork.

Finn clutches his chest. “Church.”
Soren points at the Ashley Tisdale poster behind them like testimony. “And the patron saint of precision approves.”

Sunday afternoons are usually quiet here. I meditate. Reid draws. Cressida does homework. Theo hangs out with Zoey.

Today is different. Last night Theo grew up. This afternoon we make soup.
Onions first. Butter, then carrots, then the good broth. The house smells like yellow.

He stands at the counter, freckles still present, braids gone now. He is taller in the face.
“Janelle?” he asks.
“Yes, bright child?”
“Do you still like me?”

Gut punch. I put the wooden spoon down so it won’t answer for me.
“Ask / Want / Why?” I say, because rooms behave when we give them rails.
He nods. “Ask: words. Want: the kind that stick. Why: my head is different and I don’t want to be.”

I touch his shoulder with the back of my hand—consent style. “Green?”
“Green.”

“I like you,” I say, steady. “I love you. I liked you with braids. I like you with buzz. Chosen is my favorite length.”

He breathes. In for four. Hold for two. Out for six. The pot does its own version.

“I was scared you liked the picture,” he says, small. “Not me.”
“I liked the boy who chose,” I say. “Before and after. Pictures are loud. You are you.”

He looks at the soup like it might agree.

“We have a treaty,” I remind him, flipping the painter’s tape card stuck to the cupboard: Ask/Want/Why before touch or talk. Stop = win. No hair as goodness metric.

“Stop = win,” he echoes, and some part of my chest unclenches.

Cress pads in, cracks pepper like she’s blessing a ship. Reid holds up a sketch of steam that looks like music. We are a family doing ordinary things on purpose.

“Taste?” I ask.
“For me only?” he says, a smile trying on its new fit.
“For you only.”

He sips. Nods. “Good.”

On the cork board, a new strip of tape:
Grown Up Soup — He asked: “Do you still like me?” We answered: “Yes. Chosen is our favorite length.”

— Between Acts, “Grown Up Soup”

This year Zoey and I have the same homeroom.
There’s also another girl here that Zoey met at camp.

Her name is Lucia.
Her brother, Marco, worked on Newsies.
He was nice to me.
So I am nice to her.

“Hi, I’m—” I start to say. She stops me.

“I know. Zoey told me all about you. I like your hair. I mean it,” Lucia says.

She smiles.
She does mean it.

But the kid next to me doesn’t.
He’s humming the theme song to Little House on the Prairie.

Describe, not review: boy, row two, pencil drum; hum pitched like a dare.

Ask / Want / Why.
Ask: start homeroom without turning my body into a stage.
Want: a boundary that fits on an index card.
Why: first periods set the weather.

Three–two–one.
Three not us: vent hush, binder rings click, hallway lockers sigh.
Two sensations: chair lip under fingers, hoodie soft on wrists.
One action: water bottle where I can see it.

Options, not ultimatums:
A—script one line (“not for me, thanks”)
B—move seats (teacher ask)
C—log later; don’t feed the hum
D—teacher norms request (class rule: names only)

Lucia leans in, voice porch-soft. “Want me to sit on your loud side?”

“Yes,” I say. Swivel; she swaps. Bodies become furniture on purpose.

I try A.

“Not for me, thanks,” I say to the air between us. “Music’s fine. Not that one.”

He smirks hum-louder. “Okay, Laura.”

Lucia sits up straighter. “Names only,” she says, friendly like a sign on a bakery door. “We can do names.”

Zoey is across the aisle, shoulder set, eyes lamp. She doesn’t storm; she calibrates.

— Theodosius