“Don’t you worry about her.” He smiled and half-turned, held out his palm toward me. “Come on.”

I stared at his hand. “Come on what?”

“Put your hand up to mine.”

I frowned, then did it. My fingers stuck out almost an inch longer than Moz’s. Big, fat, clumsy fingers.

“Whoa,” he said. “That is fawesome. You should try this with Pearl sometime. She’s got really tiny hands.”

“She does?” I remembered playing the bass that time in the store, slapping at strings thick as steel worms. The frets were miles apart.

“Yeah. She can hardly get her left hand around the neck.”

I looked down at my big, fat, fawesome fingers and laughed.

“Can’t even hold a bass, huh? Some musical genius.”

It felt weird, waiting for one A.M. exactly.

I’ve always hated clocks and schedules, but this felt different—more like the sensation I’d gotten just before the TV had shattered on the street in front of me. My magic powers were screaming that something was about to happen.

As if I didn’t know that already.

I sat there in the kitchen with no lights on, the window wide open and trying to suck in some late September coolness. My parents’ apartment is on the sixth floor, and all night long leftover heat filters up from the rest of the building, like we live in the top of a steam cooker. The ancient refrigerator was humming, rattling mightily as it tried to keep beer cold and milk from going sour. An occasional whoop of siren leaped up from the street, along with the staticky pops of police radios.

The darkness was buzzing around me, my skin tingling, fingers drifting over my unplugged Stratocaster’s strings, pulling small noises from them. I imagined the notes amplified and her voice singing over the lines I played.

The whole one o’clock thing didn’t make sense. Minerva had said something about not waking her parents up, but if they were the problem, why call in the middle of the night?

I wondered if her mom and dad were some kind of religious freaks, the kind who didn’t let her talk to boys on the phone. Was that why she only went out on Sunday mornings? Did they think Pearl was taking her to church?

Wouldn’t that be perfect? If rehearsal was our church, Minerva was the high priestess.

I skidded one fingernail down my lowest string, making the sound of a tiny jet plane crashing to the ground. I was always edgy calling a girl the first time, even a normal girl with normal parents. Even one who’d never screamed holy sacraments while I played guitar.

Minerva had handed me her number when no one else was looking, had whispered her instructions. She knew this was a bad idea, and I knew too—the sort of thing that broke up bands. The badness of it was all over me in the darkness, hovering an inch from my skin, like a cloud of mosquitoes getting ready to bite.

And one A.M., which had seemed, like, forever away fifteen minutes ago, was almost here…

I placed the Strat on the kitchen table, took the phone from the wall, and pulled out the number she’d given me. Her handwriting was sloppy, almost as bad as Zahler’s, the paper crumpled from ten days in my pocket, crammed against keys and coins and guitar picks.

I dialed slowly, telling myself it didn’t really count until I pressed the last digit. After all, I’d gone this far a few other nights, only to choke.

But this time, five seconds before the hour, I finished the spell.

She picked up before it even rang.

“Ooh, no dial tone,” she said softly, which didn’t make any sense at first.

“Minerva?”

“You finally did it, Mozzy,” she whispered.

I licked my lips, which felt as dry and rough as burnt toast. “Yeah, I did.”

“I’ve been sitting here waiting, ten nights in a row.”

“Oh. Sorry it took so long.” I found myself whispering back at her, even though my parents’ room was at the other end of the apartment.

“I’ve been really good every night, picking up exactly at one.” She sighed. “And every time… buzzzz.”

“Oh, a dial tone.” I cleared my throat, not sure what to say.

“A dial tone instead of you,” she said, her voice slipping out of its whisper. Minerva talked like she sang, low and growly, a tone that penetrated the rumble of the fridge and the whir of cars down on the street.

I reached over to the Strat and plucked an open string. “Doesn’t your phone have a ringer?”

“Yes, it has a ringer.” I heard a distant clank on her end, like she’d kicked something. “But it rings in my parents’ room and downstairs too. Only Pearl and Luz are supposed to know this number.”

“That sucks.” I wondered who Luz was. Another friend?

“And the worst thing is, Luz took all my numbers away.”

“Took your numbers? You mean she stole your address book?”

Minerva giggled. “No, silly Moz. The little buttons with numbers. There’s no way for me to dial out.”

“Crap. Really?” What was the deal with her parents? Or Luz, whoever she was?

“Smelly phone.” Another soft clank. “So I’ve been sitting here waiting every night, hoping you would call. Wanting you to, but all nervous in case a little ring squirted out. Picking up exactly at one, and all I get is buzzzz… like some horrible bee.”

“Sorry about that.” I shifted my weight on the kitchen chair, remembering staring at my own phone at one o’clock, wishing I’d had the guts to call. “Well, I’m talking to you now.”

“Mmm. It’s yummy too. We finally get to talk with no one else around.”

“Yeah, it’s cool.” My throat was dry, and the badness was clinging to my skin now, like an itch all over me. It reminded me of hiding in the closet when I was little, excited but scared that someone would open the door. “So, can I ask you something, Min?”

“Sure. You get to ask me anything, now that no one’s listening.”

“Um, yeah.” The fridge turned itself off, leaving me in sudden silence. My voice dropped as I asked, “So, when you and Pearl leave early? You’re not really going to Spanish lessons, are you?”

She giggled softly. “No. We have to get back before Luz knows I’m gone.”

“Oh. Luz again.” I noticed that my right hand was all twisted up in the phone cord, my fingers strangled white and bloodless. I started to unwind it. “But that’s, like, a Spanish name, right?”

“It means light. ‘Let there be Luz.’”

“So she’s your Spanish teacher.” Or whatever.

“Sí. Y un problema grande.”

Even I could figure out that bit of Spanish. Luz was a big problem. But what was she? A nanny? Some sort of religious homeschooling tutor? A shrink?

“What are you thinking?”

I shifted around on my chair, skin itching again. “I’m wondering about you.”

“Mmm,” she purred. “If I’m crazy? If I’m bad?”

I swallowed. “No. But I don’t really know you, outside of practice.”

“I think you do know me, Mozzy. That’s why I wanted you to call. Because you know things.”

“Um, I do?”

“Sure. Just close your eyes.”

I did, and she started humming, the sound barely carrying over the wires. I imagined her singing in the practice room, drawing me into her slipstream as we played. Fragments of her songs echoed in my head. It felt like I was being pulled somewhere.

She stopped humming, but her breathing still reached my ears.

“Where do you get those words, Min? For our songs?”

She laughed softly. “From underneath.”

“Like, from underneath your conscious mind or something?”

“No, silly,” she whispered. “Underneath my house.”

“Uh, really?” With my eyes closed, she seemed so close, like she was whispering in my ear. “You write in your basement?”

“I did at first, back when they let me go down there. I had fevers and could feel something under the house. Something rumbling.”