This Song Is (Not) for You Read Online Free Page A

surprised. They were doing some cool stuff with only two people. Mom’s always bugging me about making friends, so I figured I’d give it a try.
    Right now it’s almost dinnertime, and the rich neighborhood in the city is half an hour from my parents’ house in Ferguson. On the highway with the windows down, the car is thunderous. Ominous. It’s a small, chaotic world. I wish there were some way I could record this wind and be able to capture this feeling of small space. I might see if I can make something on the synth that has a similar feel.
    (Ramona would do supplementary fills and tempo
    changes,
    amping up the drama.
    I don’t know what Sam would do—something
    amazing
    that I would never think of
    that completes the piece
    and makes it
    a song.)
    I get home before six thirty, so I’m not late. Mom is setting the table though, and Dad is already in the kitchen.
    When I come in, Mom gives me this look, like she’s annoyed with me just for making her think that I might be late. I was one of those “I thought it was menopause but actually I was pregnant” babies. I grew up listening to my mother joke about how after raising three boys she thought she was almost done with parenting—and then I came along.
    We sit down at the table and my dad calls me “Champ” and asks about my day. He called my older brothers “Champ” when they were kids. They were the kind of boys you would call “Champ.” They liked sports and wanted to learn how to fix cars instead of paint them with glitter.
    “It was fine, Pops,” I say.
    My parents and I have this nightly dinner ritual where they try to get me to talk. Some nights I don’t have much to say. (Okay, most nights. I just don’t like sharing my feelings. They’re mine.) The whole thing just seems so forced to me. Maybe if they just let me eat in silence one night, then I’d feel like talking the next.
    “Your father and I were planning on going to Gran’s lake house this weekend,” Mom says. I barely suppress a groan. Gran left the house to Mom and her sister. It has terrible air-conditioning and no Internet.
    “Do we have to?” I ask. “I kinda have plans.”
    “Actually, we were thinking that you could stay home this time,” she says. “We think you can handle yourself for a few days.”
    “Really?” I look up from my plate at them.
    “No parties,” Mom says. “And no public art projects.” (Last year the glitter bombing of a fire hydrant resulted in a visit from the St. Louis County PD. Ever since then I’ve been more discreet. With Glitter in Odd Places, that is. They never connected the fountain to me.)
    “And no girls,” Dad adds. He laughs, so I guess that’s supposed to be funny.
    “Yeah, okay,” I say. “Thanks, guys.”
    “What plans do you have?” Mom asks.
    “I met some kids at the Artibus thing,” I say. “We’re gonna get together and jam.” Mom looks thrilled; she thinks I need friends. She asks the questions parents ask, and I recite for her Ramona’s and Sam’s stats. The fact that they attend Saint Joe’s impresses Mom, just like it did with Sara. After I’m done eating, I’m able to escape by pleading the demands of my summer reading list.
    Pretty typical night, but like I said before, I’m feeling a little better. Up in my room, I wonder if Ramona would ever want to go glitter bombing with me. Based on her drum kit, I think she might.

Ramona
    It should come as no surprise to you that I have a nemesis. Her name is Emmalyn. Emmalyn Evans, which to me sounds like the name of a character in a children’s book. Emmalyn Evans, go to the store. Emmalyn Evans, shut the damn door.
    Anyway, she started it.
    First semester freshman year, we had nearly every class together. Two months into my high school career, the plaid uniforms were already driving me crazy. So I cut my hair. And I mean, I cut my hair. In the bathroom, with scissors from Dad’s desk. My hair was supposed to be jagged and uneven. I was trying to look