“You’ve got Benji, what’s up?”

There’s silence on the other end, and I almost hang up. I guard this number with my life so it’s unlikely to be some creeper, but it’s happened before and I had to change my number. Hopefully I won’t have to again, because it’s a royal pain in my ass.

I try one more time just in case it’s one of those weird phone delays that happens sometimes. “’Lo?”

Why is that anyway? I mean, those few seconds of dead air when you answer the phone sometimes? What’s the hold up? It’s not like the sound has to actually travel through wires anymore. It’s just… Well, shit, man I don’t know how that actually works, but I’m pretty sure there’s no good reason for there to be a pause unless you’re like in space or something. I could look it up. Maybe I will. But I’ve gotta leave for practice soon and I don’t want to be late, because there’s no reason for me to be late. Practice is at my house. And yet it wouldn’t be the first time I’d been the last one arriving.

“Uh, hi.”

The voice surprises me. I’d wandered so far thinking about how cell phones work and then getting distracted by trying not to be late that I’d forgotten I’d picked up the phone in the first place. I haven’t ruled out the possibility of this being some stalker, but if she’s a too-enthusiastic fan, she’s one with a nice voice even if she’s nervous. In my experience, stalkers don’t usually sound this kind of nervous.

“Do you maybe have the wrong number or something?”

There’s another, shorter pause, and then there’s that pretty voice again. “No, I don’t think I do.”

Smooth and musical with more lilt than you usually find in people whose first language is English, the way she speaks is a pleasure to listen to. Maybe it’s just that I’ve been spending too much time with the guys, but it strokes me.

“You’ve got the upper hand then because I have no idea what the shit is going on.”

Maybe swearing at this girl isn’t a good idea. But then again, if I know her, she knows I’ve got a mouth on me. Except when I’m around fans, and then I’m as clean cut and polite as can be. No cussing, all manners and smiles. It’s not an act either, but sometimes a guy’s gotta let off some steam.

There’s a short laugh, and it makes me smile. Yep, I could listen to this girl all day so I’m really hoping she’s not an overly enthusiastic fan who I’ll have to tell my agent about and let him deal with. Why can’t people just be cool? But so far this girl has given me no cause to worry, so I’ll let the game go on a bit longer. For as long as she’ll talk to me anyway.

I plop down on the couch and kick up my feet because that’s not a bad idea. Close my eyes, take a little break before I head back to the glorified garage where we jam.

“My name is Jordan. Jordan Kennedy.”

That’s not a name I recognize, and I sure as hell would remember a girl with a voice like that. I mean, yeah, I like how girls look too, but there’s something about how they sound that pings something in my brain just right, like a perfectly plucked note on a string instrument or that reverberating sensation of when someone hits a gong. Her voice is more the sweet cascading sound of a harp than the crash of cymbals.

“Do we know each other? I mean, I don’t recognize your name. But you’ve got a pretty voice.”

She laughs again, softer, half a grade sweeter, and I hope she’s blushing. Why did I say that? Flirting with someone who could be a nut-job fangirl? The guys are gonna rip on me for this for sure. I could not tell them, but they’ll think it’s funny and I don’t care. They’re my friends.

“Thanks. And, uh, no. We don’t know each other. Not directly. But please don’t hang up. I got your number from Angela Perkins.”

I went to grade school with Angie. We don’t hang out much anymore since she’s still in Texas and I’m in LA, but when I go home I see her. We lived in the same neighborhood and she pushed me off a swingset once. Broke my wrist. I don’t know why we were friends after that, but we were.

“How do you know Angie?”

“We went to law school together.”

“You’re a lawyer? Am I in trouble or something?” It’s a joke because no way am I in trouble and I don’t know about it. We’ve got more people looking out for us than is really necessary, and I wasn’t out last night so anything I could’ve fucked up would’ve been taken care of already. “My lawyers are pretty good, I’m not really looking for a new one.”

“No, you’re not in trouble at all as far as I know. And I don’t want to be your lawyer. You don’t need me. I’m an immigration lawyer and you’re a US citizen. But I need you.”

“Are you sure you aren’t looking for Kevin? He’s really the Park brother you want for, like, smart stuff.”

Not that he’s a lawyer, but he could’ve been. Kevin could be anything he wants. We’re basically twins but woo boy did we turn out different.

“I don’t want Kevin, I want you.”

In my head that sounds way dirtier than she probably means for it to. I pick at a seam on the couch and stare at my shoes I’ve got propped up on the coffee table, and then promptly drop them to the floor. Talking about Kevin makes me think about my parents, and my mom doesn’t tolerate feet on the coffee table. Especially not with shoes on.

“I’m not looking for legal advice, and even if I were, isn’t your brother getting his PhD in bioinformatics? He’s not a lawyer.”

I scrub a hand over the back of my neck because I guess that’s technically true. But back to the honey-sweet voice on the other end of the line. “If you want me, what for?”

There’s a deep breath, and it makes the corner of my mouth tug up. She’s nervous.

“I work for an organization that helps families who have members in danger of being deported. Some of them came illegally but have lived here for years and are part of their communities. Some of them were only kids when they came across the border and they don’t know any other life. It’s not their fault their parents brought them here. It’s not like they had any say in breaking the rules, and they’re more American than anything else. And some of them…”

Beat.

I’ve started composing a song in my head. Mostly I leave the song-writing to Zane or Teague. They’re the ones who have the brains for that kind of thing, when we’re writing our own music anyway. I’ve had a couple, though. And while they might be few and far between, when I have an idea, it’s usually a good one. A rhythm is developing at the back of my brain and I leave it alone. When I think too hard, nothing happens. It’s like my engine overheats. But if I just let it purr along in the background, unsupervised…

“Some of them what?”

“Some of them were adopted and their parents never completed the paperwork properly, so they’re technically breaking the law. But a lot of them came as babies. There’s a law that protects people who were still minors as of 2001, but some people got left out in the cold. They grew up here, but they can get deported. When they get sent back, most of them don’t speak the language, they can’t get jobs, they don’t know their families if they can even find them, and they have no one. It’s…not good.”

That doesn’t sound good. And it pokes at something inside me because that hits kind of close to home—literally, because my brother still lives near my parents. We’re like bizarre-o twins, Kevin and I. Not just because he’s smart like whoa and I’m…not, exactly, but because he’s adopted and I’m not.

It’s one of those stories you hear sometimes: my parents started the adoption process with Kevin because they thought they couldn’t have children. So they did all the research, filled out the paperwork, paid all the fees, jumped through all the hoops, and when finally, finally, they found out they’d be able to bring Kevin home on a very long plane ride from South Korea, they found out my mom was pregnant. With me.

Surprise.

That’s kind of how we’ve been ever since. Kevin like clockwork, and me far more…sporadic. I’m the one who sticks out in this family, the one who doesn’t quite fit, and I’ve wondered more than once if they got us mixed up in the bath early on or something, because Kevin seems way more like he’s a result of our parents’ genes getting mashed together.

“That doesn’t sound good. What does this have to do with me?”

“We’re planning a benefit concert, probably at Wrigley Field. I was hoping you might be able to get License to Game to play.”

Oh. Well, yeah, then she definitely doesn’t want Kevin. He couldn’t even play the recorder when we were kids. But she shouldn’t be calling me either. This is weird. I never schedule anything for us. Stan and the label tell us where to show up at what time and we go and play. That’s how it works. Sure sometimes the guys have to prod me along because I get distracted, but it’s not because I’m going to play some totally different show. It’s just, I don’t know, that’s how my brain’s always worked. Squirrel? Something shiny? I’m that guy. And to be totally honest, I’ve never tried to do anything about it because I’ve always had people looking out for me.

“You should call our agent or our label. They’re the ones who take care of that stuff.”

They’re also the ones who are supposed to stand between us and people who want things. All the damn people who want things from us. Like this Jordan person. I don’t like saying no but I can’t say yes, and this is why people aren’t supposed to call me. It’s been like this from the beginning.

As soon as we got big, people started coming out of the woodwork, asking us for money, for favors, just asking, asking. The other guys were better at handling it than I was. Still are. I’m not good at saying no. I want to make people happy, I like to help people, and maybe people have taken advantage of that. I didn’t get it at first and would try to give people whatever. Now it rubs me wrong and my own voice is sharp because my kneejerk reaction is now that she’s trying to use me.

“You know there’s no way they’re going to say yes to me, Benji.”

Why does my name sound so nice leaving her lips? What do her lips look like? And does she sing? With a voice like that—so melodic just in speech—she’d better. It tweaks me a bit too, that I know better than to be charmed and yet she’s getting to me. Because I’m easy? Not today, lady. Even if she does know Angie.

“Then it’s not like I can say yes to you either. I’m sorry. We just, you know, can’t help everyone who asks. We’d never do anything else. So I’m sorry, but I gotta say no.”

“You’re not even going to talk to the rest of your band? Zane? Teague? Christian? Nick? You don’t think they’d want to help us out?” There’s strain in that pretty voice now, like a guitar string that’s been wound too tight, and you just know with too aggressive a strum that it’s going to snap.

It’s not entirely unfair either. We do try to do charity work, maybe more than other bands. Needling me about it isn’t fair.

“Already Home Immigration is a really good organization. We do so much good work and we’re overwhelmed right now. Our resources are stretched incredibly thin and there are so many people to help, and I just—”

Her voice cracks, the string broken. I feel like shit. I don’t know this girl from Adam, but if she’s friends with Angie—who I’m going to fucking kill for putting me in this position because she knows I’m not good with this shit—she’s gotta be cool. And smart. And take no shit. Come to think of it, I’m not totally sure why Angie was friends with me when we were kids. Maybe she just felt bad about the whole wrist-breaking thing.

“Please. One show. One song, even.”

That sharp feeling in my stomach is poking somewhere else now because she’s begging and I don’t like it. Don’t like the way her silky sweet voice has turned clipped and plaintive, like she’s holding back tears. I haven’t talked to her for long, but I get the feeling begging isn’t so much Jordan’s jam. I don’t want it to be. But seriously, there’s nothing I can do.

“I’m sorry, Jordan. Really sorry. But I can’t.”

And feeling like a total dickwad, I pull the phone away from my ear before she can beg again because I don’t think I could stand it. When I do, I see the time. Yep, ten goddamn minutes late to practice that’s at my own fucking house. No wonder the guys give me a hard time. I gotta jet.