“Do you play any other songs?” I asked, hoping against hope that they did.

Glen brightened at this. “We have some originals.”

“No,” Bill and I said at the same time.

“I’m sure they’re good,” I added quickly, since Glen was looking offended. “But we were really hoping for some, you know, songs by other artists.”

“Why would a Journey cover band play other bands’ songs? We’re not a jukebox. Also, you need to respect the cover band turf. If we started playing Michael Jackson suddenly, the Men in the Mirror would not be happy about it.”

“Oh,” I said. “I had no idea.”

Glen nodded. “It’s a tough business. Welcome to the jungle.” He paused for a second. “Which is, incidentally, the name of my brother’s Guns N’ Roses cover band.”

“Do you think you could give it a shot?” Bill asked. “We’ve just . . . had a lot of things go wrong with this wedding already, and I’m not sure the bride and groom can handle anything else not going according to plan.”

“I can talk to my bandmates,” he said grumpily. “But I have to tell you, I don’t know how good any songs are going to be if we’re learning them day of.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering if maybe one of my siblings or one of the guests had really well-curated playlists on their phones, or something. “Just . . . try? And let us know?”

“Fine,” Glen said, still not sounding happy. “We’ll try.”

I heard the sound of a bike coming down the street and turned to see Sarah Stephens riding right in the middle of the road. When she passed me, she took one hand off the handlebars, then pointed to her eyes, then at mine, the I’m watching you finger point that I’d honestly not expected to be on the receiving end of from a middle schooler.

“What is that?” Glen asked, sounding panicky, and I saw that he was also looking at Sarah. He turned to me and Bill. “Do you guys see that too?”

“That’s just our papergirl,” I said, as Sarah biked away.

“Oh, good,” Glen said, looking hugely relieved. “I thought I was having a flashback, or that it meant I only had twenty-four hours to live or something.”

“So,” Bill said, turning to Glen. “You’re going to talk to your bandmates . . .”

“Yeah,” he said, not sounding all that enthusiastic about the idea. “But right now, I just need to know where we’re going to be playing. Despite the fact you don’t like our music . . .” He muttered this last part in an undertone.

“Around back,” Bill said, gesturing for Glen to come with him, and I followed them around the side of the house to the backyard—which was now filled with people wearing Tent City shirts. They were in the midst of erecting a tent while Will paced around, shouting instructions, and my uncle Stu followed in his footsteps, giving advice that I had a feeling wasn’t actually wanted or at all needed.

“So, I’ll show you where the stage is going to be,” Bill said, pointing across the lawn.

“I’ll take that,” I said to Bill, gesturing for the garment bag with Ralph’s terrible suit inside.

I crossed the deck to the house and opened the kitchen door—only to stop short and grab on to the counter to stop myself from toppling over. There was a very large man in a bright-blue shirt kneeling in front of the door, peering at the alarm panel. PISCATELLI SECURITY SYSTEMS, it read in bright letters across his back, and then in smaller, cursive type underneath it, Don’t be alarmed!

“Um. Hi,” I said, maneuvering around him. He nodded at me but then went back to fiddling with the alarm panel. I looked around the kitchen, which had gone much the way of the backyard and the driveway—suddenly much busier and crowded than when I’d left it.

My dad was standing behind the alarm guy, leaning over his shoulder, and he shook his head at me when I walked past him, clearly letting me know that my part in wrecking his flower beds had not been forgotten. Danny was standing on the other side of the kitchen, talking on his phone and pacing around, and getting in the way of the people that I presumed were the caterers—they were wearing white shirts and black pants, at any rate—who had appeared since I’d last been there.

The kitchen island and the counters were now covered with food, and the caterers were bustling around, getting things ready for tonight. Two people were chopping veggies on the kitchen island, and two more were preparing trays of food, assembly-line style. I could see on the kitchen table the remains of the bagels I’d brought—it looked like while we’d been talking with Glen in the driveway, most of them had been devoured.

I dodged around one of the caterers, who was en route to the oven with a baking tray, gave her an apologetic smile she didn’t return, then headed over to the kitchen table to see if there were still any poppy seed bagels left—narrowly missing a collision with J.J., who came storming in with wet hair, in his robe, carrying a bow tie.

“Do you have a sewing kit?” he asked the kitchen in general—though neither the caterers or the alarm guy responded.

“Me?” I asked after a moment.

“Anyone!” he said, sounding annoyed. “Mom!” he yelled, continuing through the kitchen.

“Don’t yell,” my dad yelled after him.

“Have you seen Rodney?” I asked.

“No,” my dad said, leaning closer to the alarm panel. “But did you see we’re getting the alarm fixed? Leo here is going to get this sorted before tonight.”

“I’m doing my best,” Leo the alarm guy muttered, shaking his head as he examined the panel once again.

“Is there any more coffee, Jeffrey?” Mrs. Daniels asked, coming into the kitchen, holding a mug.

“I’ve got it,” I said, giving my dad a smile, hoping this would help make up for his garden dreams getting crushed. I crossed over to take her cup, dodging around Danny, who shot me an apologetic look. Work, he mouthed to me, and I gave him a sympathetic grimace.

“No, I don’t understand,” Danny said into his phone. “We were supposed to see contracts months ago. . . .” He turned and left the kitchen, heading for the front hall, just as Max came barreling in.

“Hey,” he said, looking around and pulling on his beard. “You don’t have any milk, do you?”

“Milk?” my dad echoed. “Sure—try the fridge.”

I poured Mrs. Daniels a fresh cup of coffee, then handed it to her as Rodney came in. “Mom, do you have a sewing kit?” Rodney asked. “J.J. needs one.”

“I think I should have one upstairs,” she said, nodding her thanks at me. “I’ll use that when you’re done, Maxwell,” she said to Max, who I just noticed was starting to leave the kitchen holding the carton of milk.

“Oh,” Max said, looking down at it, like he was surprised to see it there. I restrained myself from rolling my eyes, but it really did seem like maybe Max should take the occasional day off, since his recreational habits were clearly starting to affect him. “Right,” he said, coming back with the milk carton. He held it out to Mrs. Daniels.

“Can I get you a glass or something?” I asked Max.

“I don’t need a whole glass,” he said. “Maybe just like a cup . . . or a dish or something?”

I pulled a mug out of the cupboard. “Here,” I said, handing it to him.

“Thanks,” Max said, pouring the milk into the mug, then handing the container back to me and hustling out of the room.

I went to put the milk back in the fridge, reaching for the door just as one of the catering staff did the same. “Oh—sorry,” I said. He gave me a tight smile, one that didn’t meet his eyes, and I stepped away quickly from the fridge, feeling like I was very much in the way.

“What does J.J. need out of the sewing kit?” Mrs. Daniels asked, and Rodney shrugged.

“Not surprisingly, he didn’t elaborate.”

“Um,” I said to Rodney, feeling like the sooner I did this the better. “I need to talk to you about something.”