Coin Heist by Elisa Ludwig

supposed to be inhabited by the acting headmaster, which my dad no longer was. We had three days’ notice to vamanos .
    My mom and I had packed up what we could and moved into a little one-bedroom apartment down the road in a complex called Sagebrush, which sounded a lot nicer than it was. The walls of the building looked like cork and our unit smelled like rancid cooking oil, but it was okay. I mean, it was nothing like the headmaster’s house, where there was a living room and a family room and offices for both my parents, not to mention a big fireplace and three bathrooms. The kitchen in our new apartment was what the realtor called a “galley,” I was sleeping on a pullout couch with zero privacy, and my mom and I were sharing a bathroom now, which was just . . . gross. “It’s an adjustment,” my mom said. Understatement of the century.
    Losing your dad, your house, and the life you'd always taken for granted? Yeah, I’d say that’s an adjustment, all right.
    I had to find a way to turn this around, for her and for everyone else. Dakota was right. It wasn’t just us. This thing affected so many innocent people. Maybe I could rob the Mint , I thought idly.
    Finally, Zack appeared in the doorway, guitar case slung over his shoulder, a white waxy Wawa bag crumpled in his hand.
    â€œWhat’s up, sucker?” I said, barely able to contain my relief.
    â€œSorry guys, I was hungry. I couldn’t rehearse on an empty stomach.”
    â€œThank God,” Chaddie said. “Now we can actually start.”
    We couldn’t do anything without Zack. I mean, technically we were co-leaders, with Zack doing more of the management and me doing more of the creative vision stuff. We’d come up with the band together, but even though Zack was the lead singer, the name was my idea, and I’d written all the songs. I was also the one who’d come up with the idea of wearing clashing plaids at our shows. Granted, we’d only had one so far, but it had gotten us the prom. The prom was two months away, but now I was wondering if we’d even be ready by then. We’d already missed a couple weeks of rehearsal as we figured out the new practice space situation.
    Zack wanted us to start with our best song, “First-World Problems,” which had a tight bass line and a jangly chord progression.
    Chaddie counted off, but when Max came in off-tempo, he threw his arms down again in frustration. “This is really lame. I can’t even hear myself.”
    Maybe just my opinion, but a guy whose first name was Chadwick wasn’t the best judge of lameness.
    â€œStop being a pussy,” I said.
    â€œI’m not a pussy. This room is claustrophobic.”
    â€œIt’s totally fine,” I said. I strummed a few notes and scraped my knuckles on the wall. Jesus, it hurt. But I didn’t want to admit he was right, so I stifled my yelp of pain.
    It was ridiculous, but as the person related to the person who’d caused all of this trouble for us, I didn’t want them to know I was stressing out. Make adjustments, like my mom said. This band was the best thing I had going. The only thing, really.
    I mean, it was important for all of us—I got that.
    As we fumbled through the first few bars, I had to wonder. Maybe all this time I’d thought we were good because I’d been high. Because right now, hearing what I was hearing, I was pretty sure we sucked.
    Max hit a few beats out on his snare and then pumped the pedal onto the bass drum. Zack cupped his hands over his ears. “Aagh. It’s too loud.”
    â€œI’m not even mic'd,” Max said.
    â€œYou’re killing me. I can’t hear my own voice.”
    â€œWhat do you want me to do?” Max asked. “I’m trying my best over here.”
    â€œOkay,” I relented. “Max, do you think we could try in your garage or something?”
    â€œI guess my dad can move