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She looks at me sideways, her lips twisted. “I’ve had a lot of experience, and I’ve had plenty of examples of how unattractive it is when someone doesn’t take things well.”

“Jake?” I can’t help imagining what Jake throwing a tantrum looks like.

“She’s talking about her mom,” Emerson says. “Her birth mother.”

She shrugs. “Not a surprise that I have a birth mom who’s a mess, probably, since you know they’re my foster brothers.”

“Well, I thought it was impressive. A lot of people would be too bummed out to go to a party.”

She frowns then. “I didn’t say I’m not bummed, but I’m too angry to get depressed.”

“Angry?” I wouldn’t have thought she was mad. She looks fine. “Why?” I lean closer. “Do you think something weird happened?”

Jake grabs two drinks off a tray and offers her one.

Bea, who’s quite small and has always seemed quite reserved, knocks the martini back in one smooth motion. “Thanks.”

Jake looks floored, like he didn’t expect she’d take it.

She hands it back to him and grabs the second drink too. “I needed that.” She looks right at him. “That woman who was the emcee?”

“She sang like. . .” Jake whistles. “I’ve never heard a voice like that.”

“Well.” Bea swears under her breath. “She told me that my song was the best, and that I would have won, but she intentionally voted me last.”

Jake’s entire face falls. “She—what?” His voice is way, way too loud. Plenty of people are looking our way now.

“Unless you’d like to broadcast this,” Emerson says, “we should take this down quite a lot.”

“Right.” Bea takes a small sip from her second martini. “Anyway, she told me that I’mtoo goodfor jingles.” She swears again. “Can you believe that?”

“I knew something was weird,” Jake says. “I do think you ought to sue them, especially if they use your song for their ad campaign. That’s not her decision to make.”

“I mean, technically, it’s exactly her decision to make,” Bea says.

“But if you want to do jingles, you should be able todo them. That’s so unfair.” Emerson grabs a bright pink drink off a tray.

I grab one, too.

“Those are mocktails.” Emerson points at a sign. “I don’t drink, but you might want something else.”

“I’m fine with a mocktail,” I say. “But why did that woman say Bea’s too good? Don’t they want people who are good? I don’t understand.”

“Jingles are. . .” Jake sighs. “In the musical world, jingles are usually written by people who lack talent, or at least, that’s the reputation they have.”

“They’re for people who have given up on making it writing real music,” Emerson says. “Which is stupid. Plenty of people like jingles, and sometimes they’re better known than most any other song on the radio.”

“Right?” Jake asks. “Where does she get off saying you should be doing something else? You entered the contest, and it’s a free country.”

“But,” I say. “If that’s true—do you reallywantto do jingles?”

Bea lifts her head slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you doing them instead of writing regular songs? Yours was the best—so could she be right? You’re young. You’re certainly not out of time. And you have a job.”

“You have some nerve,” Jake says. “You barely know her.”

“I’ve wanted to do jingles for a while,” Bea says.

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