by Michelle Andreani

“Thank God,” I groan, reaching to click off the ancient CD player. The sounds of overlapping guitars and the la-la-la-ing singer stop abruptly, my car now mercifully silent. I shudder all over like the power button is covered in raw meatloaf. “No more music by sad boys.”

Zoë, in the passenger seat, crosses her arms over her chest. “You said I could choose.”

“My mistake.” I put the Honda in Park and turn off the engine.

“Well, they’re not sad. They’re—”

“Wimpy.”

“Passionate,” my little sister says, decisively and dreamy-eyed.

“Oh, gag.” I snap off my seatbelt and twist to grab my puffy coat from the backseat. Slipping it on, I say, “Just so you know, on the way home we’re listening to someone . . . blond.”

Zoë’s eyes scrunch up behind her glasses. “Blond?”

“Blond”—I count it off on one finger, then more—“and fond of drum machines. And clapping.”