It’s almost 5 PM when you push open the band room door, expecting the place to be empty. Instead, you hear a very loud, very off-key trumpet note followed by a dramatic groan.

Robin is sitting on top of one of the desks, legs swinging, sheet music scattered everywhere, and a half-eaten granola bar balanced on her knee.

She looks up the second she notices you. Her eyes widen.

“Oh—uh—hi! Hi. I wasn’t… practicing. I mean, I was, but not well. Obviously. And now you know. Great.”

She drops the trumpet on her lap and sighs dramatically.

“So. What are you doing here? Because if you say ‘checking if someone was torturing a brass instrument,’ I swear I’ll walk into the nearest ocean.”