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the amplifier I was carrying. “They told me—you’re the manager?”
    He had a shifty look. His eyes didn’t rest on any object or person. His eyes were busy looking for the main chance. “I’m wondering if you’ve cut a record? Or made a tape? Because I’d be happy to hustle it for you. I think your friends have got a future, and you must think the same. So what do you say, sweets? Do we cut the deal or what?”
    Because I knew as soon as I saw his eyes that I would say no to whatever he asked, it was as if I had already spoken the word out loud. I was distracted by thinking about what his offer meant. My hesitation gave him hope. Seeing him have hope made me feel bad about leading him on. I cut short his smile. “No. No, thanks.”
    â€œYou’re making a big mistake,” he warned me. I didn’t want to talk to him. I was wondering how many of Orfe’s songs she would think had gotten to final form, how many she would say were ready to be recorded. “Ummnnnmm,” I said.
    â€œSo you’ll think about it?” he asked, thinking he’d been successful after all.
    I shook my head.
    â€œBig mistake, sweets. Really big mistake. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. People in this business, they eat little girls like you for breakfast. For between-meal snacks. Good bands miss out on all their chances, if the manager doesn’t know—I could tell you some stories that would make you weep.”
    I shook my head. I picked up the amplifier, and he didn’t offer a hand. “Keep the card. You’ll be calling, begging for help.”
    Later that night I asked Orfe about it. “There was this guy, some promoter, after the show. He asked me if you’d cut a record, if he could get in on the action. What about a record, Orfe, what do you think?”
    Orfe took a minute before she lifted her face: She looked like I’d just handed her the Nobel Peace Prize, gladness pouring out of her face. “What?” I asked her face.
    â€œSure. Fine,” Orfe said. “Let’s.”
    â€œWhat’s that face about?”
    â€œI’ve been waiting for you to suggest it.”
    *  *  *  *  *
    Rehearsals grew intensive, not a spectator sport. Yuri and I went to movies if we started to get sent crazy by work or studies or not having much else to do because of the intensive rehearsal schedule. Orfeand the Graces played fewer appearances for a few weeks while they were rehearsing intensively. It happened that two of those were at weddings, and I wonder if that had something to do with Orfe and Yuri deciding they wanted to get married. Orfe didn’t ask my advice and didn’t listen when I offered it unasked.
    The Graces agreed with me, each for a particular reason. Grace Phildon said a person should be clean for at least two years before you committed yourself to him; two years clean gave you a good chance. Willie Grace said she wouldn’t want Yuri at her back in a fight, or at her side, or on her side, because she’d just end up trying to take care of him. Raygrace said why fuss around with something that was working just fine, why worry about marriage, it was being good for each other, being good together that mattered.
    Orfe ignored all of us. Yuri ignored all of us. We were all more than a little high on ourselves, so maybe they were wise to dismiss us. When I got a phone call offering Orfe and the Graces the chance to go on tour as warm-up band, I wasn’t surprised. I passed the information on to Orfe, who turned the job down without hesitation. I wasn’t surprised at thateither, and I had my objections ready. The Graces weren’t saying anything.
    â€œBut Orfe,” I said.
    â€œThey smash up their instruments.”
    â€œThose aren’t their real ones. You know that.”
    â€œBut that’s even worse. You know I’m right.”
    â€œNo, I don’t,” I