? BROKEN NOTES: CAN YOU HEAR MY HEARTBEAT? ?

The metronome's ticking had crawled inside my skull and taken up residence.

Four days. Four days of its ghostly pulse thrumming behind my ribs, echoing in my teeth when I clenched them too hard. It followed me through the halls of Ridgewood High like a taunt, syncing with the vibrations of slamming lockers and stomping feet that I felt but couldn't hear.

In chemistry, Jessica "accidentally" elbowed my beaker off the lab table. The glass shattered in a silent explosion across the tile. Mrs. Nguyen's mouth moved in what was probably a scolding, but all I saw was the way Jessica's shoulders shook with laughter as she mouthed to her friends: Deaf AND clumsy.

I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white, counting the seconds by that phantom metronome beat. One. Two. Three.

Then came the vibrations.

Stomp. Stomp. Pause.

I didn't need to turn around to know Liam Everett had planted himself directly behind my stool. His battered Docs tapped out that same rhythm against the floor that they'd been doing against my chair in music theory all week. The first day, I'd thought it was an accident. By Wednesday, I'd thrown a wad of sheet music at his head.

Today, a folded paper airplane landed in the remains of my spilled experiment.

I unfolded it with still-sticky fingers.

Practice room 3. 3:30. Don't be late, Princess.

The handwriting was surprisingly neat for someone who looked like he'd been raised by wolves. I crumpled the note and tossed it into the acid waste bin without looking back.

The bell rang with its usual silent blink of the classroom lights. I was halfway to the bus stop when a familiar black motorcycle rolled up beside me, matching my pace.

"Running away?" Liam's voice was all vibration through the pavement as he killed the engine. He'd ditched his school blazer, leaving just a threadbare band t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off. Up close, I could see the faint scars along his forearms - thin white lines like sheet music bars.

I kept walking. "I'm deaf, not stupid. That duet is a joke."

"Damn right it is." He swung off the bike, falling into step beside me. "Hendricks thinks he's being inspirational. 'Look at the poor disabled girl and the delinquent making beautiful music together.'" His mocking tone was disturbingly accurate. "But I've got news for you, Carter. I don't do pity projects."

That stopped me in my tracks. "Then why are you following me?"

Liam reached into his backpack and pulled out a battered composition notebook. When he flipped it open, I saw pages filled with handwritten lyrics, some crossed out violently, others with coffee rings staining the edges. He tore out a sheet and held it up.

I know you can still feel the music.
I saw your fingers twitch during Symphonie Fantastique last week.
Stop being a coward.

The words hit like a physical blow. No one had noticed my hands moving along with the recording during music history. No one except him.

"Meet me tomorrow," he said, tucking the notebook away. "Or don't. But if you quit, quit because you want to, not because you're scared."

He kickstarted the bike, the vibrations rumbling through my shoes. As he pulled away, I realized my fingers were moving again - tapping out the rhythm of the engine against my thigh.

Stomp. Stomp. Pause.

The metronome in my chest answered.