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Jude’s garage setup comprises half a junked Casio, two multitouch screens, a vintage Rock Band controller trailing split leads, garbage cans, a cymbal, and what Amanda’s fairly sure is a potato, perforated by alligator clips.

It sounds, collectively, an awful lot like a banjo.

“Your dad’s guitar makes music too,” she murmurs.

Jude nods absently, lost in headphones.

“And he can carry it in one hand. How are you going to ensnare girls on the quad with all this paraphernalia?”

Jude narrows his eyes. “That’s not the point.”

She grins. “How do you think he landed me?”

Jude rolls his eyes.