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  Darrell laughs. “Don’t worry. You’re feeling positive. That’s good.” He rolls his chair back to take a sip of coffee well away from all of the sound controls. “So you’ve picked a second song? Should we start with that?”

  “Definitely,” Harper jumps in. “‘Blue Skywriting.’ An undiscovered gem.”

  “Discovered by Nat,” Jess adds.

  “No kidding?” Darrell looks approvingly at me. “You found something your picky bandmates could agree on?”

  “Hey!” Harper puts her hands on her hips.

  Jess laughs.

  “Now we just have to convince you,” I say to Darrell. It better be an easy sell. We don’t have time to argue over more songs.

  “Let’s hear it,” Darrell says. “Treat this as a regular rehearsal. The mic and headphones are there so you can get used to them and I can hear how you sound. We’ll record tomorrow.”

  His words trigger a flutter of nerves in me, but the good kind. We’re really doing this.

  The song has a tricky start—no intro chords, no easing into it. The first verse launches with Jess’s power strumming and Harper singing, “Out of the blue / that’s where you found me / Wrote your love in full view / said you had to astound me.”

  Jess’s strumming steps us up to the chorus. She sings, “With your blue skywriting.” I layer over top with “Bright blue skywriting,” and Harper joins in, singing, “Blue skywriting.” Then Jess and I cut out and Harper ends with “swept me away.”

  We continue on through the second verse and chorus, then the bridge and right to the end. Jess floats the final chord off her strings.

  Darrell nods at us through the window. “Good job.”

  Harper bounces lightly on the balls of her feet. “Isn’t it cool how the chorus takes off?” Her voice is revved and impatient, ready to keep going.

  “That is cool,” Darrell agrees. He pulls off his glasses and rubs his eyes.

  Harper and Jess and I exchange looks. Doesn’t he like the song? He has to like it. We stand extra still, like we’ll break something if we move.

  I finally ask, “What do you think, Darrell?”

  He puts his glasses back on, takes us in. “Great song. Good choice, Nat.”

  I let out a breath. Everyone likes the song I picked. Jess holds her hand up to me for a high five.

  “Can I hear it again?” Darrell goes on. “But with you doing the melody?”

  “The lead part?” I blink. My heart speeds up. “Me?”

  “Yep,” he says. Simple as that.

  Harper looks like Darrell’s speaking a foreign language. “Uh…” Her mouth clamps shut, stunned.

  “Sure,” I say and feel something inside me lift up. A window opening, letting in air.

  “Sweet,” Jess says.

  Harper shakes off her silence. “Don’t expect much. We haven’t rehearsed it that way.”

  She may not have, but I worked on the melody line the first night I found the song and every night after the trio practiced.

  Darrell leans back and takes another sip of coffee. “Give it a whirl. Rehearsals are for playing around with sounds. I’m not looking for perfection.”

  “I am,” Harper says under her breath, but of course it’s loud and clear to us. “Hang on.” She takes off her headphones. Back turned, she makes a show of grabbing a bottle of water off a table, taking several sips and stretching her neck.

  While Harper’s unplugged from us, Jess says, “I think you doing the melody is a great idea, Nat. I wish I’d thought of it.”

  I wish she had too, but that’s okay now.

  I concentrate on feeling loose and ready. I breathe slowly in and out, looking down at my toes touching that green tape line. I have to sing this song better than Harper did if I want the melody part to be mine.

  Then Harper’s voice invades my headphones. “What’s Banjo Boy doing here?”

  I look up and see Gabe, his army jacket and jeans spotted with rain, standing inside the control-room door. So much for my attempt to stay loose and relaxed. Is he going to watch us—me—sing?

  Darrell says, “You’re early, man,” though he doesn’t sound annoyed. He and Gabe do the handshake, shoulder-grab, guy-greeting thing.

  “Aww, look.” Harper puts her hand to her heart with fake sincerity. “Best buds. Taking up our studio time.”

  Jess points to our mic and whispers, “They can hear us.”

  Harper shrugs. “It’s okay. Nat’s Banjo Boy’s biggest fan.”

  “Harper!” I cover the mic.

  Her brown eyes go all wide and innocent.

  In the control booth, Gabe doesn’t seem to have heard us. He’s taking his banjo case off his shoulder, looking for a spot to set it down.

  Darrell’s back in his chair. “Girls, would you mind if Gabe sits in on the rehearsal? He’s early for his recording session, and it’s good to see how fellow musicians work. It’s entirely up to you though.”

  Gabe leans down to Darrell’s mic. “You’re welcome to watch me record after. It’d help me, having an audience.”

  When Gabe and I were at Crescendo Music and he told me he was working with Darrell, this was exactly what I wanted to happen. Now my throat tightens up, my mouth goes dry. What if I tank the melody?

  “I’m cool with him staying,” Jess says.

  “Whatever. Fine,” Harper says. “Unless you’re uncomfortable with it, Nat.”

  Right. She’s the relaxed pro. I’m the nervous rookie.

  “No. Of course you can stay, Gabe.” I try for an easygoing smile. It feels like a too-tight guitar string.

  But he smiles back. “Sweet. Thanks.”

  Darrell claps his hands together. “Great. Back to the top of ‘Blue Skywriting.’ Jess, why don’t you play a few bars so Nat can hear the melody first?”

  “No need. I’m good.” I can’t let Harper think I’m not ready for this. I wipe my suddenly wet palms against my jeans. I look to Jess and she nods a silent count-in. I start to sing.

  It’s strange to hear myself, alone, through the headphones. I feel a quaver in my voice off the top and expect Darrell to stop me. But he’s got his eyes closed, listening the way he did when we all sang in his office. I avoid looking at Gabe.

  We get through the first verse and chorus and are starting the second verse when Harper stops. She steps back from the mic, shaking her head.

  “What’s up?” Darrell asks.

  “You don’t hear that?” Harper replies. “I’m off. I keep shifting back down into the melody. It’s what I’m used to.”

  I say, “I thought you sounded—”

  “Sorry.” Harper takes a restraining hold on my arm. “Can you let Darrell deal with this?”

  “Okay.” Mortified, I focus only on Darrell.

  His eyebrows pull together. “It was slightly off, but you found your way again quickly.” He shrugs. “Nothing to worry about. Let’s get through the song once, and then we’ll go back to any rough spots.”

  Harper lets out a little grunt of frustration and flashes a glare my way, but she comes back to position.

  We start again. Harper stops after the first chorus. So I stop too. Jess keeps going, strumming hard, singing the low harmony with a forced smile.

  “Earth to Jess,” Harper hisses, too close to the mic. Jess ignores her.

  In the control booth, Darrell has his hands up in a “What is happening?” way. Gabe leans back, arms crossed and a wry smile on his face. Yeah, we’re pretty entertaining. At this rate, we’ll never be ready to record tomorrow.

  Darrell leans forward. “Can. We. Please. Focus.”

  That stops Jess. “Sorry.”

  “Thank you. Yes,” Harper says, as if she wasn’t the one derailing us. “I’m still not feeling the harmony part, Darrell.”

  He sighs, pushes his chair back and rubs his head. Gabe looks down, like we’re an accident he should avert his eyes from.

  My stomach’s a churning pool of anxiety. I can’t spend the day as Harper’s
target. And we need to get the songs perfect for tomorrow. “Darrell, can I go back to singing the harmony?”

  I sense Harper staring at me, alert as a hunting dog. And I’m the duck, dropping at her feet.

  Jess groans. “Nat, don’t be a—”

  “If she’s not comfortable with the melody,” Harper interrupts, “I think we should respect that.”

  “Oh, that is hilarious,” Jess says.

  “Listen up, girls.” Darrell leans in to the mic, his voice firm. “Nat, you can manage the melody. I need to hear more before I decide who should do it for the recording.”

  “But Darrell,” Harper starts.

  “Harper.” He levels his eyes at her. “You should know musicians need to be flexible and professional. Everything we do is in service to the song.”

  “Got it.” For once, Harper’s voice sounds small.

  “Good.” Darrell checks his watch, smiles at us. “Let’s try this again.”

  Jess cracks her knuckles. “Gladly.”

  In service to the song. I like that. I glance at Gabe and find he’s leaning forward, head cupped in his hands, smiling at me.

  I breathe in deeply and take it from the top again.

  * * *

  The fourth time Harper skews the harmony enough to throw off the melody, I know I have to give in. Frustration is creeping into my voice, and there’s a tightness in my chest making the high notes feel just out of reach. “Darrell, I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

  His lips are pinched together as he considers me through the control-room glass. I’m pretty sure he’s fed up with how long our session is taking. But he’s still silent. So is Jess. Harper, I’m guessing, is cheering to herself.

  “You sure?” Darrell says.

  I notice Gabe shaking his head—Don’t do it, Nat—but I know Harper’s not going to give up. “I’m sure.”

  Harper wraps her arms around me in a stifling hug. She says something, but we’re away from the mic, so I have to pull my headphones off to hear her properly. “It’s okay,” she says sweetly. “The melody’s tough in this song. You’ve made the right decision.”

  Fighting off the urge to shove Harper aside, I peel away from her. “Thanks.” I don’t trust myself to say anything else. I put my headphones back on, ready to rehearse the song one more time.

  At least I know I can nail harmony. Unlike Harper.

  Nine

  Later that afternoon, I stir sugar into my tea while Gabe waits for his latte at the counter. We’re in the Honeycomb Café, across the street from Crescendo Music. Nearby, a guy slouches over a muffin and a paperback. A gray-haired woman types on a laptop, her long-empty coffee mug pushed aside. Rain patters against the window beside me. The place oozes mellow vibes. I could do with some mellowing, after the way things went in the studio.

  “I think we have totally earned this sucker.” Gabe arrives with a giant cinnamon bun on a plate. “Say you’ll help me eat it.”

  “Just try to stop me.” I pull off a chunk and pop it in my mouth.

  “Excellent.” He does the same. We both chew away like our bodies are starved for cinnamon and sugar.

  Between mouthfuls, Gabe says, “I still can’t believe you let Harper take the melody in that song.”

  I try to sound casual. “She’s a fantastic singer.”

  “So are you. But you don’t try to make your bandmates sound bad so you get the lead vocal.”

  “Let’s talk about something else.”

  I want to stop worrying about the trio. I want to get to know Gabe. I point to the case sitting at his feet like a faithful dog. “Let’s talk about banjos.”

  “Seriously?” His smile tells me he’d love to talk about banjos.

  “Seriously. You’re the only banjo player I know. Guys usually go for guitars.”

  “I started with the guitar. I still play. Jess rocks at it, by the way.”

  “She does.” I suspect she’s better than Gabe, but I don’t say so. “Now, banjos. Go.”

  Gabe grins and leans back, his long legs stretched out. They almost touch mine. I hold very still. “My dad took me to the Tall Grass festival a few summers ago and we saw this dude playing banjo there and, I don’t know, I just loved the sound.”

  “The banjo sound.”

  He nods. “I loved the whole day. People hanging out in the sun, happy and dancing. Being together. The banjo sounded exactly the way that day felt.”

  Gabe gazes out the window, but I can tell he’s not seeing the view. I wish I was with him on that Tall Grass day. I let my foot shift so it touches his. He doesn’t move away.

  “I taught myself at first, and then I found Darrell. I keep playing to hang on to the feeling of that day. To get myself back to Tall Grass. Onstage.” Gabe takes a drink and wipes his knuckles across his mouth. A thrum of warmth ripples through me.

  “That’s so awesome.” I try to think of something deeper to say. A gurgly hiss from the espresso machine fills the silence.

  Gabe taps the table and leans forward. “And except for my dad, no one else knows my nerdy banjo story. So now I’m going to have to kill you.”

  I laugh. “Darn.”

  “Price you pay for asking about banjos.”

  I love the idea of knowing something about Gabe that no one else knows. I lean forward too. “I think you’re right about how banjos sound. I loved hearing you play today.”

  “Thanks.” Gabe’s cheeks redden. He’s a blusher, same as me. “Okay, your turn.”

  “My turn what?”

  “Your turn to share some deep, dark, nerdy truth about yourself.”

  “What if I don’t have a nerdy truth?” I sip some tea.

  “Impossible. Every musician does. Tell me, or I get this last hunk of cinnamon bun.” He reaches for it.

  “Hey!” I pull the plate to my side of the table. “Okay. I do have a nerdy truth. Brace yourself.”

  Gabe cradles his latte. “Is it very nerdy?”

  “Very.” I can’t believe I’m sharing this with a guy I’m crushing on. “I’m an excellent whistler. My grandpa taught me. He won contests.”

  “Whistling?” Gabe rubs his hands together greedily. “I am so going to need a demonstration!”

  I look around the café. Paperback guy is gone. Typing lady is still typing, ignoring everything, including the fresh espresso steaming beside her. The tattooed and well-pierced girl behind the counter is talking on her cell.

  “Here goes. This was his favorite song.” I lick my lips and launch into “The Dock of the Bay,” complete with the fancy, birdlike trills Grandpa loved.

  Gabe’s eyes go wide and he breaks into a huge smile.

  I can’t help smiling back. Which kills the whistle.

  “Hey! Don’t stop,” he says, reaching down to his banjo case.

  “It’s impossible to whistle and smile at the same time!” I say, laughing.

  He straightens, banjo at the ready. “Okay, I’ll be serious.” He shifts his chair so we’re facing each other, no table in the way. “Go ahead.”

  I start again and Gabe joins in with the banjo. He does look serious, his green eyes focused on mine as if he’s reading the notes there. When we get to the end, he makes the last chord vibrate until my whistling dies away. Our eyes stay locked together.

  There’s clapping. “Omigod, you guys are the cutest!” It’s the girl behind the counter. “You should be at, like, the Tall Grass festival. Have you heard of it?”

  “Oh yeah,” Gabe answers. He turns back to me.

  We stare some more.

  “We’d make a good duo,” he says, his voice low.

  It’s my turn to blush, cheeks warm as a sunburn. “I don’t know how popular a whistler-banjo act would be.”

  “Your lips are pretty when you whistle.”

  I look at Gabe’s lips.

  He leans across his banjo. I lean to meet him. And we kiss.

  * * *

  Two days later, Jess, Harper and I sit around a low table with the c
ontest entry form. I hold our shiny, perfect CD in one hand, an uncapped permanent marker in the other. “The name of our trio is…”

  Jess shakes her head, blank-faced.

  “I don’t know!” Harper moans. “My brain’s too tired from yesterday.”

  “Slayed With Chops still doesn’t do it for you?” I joke.

  “No!” Jess and Harper say together.

  “Listen to you two, agreeing.” Unlike my bandmates, I’m feeling perky.

  Two days ago I kissed the cutest banjo player west of anywhere. Yesterday the trio recorded two songs with only minor arguments. And we sounded good. So good I didn’t care if Harper sang the lead on both songs.

  Today is the deadline to submit our CD. We’re in the Tall Grass festival office, which turns out to be in the same building as Crescendo Music, two floors up. Harper knew that, of course.

  A man with dreadlocks, red-framed glasses and a Hawaiian shirt watches patiently from a nearby desk. “Don’t overthink it, ladies. Your talent is what counts, not your name.”

  “Someone should have told that to the Goo Goo Dolls,” Harper says. “Hey, are those the other entries?” She points to a cardboard box beside his desk. It’s stuffed to the brim with white envelopes like the one we’re supposed to put our CD and entry form into.

  “They are.” He smiles and leans over to pat the pile carefully, like it’s a sleeping tiger.

  Harper and Jess and I exchange grim looks. That pile is what we’re up against.

  “I don’t even want to know how many entries are in there,” Harper says.

  “One hundred and fourteen,” the desk man answers, not helpfully. His phone rings, and before he picks up he adds, “For thirty-five spots.”

  I do the math. “Add our entry and that’s one-fifteen. That means eighty groups who won’t get in. Eighty.”

  Harper looks worried for the first time since Darrell told us about the contest.

  “And the deadline’s still three hours away. Even more acts could enter,” Jess says.

  Harper grits her teeth. “Thanks for clarifying that, Miss Hopeless.”

  “Okay, just call us the Harper Neale Trio.” Jess gestures at the CD. “That’ll make you more hopeful about our chances.”