Gilly’s father’s gaze darted between me and his daughter. “Right,” he said finally, carefully putting Gilly’s arm over his shoulder. “Well, why don’t we get you on the couch and then I’ll get that damn horse back in his stall before he breaks his neck.”

We got Gilly to a sofa in a living room full of big stuffed couches and a television bigger than any television I’d ever seen in my whole life. Like a wall of TV. Her father brought her a bag of frozen peas and a stool and then ran out the door. I grabbed a stray sweatshirt on a chair and handed it to Gilly.

“Do you”—I looked over my shoulder to give her privacy and to see if her dad was going to bound back in the door—“want me to go?”

“OH,” Gilly said. “Do you want to stay for, like, a snack or something? Or will your moms worry?”

“No. I can stay.” I pulled out my cell. “Can I charge my phone?”

It was entirely possible Lucy was home and wondering if I was sitting in the woods with a sprained ankle.

“Yes.” Gilly brightened. “You can charge your phone and then possibly have a snack?”

“Do you have, like, awesome snacks?” I teased. “I feel like you keep pushing the snacks.”

“Hospitality.” Gilly pointed at a chair. “Have a seat. My dad will get us something when he gets back. My father is also very into snacks.”

He was. As soon as he got back, he made us both root beer floats in mugs I initially mistook for pitchers. Also, whose idea was it to put ice cream in root beer? It’s genius!

“Thanks, sir,” I said as I took the glass.

“Just call me Bob,” he said, moving toward the doorway. “You kids relax. I’m going to call the doctor.”

So there I was, on a Saturday, in the living room of Gilly Henderson, getting a pretty solid ice cream headache.

I didn’t want to move because I thought if I moved the whole thing would turn out to be a very weird but amazing dream. Although, as soon as I got a wisp of a charge I sent my parents a quick “I AM OK” message.

“So.” Gilly took a long slurp. “I just wanted to tell you. I thought your audition was really compelling.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes,” Gilly gasped. “Your singing, the acting. It was amazing. It was just very professional.”

“Wow.”

“Now, I’m just blathering on.” Gilly looked down at the couch.

“What? No. That’s all really nice things to say,” I said. “I was going to tell you that you did really great too!”

“Thanks.” Gilly sloshed the last bits of ice cream around in her mug. “I liked the song too. The one you sang. What was it?”

“ ‘I Will Survive.’ ”

“Really?” Gilly looked momentarily confused. “It didn’t. . .sound like ‘Survive’?”