Every fall, the concert band performs at the Lincoln Harvest Festival in Pine Hill Park. The Harvest Festival is a community event filled with hayrides, farm stands with local produce, and so many cider donuts—pretty much peak fall in New England energy. A few years ago, Dad proposed that it also be a performance opportunity for the band, where the marquee event is a classic film score. Past performances have included Casablanca, E.T., and The Wizard of Oz. It’s an event that the town has come to anticipate and is excellent—both in terms of the local media attention it receives and the boost it gives to small businesses that participate.

Star Wars: Episode IV—A New Hope is this year’s Harvest Festival score. The hype is already building, thanks to Aaron Jacobson’s local on-screen news debut in a piece highlighting how the band’s participation has increased Harvest Festival turnout.

The screen time has absolutely gone to his head.

It’s a cool story, objectively.

But the school committee does not need another reason to obsess over the band.

Neither does the town, for that matter.

Because as a town, Lincoln is as average as it gets. Our sports teams are mediocre. We don’t have a marching band. Our drama club is small. Our entertainment options are a movie theater, ice skating, a roller rink, and a mall with every store that’s in every town.

But Lincoln’s concert band and orchestra program?

They are exceptional.

Reid shifts the conversation to his current role: recruitment for the jazz ensemble.

“We need more percussion,” Reid says.

“Makayla’s—” I start.

“Rosalind Levy is sick on the snare,” Reid says, cutting me off. “Which will make up for losing Tricia, I think.”

Dad nods. “Cool. Good to know.”

I wait for Dad to ask me about Makayla’s sister, who is an incredible drummer. He doesn’t. He continues talking to Reid like I didn’t try to speak, like I couldn’t possibly contribute something valuable to this conversation.

Like I wasn’t once a musician myself.

“We won’t know for sure until we hear how everyone meshes.”

I am invisible.

Finally, after another Pop-Tart and what feels like endless band chat, Dad closes his binder and heads to his studio in the basement to set up for Reid’s lesson. Reid stands and brings his cereal bowl to the sink, so I reach into my backpack for my laptop, ready for thirty sweet minutes of alone time, just Melted and me.

I open the file.

“It’s not too late for Boiled.”

I jump, my fingers jamming into my keyboard. “Why are you so fixated on this?”

“Imagine if Adina could instantly boil anything she touches. She’d be unstoppable!” Reid says. “Think about it. Artists need to be open to criticism, Natalie. Collaborative.”

“Right. Except we’re not collaborators.”

Reid’s jaw tenses. “I know.”