Val leans over to whisper in my ear. “Holy shit.” She’s twisting a long strand of dark hair around one finger. “Can you believe this is real life?”

I glance around and everyone is staring, rapt, at Willa. Lex. Jude. All the others. They’re hanging on her every word. I know she’s talking about us, but there’s obviously something special about her, too.

“You may be aware,” Willa starts, “that a while back I wrote a little play.” Everyone giggles, of course, and Willa laughs with us. “But seriously,” she says, “Midnight Music is the greatest achievement of my life. It’s the reason this theatre is still here. It’s the reason I’m still here.” She pauses for a deep breath. “And now it’s the reason you’re all here.” A cheer and a round of applause go up from our group, and Willa pauses another moment before she continues, one hand over her heart. “And for that, I am eternally grateful.”

She goes on to explain that our mornings will be filled with classes on everything from stage combat to dialects. “We’ve arranged for some of the industry’s top theatre professionals to work with you this month.” Naturally, she teaches playwriting herself.

In the afternoons, we’ll have our work assignments. Because there’s no cost to attend the intensive, the work assignments are how we give back to Whisper Cove. Willa tells us all to check the call-board on the front porch to find out where we’ll be working. But I’ve already done that, so I know I’ll be at the reception desk.

“Classes start tomorrow,” Willa lets us know, and she tucks a strand of long, dark hair behind one ear. Silver bracelets jingle. “That gives you a little more time to settle in. But work assignments start this afternoon.” She pauses, and her eyes sparkle. “Which brings us to this evening’s auditions.”

A hush falls over the group. We all lean forward like we’re scraps of metal, powerless against Willa’s magnetic pull. It reminds me of the way we listened to Cole’s story last night on the beach.

Those deserted houses with their rotting gardens.

“As you’re probably aware,” Willa says, “each year the students present a workshop performance of Midnight Music on the final day of the intensive.”

Lex has stopped breathing beside me. He’s gripping the porch railing, and the freckles on the backs of his hands stand out like tiny drops of blood.

“But you don’t need to look so worried,” Willa says. “Everyone gets a part. All worthy roles, I assure you. I happen to know the playwright.” She winks at Lex, and he giggles. It comes out super high-pitched. Nervous. And he clamps a hand over his mouth, embarrassed. But then Jude tosses him a grin, and he starts to breathe again.