They’re still clapping when I get back to my seat. Someone in the far corner whistles. I sit, but I’m also hovering above myself, and smiling so big that my whole body is a grin and my head is warm and fuzzy like the first time Matty kissed me.

Scarecrow gets up on stage and says “Th-th-that’s all folks,” like he’s Porky Pig.

I rest my guitar in its case, latch each of the clips slowly. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want it to be over. I want to climb on stage again to play more songs and keep them clapping. I don’t want to go back to an empty motorhome and my stupid math book.

Everyone collects themselves, pulling on hats and scarves, big sweaters and secondhand coats. People walk past me on their way to the door. A few smile or say, “Good job.” A guy in a tunic gives me a thumbs up.

I dig my mittens and scarf from my bag.

“I’ll walk you out,” Jim says, like that’s what I was waiting for.

“Thanks.”

“Pretty girl. Dark parking lot. You got to.” He shakes his head. It’s fatherly. But that’s how everyone else is too. Fatherly. Brotherly. I can’t picture King Neptune jumping from behind a truck to rape and pillage.

Jim pulls my chair out of the way as I stand. I walk in front of him until we get outside. The James Taylor guy shouts, “Night, Jimmy!”

“Night!” Jim shouts back, then, “Hack,” under his breath like a cough.

“I thought he was good,” I say, letting my feet drag on the parking lot gravel.

“They’re all hacks. You and that Marion girl. You’re the only ones who have any chance of making it. And maybe not even Marion.” He says it like it’s fact, not opinion.

“She’s better than me,” I say, and I know it’s true, but I’m high. My head is spinning. Making it. I have a chance of making it. I have more of a chance than Marion. I don’t even know what it is, and I don’t think Jim is the one who gets to hand it down, but I want it. The air is crisp. My breath makes clouds.

“She’s—don’t get me wrong, she’s good. But you’re the real deal. You’re the whole package. That’s what it’s about. Everyone buys into the package.”

He takes a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and smacks them against his palm until one sticks out. He holds the pack to his lips and pulls the cigarette with his teeth. “Want one?” he says from the side of his mouth.

I shake my head.

“Good girl.” He cups his hand to his face. Lights up. Puffs. “Save those pipes,” he says into the smoke.

“Will do,” I say. “Thanks.”