I try to make eye contact with the guy sitting next to the empty chair. He’s too busy talking to the other people at the table to notice me, so I tap the chair leg with my boot. Nothing. I put my guitar case down and fumble with one of the clips, catching his glance in the corner of my eye. But when I look up, he’s back to talking, so I have to sit down and lean over to tap him on the shoulder to ask if it’s okay if I sit. I feel like an ass, since I’m already sitting, but he says, “No problem,” and offers his hand. “Jim.”

“April,” I say, meeting his grip firmly, the way my father taught me—a good “seal the deal” shake. I pull away to position the guitar between my legs so no one can take it. Right before the chorus I realize the guy on stage is trying to play Free Bird. When I look up to check Jim’s reaction to the acoustic crucifixion of Lynyrd Skynyrd, he’s already turned around, busy talking to the woman sitting next to him. His hair is a brown horseshoe with wiry strands spread across the shiny skin in the middle of his head. The remaining total comes together in a long skinny ponytail wrapped in a plain rubber band at the base of his neck. The woman he’s talking to has grey hair like steel wool, braided and not even fastened at the ends, left to unravel over time. She looks like Mother Nature, and the man on the other side of her could be King Neptune with his long white beard and tattered navy cap. They must have come here together and I’m cutting in on their party of three.

I wish, just a little bit, I’d come with someone. I told Matty I had to study for math. I don’t want him to see me play until I’m sure I’m not going to get up there and choke.

“I’ll help you study,” he said, giving me the toothy grin that usually gets him everything he wants.

“We never study when we study,” I told him. “I’m totally failing.”

His eyes flashed with hurt when I sent him away, but I couldn’t stop thinking about what his face would look like if I got on stage and my voice croaked and my fingers wouldn’t move.