Joe approaches with a cup of coffee. I take it and breathe it in. The foam and sugary sweetness hit me like smelling salts and bring me back to myself. I study Joe over my cup while he keeps an eye on the crowd. He’s a muscly guy with tan lines from his sunglasses that make him look like a very nice raccoon. Right now, his arms are crossed like he’s my own personal bodyguard. People give us space.

“Not bad, Louise. Not bad at all,” he says once the crowd begins to move back inside. “Your mom was right when she said you had the pipes.”

I smile into my cup.

“Don’t tell her I caffeinated a minor, okay?”

We both look over to where she’s standing, her hands on the hips of her tightest black jeans, talking to the Ray Ban guy.

“I don’t think she’d care.”

“No?” Joe gives me a look like he wants to ask more. I’ve already said too much, gotten too comfortable. He’s easy to talk to, and that’s a problem. What happens between me and Mom stays between me and Mom.

I begin packing up the guitar and tasseled rug we unroll for performances.

“Thanks for the joe, Joe,” I say.

“Was that a joke?” He makes a shocked “oh” face, and I laugh, because the caffeine has kicked in and I’m happy my job is done for the day. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Stay cool, Louise,” he says, and walks back into the café, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder.

Oh no. Mom is leading the fancy spandex couple over, and I immediately tense up. I guess I’m not quite done for the day after all.

Mom starts the introductions.

“Louise, I’d like you to meet Howard Maze.”

“Howie. Please.” Howie sticks out a big hand with stubby fingers. I can’t do it. A shake is too much. I give a little wave instead. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“This is my wife, Margaret. Maggie.”

Howie and Maggie. Same height, same glasses, same dark hair. They could have been cartoon supervillains.

“We’re a husband-and-wife talent team—the Maze Agency. We’re a family business, and we’re in the business of making families’ dreams come true,” Howie says like he’s in a commercial. “And we love your sound.”

“You’ve really got something, honey,” Maggie chimes in, lifting her glasses and eyeing me up and down. “Kind of raspy, like a modern Stevie Nicks.”

“A tiny dynamo, like Amy Winehouse,” Howie adds.