Maggie taps my shoulder, and I flinch. “Here, honey, you take this.” She hands me an ivory card with THE MAZE AGENCY printed on it in big blue letters. “Call us at the office, and we’ll set something up when we get back.” She turns to her husband, who is snapping to-go lids on both their lattes. “What do you think, Howie, end of next week?”

“Next week. Yeah, that should work. Vacation first, then work.”

“Excellent. We’ll check our schedule and get back to you,” Mom says like we’re on tour. But the Mazes are already making their way through the doors and back out into the Tahoe morning.

I swallow the last of my coffee and stare into the bottom of my cup. This was supposed to be free coffee and enough of a gig to keep Mom happy for another few weeks. Despite all her pep talks over the years, I never thought I’d actually have someone think I was good enough to sign. I love to sing because the sound of my own voice in my ears steadies me. It makes me feel stronger than I am. I try to imagine doing that in front of cameras and crowds and high fives and handshakes and applause. An acidy burp escapes my throat and burns. As soon as the Mazes disappear, I grab Mom’s hand.

“Mom, we can’t go to LA next week.”

“Why not?” She’s smiling and clicking her fingers together like there’s a song playing I can’t hear.

“Because… you have a job here.…” Because I like the mountains and the quietness of this place, I think. Because if someone tries to fit me for a Disney costume, I will implode.

“A job?” She stops and points to a stool so I’ll sit. “You mean the minimum-wage, no-insurance, waitress job? Yeah, tough decision there.”

I shake my head. I hate it when she gets sarcastic with me. The deck is almost empty now that the free entertainment’s over. I move to set my cup on the stool next to me, and it wobbles because my hands are shaking again. She sees it and leans her shoulder, as carefully as always, into mine. I sigh with relief at the weight of it. If either of us were to pull away, we’d both topple over.

“It’s about a seven-hour drive down to LA,” she says in a low, calm voice. “How about this—we go next week, see what happens?” The way it comes out, she sounds like she couldn’t care less if I get it or not. But I know better. “And then, hey, if they love you as much as I think they will, we’ll sign a big contract, make this our home base, and fly back and forth like fancy jet-setters?”