I look out at the room as I continue singing. Nick’s mouth is slightly open, and my father, who has turned around from the coffee bar, is staring at me. I don’t think I’ve blown my cover. Still, I’m not sure why they’re looking at me so intently. I take a breath and launch into the chorus, my voice rising an octave.

“You were my world, my life, my soul,” I continue. “Now you’ve been away for far too long.”

I close my eyes and imagine for a moment that my father is listening to me, recognizing me, realizing that the words, the notes, the melodies are all for him. But when I open my eyes again and look at him, I know in an instant that all he’s seeing is a girl who’s pretty good at the guitar. There’s no recognition on his face, no glint in his eyes, no hint of affection on his features.

Nick’s face is a different story. He’s staring at me, his mouth hanging open, as if he’s seeing me for the first time.

By the time I’m playing through the chorus for the last time, my loneliness feels painfully raw.

“You’ve been away for far too long,” I conclude.

As I strum the last chord and set the guitar down, back in its stand, I look out at the audience and feel the carpet of comfort yanked out from under me. They’re all staring at me, and I feel suddenly embarrassed. They hated me. They thought my song was terrible. Mom was right after all; I shouldn’t even be attempting my own music.

But then a funny thing happens. One of the fifty-something bald men in the back starts clapping and then everyone joins in, and it doesn’t stop. It’s loud, thundering applause, applause that seems too big to come from this small crowd. I look out at them in shock. They’re smiling, cheering, and a guy in the back is even making whooping sounds and pumping his fist in the air.

I can hardly believe it. They liked me. Not Star Beck. Not the pop star–molded, perfectly dressed, perfectly choreographed Star Beck. But me. Just me and a guitar.

Me.

I blush, mutter a nervous “Thank you” into the mic and step down from the stage. I make my way back to the table I’m sharing with Nick and slide into my seat.

“That was amazing,” he says slowly.

“It was no big deal,” I mumble, but secretly, I’m thrilled.

“Wow,” says my father into the mic as he steps onto the stage. “I think we can all agree that was a pretty incredible performance. Let’s hear it again for”—he pauses and consults his sheet of paper—“Amanda Pepper!” The crowd claps and cheers again, and my father beams at me.