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into playing all the harmonies and assuming we’ll be able to pick our parts out ourselves. (God, where did these girls learn to pick these out themselves? Like, I can read music, I took piano when I was a kid, where are my superpowers?)
    I reach for one of our highest notes and my voice breaks. Carolina next to me screws up her own note by laughing, ha ha .
    I buckle down and get through Mendel, because after this I’m singing whatever I damn well please.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    It would be nice if I had any idea what that was.
    Mason says, “Maybe it’ll help you, not having something specific in mind. Means you can go in there all open to anything at that first audition and not be thinking, but I could sing my song so much better .”
    â€œWhat kind of stuff do they usually pick?” We’re back in the practice room, and this time there’s someone older than us coaching some people by the blackboard, and some people are listening and some people are off on their own, and then there’s me and Mason stretched out on the floor because why not. James is looking through a songbook, Bianca flitting by his shoulder and flipping back and forth between different pages, pointing stuff out, making him nod.
    Mason says, “Something hard, usually.”
    â€œOh, good!”
    He laughs. “It’s all about attitude at this stage. Show you deserve to be there, and they’ll believe you. The people auditioning you at this point are some low-level volunteers. You’ll be fine.”
    â€œAre you nervous?”
    He shrugs. Well, all right, thank you for keeping the conversation going, Mason. He’s damn lucky he’s cute.
    Bianca laughs, louder than she talks, and slips a little on the floor. I can’t believe I thought that girl was a dancer.
    Mason smiles a little and stretches. He’s slim, not skinny,white and broad-shouldered and big-eyed. He’s the kind of guy who I bet would look great onstage, and maybe that’s the kind of thing he thinks about. “She’s such a dork.”
    â€œDid you ever . . .”
    He says “What?” like he genuinely has no clue how that sentence ends, come on, kid.
    â€œYou and Bianca.”
    â€œMe and Bianca ? Like . . . as a thing? No no no no, God, I need to, like borax my brain now.”
    â€œCome on, she’s cute.”
    â€œShe’s fourteen, and I’ve known her since she was three. She’s like my little sister.”
    â€œHow long has she been . . .”
    â€œYeah. I don’t know. I didn’t notice until last year. James says it’s been going on longer than that. It wasn’t exactly something he talked about. She was always skinny and she’s been weird about food since she was little, always saying stuff gave her stomachaches and she wasn’t hungry and asking for diet soda in her kiddie cup at restaurants. I don’t know. I don’t get how all this works, I guess.”
    â€œThe eating disorder thing?”
    â€œYeah, just . . . you know. Why?”
    â€œWe go through tons and tons of therapy trying to figure out ‘why.’ Everyone wants it to be this same exact reason for everybody, like, oh, shit, if only I hadn’t eaten that house paint in 2002 I’d be eating like a normal person! ”
    â€œYou stupid kid.”
    â€œRight?”
    He smiles. At me.
    â€œSo how’s she doing?” I ask.
    â€œI don’t know. I guess since she’s doing group and stuff, we’re all supposed to talk about how well she’s doing, but she’s still not eating, so I guess I’m kind of failing to see what the big deal about group is.”
    â€œYeah, they don’t force-feed you unless you do inpatient.”
    â€œBut you . . . I mean, you eat.”
    I’m going to choose to believe that he’s getting that from the fact that I ate last night and not