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project that Casey is managing, in Senegal.”
    â€œThat would be cool,” I say.
    â€œThe thing is, it would begin immediately after I finish my next year of school. Which would mean I’d be leaving in late April or early May, and I’d be gone until September.”
    â€œWhat about the band?” I ask.
    â€œExactly,” she says. “I don’t know what to do. If I don’t come home next year, a lot of things will change.”
    â€œDo Mom and Dad know?”
    â€œNo,” she says. “I know I can’t leave it too much longer, but I can’t figure out how to tell them. You know what Dad is like.”
    â€œYep,” I say. “That’s pretty crazy, Kathy.”
    â€œYou said it.” She slows down. “Is this the place?”
    I spot a number painted on a piece of driftwood at the end of the driveway and check it against the address I put in my phone. “Looks like it,” I say. “Just drop me off here and I’ll walk the rest of the way. Thanks for the ride. I promise I won’t say anything.”
    She smiles. “I know you won’t. Don’t worry—everything will work out. Now get out of here. Go have some fun.”
    I grab my guitar from behind my seat and hop out, slapping the side of the bus as she drives away.
    The driveway is steep, and I’m huffing and puffing by the time I reach the cottage. I’d like to take a minute to catch my breath before I knock on the door, but Sandy is sitting on the front deck, strumming her guitar, and sees me before I have the chance. She props her guitar in her chair and comes over to greet me.
    â€œYou want something to drink?” she asks. “Grandma took Beast to the beach.”
    I set my guitar on the deck and follow her inside. The cottage is a typical summer rental—beat-up old furniture, some faded prints on the wall and a stack of well-used board games on top of a shelf full of paperback novels. Sandy pours us juice, and we take it out to the deck.
    â€œIt’s nice here,” I say. The cottage looks out on hills and trees. We can glimpse a narrow strip of ocean in the distance.
    â€œYeah,” she says. “It’s okay. It’s a bit isolated. I have to ask Grandma to drive me any time I want to go anywhere.”
    â€œI know what that’s like,” I tell her. “So what were you playing before I showed up?”
    â€œOh.” She glances at her guitar. “It wasn’t anything serious. I was just fooling around.”
    â€œYou should play something for me,” I say.
    â€œCan we maybe try doing something together?” she asks. “I’m a little shy to play in front of a professional musician.”
    â€œGive me a break,” I say, laughing. “Sure, let’s do it.”
    We mess around for a while, playing some oldies that we both know, like “American Pie” and “Harvest Moon.” She only plays chords, but she’s pretty good. When her shyness wears off a bit and we start to get into it, she begins to sing. Her voice is husky and sweet, and when she really gets into a song, she closes her eyes and throws her head back. I could listen to—and watch—her all day.
    By the time her grandmother and Beast get back from the beach, I’ve lost track of time. Beast runs growling onto the deck, wearing a baseball cap with seaweed hanging from it.
    â€œWhat happened to you?” asks Sandy.
    â€œI’m a sea beast!” he yells, running into the cottage.
    â€œHello, Neil,” says Sandy’s grandmother. “I’m glad you were able to come keep Sandy company.”
    â€œIt was fun,” I say. “But I should probably call home and get someone to come pick me up.”
    â€œDon’t be silly,” says her grandmother. “I’ll drive you. Sandy, can you make sure Bailey takes a shower? I’ll start getting supper ready when I get