They said the music wasn’t real, that it was all created by my dysfunctional brain.

They recommended therapy and medication. To this day, I still don’t know if my mom curtly refused their diagnosis because she hated the idea of taking me out of Ellis twice a week for therapy, or because she believed my insistence that the music was real. Either way, I am glad she didn’t let those doctors try to medicate the music out of me.

I use the sounds I hear to navigate my life. I use it to pick my friends. I am always drawn to people with warm, inviting melodies. I love grouping together the things and people whose tunes best complement each other. Like composing my own little symphony of friends. And it helps me read people’s emotions based on the shifts in the tones they put off. I use music to discover favorite things and find my favorite places. Even the earth itself has a song that I can hear when I am being very, very still.

That’s the real reason I want to rehearse in the grove. I want to be wrapped inside the grove’s song, and add my own music to it.

I cross the footbridge that leads to the grove on the smaller island of the lake. I get off my bike and walk it through the ring of tall poplar trees, which border the grove. They remind me of spires, stretching up as if in homage to the heavens. Smaller aspens and laurel trees fill in the center of the grove, creating a thick canopy of darkness—even in daytime—that must have been what kept others away. Normally, I am not keen on dark places, but the grove’s melody draws me in.

I leave my bike propped against a poplar tree and then settle onto the ground with my guitar. I lean my back against a strangely shaped laurel tree that reminds me of a tuning fork: the way its trunk is split in the middle so it grows upward in two separate curves. I pull my guitar from its case and run through a few bars without singing. I need three songs for the audition this afternoon. Two of them, I am sure about, but I am still wavering on what to do for the third. Should I choose one of my own songs so the music director would see that I’m interested in songwriting, in addition to singing? Or should I stick with popular songs that everyone will know and feel connected to?

I guess I could sing Joe’s star song, since it would cover both options. That bitter thought trickles through my mind before I can stop it. I shake away a flood of additional thoughts that try to break through the floodgates. I’ve already lost too much time to Joe today, and I need to focus on rehearsing.

I run through several voice warm-up exercises, and then after some thought, I pick a song I wrote for my mother. I play it a couple of times on my guitar, and then start it again. This time, I join in with my voice after the intro.

The laurel tree I lean against seems to tremble at the sound of my voice. Its vibrating hum joins my song. It feels as though the grove comes to even greater life as I sing, sending the echo bouncing against the branches and leaves of the trees. The aspens create a quaking, clattering rhythm that keeps up with the melody of the song. Birds chirp, dragonflies buzz, and even the wind feels as though it is keeping harmony with me as it swirls my long hair around my face while I sing. I’d known there was something extraspecial about this place before I’d entered. I could tell by the way it had called out to me. I’ve always loved singing with nature as my audience, but I’d never before had nature join in with me like this.

Perhaps this experience really is a symptom of a dysfunction in my brain—but there’s no way I would classify it as a disorder.

I stop playing the guitar abruptly. The grove quiets in a way that reminds me of the intake of a breath, anticipating the next note. I sing the last line of the song without the guitar accompaniment, while the trees reverberate around me. The vibration of the tuning fork–shaped tree tingles up my spine and into my arms. When I finish the song, the grove falls silent again. Followed by the sound of a very real gasp …

I jump up, almost dropping Gibby. Somebody else is here. I can feel someone’s presence, even though I can’t see anyone, and I know I hadn’t imagined that human-sounding gasp. The grove is still quiet—too quiet. Shouldn’t it have taken up its own song again by now? What is it waiting for?

“Who’s there?” I ask.

Only silence answers, but I know I’m not alone.

Perhaps there is some paparazzo lurking in the bushes. Marta said that they couldn’t get past the security gates, but I’m sure someone unscrupulous and crafty enough can figure out how to sneak past the guards. Maybe this one had gotten wind of Joe Vince’s prodigal daughter and was looking for a photo op?

“I know you’re there,” I say. “So you might as well show yourself, get your picture, and get lost.”

The air grows warmer around me, and I can feel someone coming closer. I shiver despite the budding heat.

“How did you do that?” a strangely accented voice asks from somewhere in the dark of the grove.

“What?” I look in the direction of the voice, but I can’t see anyone. “Who’s there?”

“What was that you did with your voice?” It sounds as though the questioner has moved even closer. “Just now. I heard you.”

I put a hand to my throat. “You mean my singing?” I reply to the darkness.

“Singing. Is that what you call that?”

“Excuse me?” My cheeks flush with heat. I step closer to the location of the voice. “Listen, jerk, I don’t know who you are. But if you came here to make fun of my singing, you can go …”

The leaves of one of the aspen trees silently quiver, and someone appears out of the shadows—almost as if he materialized from the darkness.

I step back, uncomfortable with the seclusion of the grove for the first time. The person is cloaked in shadows, but I can tell he’s a man. Or perhaps a boy. But definitely male. He steps closer and his features come into view. I take him in from head to toe. It would be impossible not to. He’s tall, even taller than me, and I tower over most of the guys I’ve ever met. His black jeans look brand-new, and his black shirt still carries the creases from sitting on a department store shelf. Both hug his fit body in a way that makes me take in a quick breath. While his clothes seem expensive and refined, the rest of him looks untamed in a way that reminds me of a wildcat.… Or more like a pirate? His cheeks and jaw are hard and muscular, and his thick hair, the color of ebony, falls in chunky, uneven strands, like somebody took a raw blade to it, just above his shoulders. Long black bangs hide his eyes.