“Yeah,” I say, looking over his shoulder to make sure he’s the only other person in the hall. Maybe I’m still just shaken from what happened in the grove, but I have the weirdest feeling at the moment—like we’re not alone. Like someone is watching me.

Maybe I should tell someone about what happened.…

“Hey, do you know where Mr. Morgan might have headed off to?” I ask. “I need to talk to him about something.”

“Nope. I’m sure he’ll be back in a few minutes. Pleased to meet you, by the way.” He presses his hat to his chest and offers his hand for me to shake. A real handshake. Not a stupid “fist bump and blow it up” like most guys. “I’m Tobin Oshiro-Winters.”

I shift my guitar to my other hand, and I take his outstretched one. He smiles wider in return, and I realize who he reminds me of—in both the friendly tone that wafts off him and also his toothy grin. He’s the male, part Japanese version of CeCe back in Ellis Fields.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“No. Um.” I realize my hand is shaking a tiny bit in his grasp. “I guess so. I’m on deck,” I say, meaning that I’m up after the next person.

“Oh,” he says. “Well, don’t worry too much. I’m pretty sure Mr. Morgan has never eaten a student.”

His friendly beat grows so strong, I know right then that Tobin and I are going to be good friends. Just like CeCe and me. Some people just click that way. Two melodies that complement each other.

“Hey, is your arm okay?” he asks, noticing the marks on my wrist.

“Oh, that. I must have brushed up against something in the grove.”

“You went to the grove?” There’s a strange note of disconcertment in his voice.

“Yeah,” I say, pulling my hand behind my back. “I think I’ve got a rash or something.”

“It looks more like a burn. Do you need …?”

“It’s fine,” I say, but for a split second, I wonder if I should tell Tobin about what really happened. Maybe that would shake the weird feeling that has been following me ever since. I can tell from how much I like his tone that he’s someone I might trust.

I open my mouth to say something about the grove, but I don’t get the chance.

“Besides, you have to be pretty talented to get a scholarship here,” a high-pitched voice says as three girls enter the hallway from the auditorium, using the same door I had. “I bet she’s really good.”

“Hey, ladies!” Tobin says, catching their attention. “Have you met New Girl?”

The three look at me, and I can tell from the expression that crosses one of the girls’ faces that I was the subject of their conversation. The other two seem mostly uninterested.

“I’m pretty sure New Girl has a name, but she hasn’t shared it with me yet.” Tobin raises his eyebrows at me expectantly, and I realize my lack of social grace has struck again.

“Raines. Daphne, Raines,” I say, doing a silly James Bond impression. Because impersonations always make things less awkward.…

One of the girls laughs along with Tobin. The short blond one rolls her eyes, and the brunette yawns.

The girl who laughed gives me an amused smile. “I’m Iris Thompkins,” she says. “It’s nice to have another schollie around here.”

“Schollie?”

“A scholarship kid,” Tobin answers. “Iris thinks there are too many spoiled kids of famous people at this school. Don’t you, Iris?”

She blushes and gives him a shut-up sort of look.

Tobin doesn’t seem to notice. “Iris is always saying that the last thing we need is another brat kid of a celebrity mucking up the works around here.”

She gives him a pointed glare and rocks her head toward the brunette.

“You mean someone who deserves to be here by talent?” the blond one asks, nudging her friend. “Not because her daddy pulled some strings?”

“Whatever,” the brunette says and yawns again. I recognize those vacant eyes of hers and realize she’s the spitting image—in a younger version—of the actress in Jonathan’s favorite rom com.

“Anyway,” Iris says, trying to get the conversation back on track, “all I was saying is that it’s nice to have another schollie like me around.”

“Oh. Yeah.” I feel heat rushing into my cheeks. “How can you tell I’m a schollie?” I don’t want to admit that Joe Vince is my father. Not yet anyway. I’d let these kids pass judgment on me after I had a chance to sing. If they don’t think I deserve to be here afterward, then that would be a whole different issue.

“Your outfit,” the tiny blond girl says. I feel like a giant compared to her. “It’s totally thrift store chic.”

“Thank you,” I say, even though the girl’s statement is clearly an insult wrapped inside a compliment. “You’re so kind.”

Tobin catches the irony in my voice and smiles.

“Well, I think Daphne looks supercute,” Iris says. “I love the bohemian look.”

“I concur,” Tobin says, his smile widening.

The petite blond flips her curly hair over her shoulder and then narrows her eyes as she looks up—way up—at me. “So whom have you trained with? Borelli in LA? Caldwell in San Diego? Iris had to do two years with Rimaldi before they’d give her a scholarship here. It’s a good thing he does pro bono work, isn’t it, Iris? Oh, by the way, how was the bus ride from Compton?”

Iris purses her lips. A sharp, angular tone comes off her and I can tell she wants to say something rude back, but is biting her tongue.

“I’m from Utah, actually,” I say, to draw the attention from Iris.

“Oh, then, Risedale in Salt Lake City?” the blond says, a tiny note of envy coming off her.

“Actually, Jonathan in the back room of Paradise Plants and Floral. Sometimes with an iPod out in the yard, too.”

“You haven’t had formal training?” she asks, the notes of envy growing stronger. “I had assumed you’d be good, considering Mr. Morgan is allowing you to audition for the vacancy that Cari Wilson’s left in the program.”

“You play the guitar?” Tobin asks, pointing at Gibby. “That’s a sweet Gibson. Where did you—?”