“So what do you sing?” the girl asks, cutting him off.

“I like indie music mostly, but I have a soft spot for more classic—”

“Not what songs you like to sing. What do you sing?” she says, like I’m a simpleton. “Like, what part?”

“Oh. I don’t really know. Contralto, maybe. Or possibly mezzo-soprano.” I’d never been able to figure that out in my self-taught lessons. My normal voice isn’t high-pitched, like most of the female singers’ on the radio. I have a lower, slightly gravelly quality. Like Adele’s. But I can also sing higher if I want. Jonathan was always throwing new pieces of music at me, trying to stump me, but nothing ever seemed out of my range.

“You don’t know your range and they let you step foot on this campus?”

I shrug, but inside, I start to worry that I am in over my head.

“Well, this is one audition I can’t wait to see,” she says with a wicked smile. “Come on, Bridgette. I doubt this newbie is Sopranos material. We’re wasting our time.” She turns on her heel and heads back into the auditorium, with the brunette trailing behind her.

“Okaaay,” I say under my breath.

“Don’t mind Lexie,” Tobin says. “She’s not always quite so … abrasive. She’s up for the lead in the play this year and that’s got her on edge. With Cari gone, it’s most likely between Lexie and Pear Perkins. She’s just worried you’ll be new competition.”

“She’s been a total pain since she took over leadership of the Sopranos,” Iris says. “All that power is going to her head.”

“The Sopranos?” I ask. “What is she, like, the godfather of the school mafia or something?”

“Pretty much,” Tobin says. “But I have it on good authority that they do more shopping than killing these days.”

“On the bright side,” Iris says, sounding more relaxed now that Lexie is gone, “if you suck at singing, she might actually be friends with you.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, and make a grand gesture of wiping pretend sweat off my forehead.

Tobin laughs. He takes my hand and bows, pretending to plant a kiss on my knuckles. “I think I might be falling in love with you, Daphne Raines.”

I laugh.

Iris gives me a not-so-enthused look. “All joking aside. You don’t want to cross Lexie. The Sopranos can make your life miserable if they want.”

“I’m not really worried about them.”

What I am worried about is my audition. I check my watch. It’s 3:20. I haven’t realized how long I’ve been talking to Tobin and the others. The next audition should have started by now, and then I am up after that.

The door swings open, and Bridgette, the brunette, pokes her head out. “Have either of you seen Pear? It’s her turn, and Mr. Morgan is calling for her.”

“Pear Perkins, second call for Pear Perkins,” I hear Mr. Morgan yell from inside the auditorium.

“Pear likes to make an entrance,” Tobin says.

“I know, but she’s really pushing it this time,” the brunette says.

“Maybe Lexie offed her,” Iris whispers dramatically behind her hand. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Be nice,” Tobin says.

“I’m just making sure New Girl knows what she’s getting herself into. Last year, this freshman was up for the part Lexie wanted, so she put ipecac in the girl’s apple juice. The girl puked all over the stage right in the middle of her audition.”

“That’s just a rumor. She probably had the flu or was nervous or something.”

“Well, whatever the cause, Lexie posted a video of it on the school’s Facebook page and it got, like, five thousand hits before the admins took it down.”

“Nobody ever proved it was Lexie that posted it,” Tobin says.

“Yeah, because she posted it under a dummy account. She’s not stupid. And proof doesn’t matter. Everybody knows it. I’m telling you, Daphne. You don’t want to cross her.”

“Last call for Pear Perkins,” rings out Mr. Morgan’s perturbed voice. “Somebody tell that diva she has fifteen seconds to get out here or I’m cancelling her audition.”

Bridgette squeaks from the doorway, “Where the heck is she?”

“That’s it. I’m calling it,” Mr. Morgan says, his voice filled with annoyance. “Next up. Miss Rain. Miss Rain, are you here?”

No answer comes from the auditorium.

“Miss Daphne Rain? Do we have another no-show?”

“Isn’t that you?” Tobin asks.

“What?” I’d been distracted by the nervous little melody wafting off Bridgette.

“Daphne Rain, you have sixty seconds to appear on my stage or your audition is also cancelled,” shouts Mr. Morgan.

“Oh, that is me,” I say, a little dumbfounded. My audition isn’t supposed to be for another ten minutes. I haven’t had time to finish my relaxation exercises. My throat is still dry. I need more water. I’m not quite ready.

“Fifty seconds!”

I must look panicked, because Tobin takes my arm. “Don’t worry,” he says, and leads me down the hall several yards to another door. He swings it open. “Backstage,” he says. “Just go up those stairs and follow the curtains. Break a leg!” he says, and pushes me through the doorway—which he might have meant literally, because as the door swings shut, I am engulfed in utter darkness.

“Thirty seconds, Miss Rain!”

I stumble forward and hit the stairs. I find the handrail and pull myself up the steps. I grip my guitar tightly in one hand and stick the other out, feeling for the curtains. Something rustles past me, and I hear that low, hissing sound from before. I spin around, looking for what—or who—is with me in the darkness. I can’t see anything but blackness all around. My old fear of the dark had started during that hospital stay when I was thirteen. Every time one of the nurses would shut off the lights, it would seem like someone was standing in the shadows. Watching me. It was probably just the painkillers messing with my mind—the sensation had gone away once we went home and I could sleep in my own bed—but it had taken me months before I could sleep without the lights on. For some reason, that old fear comes rolling over me again. I take another step. Something brushes my arm, and I almost scream. Another half step and I realize I’m standing in one of the curtains.