Ella couldn't believe Rory had remembered.

She cut into her spanakopita, drinking in the opulence of The Pegasi. Other than the restaurant they went to in Los Angeles, it was the nicest place she'd ever been; bunches of manicured greenery dangled down from the ceiling, and all of the white napkins were crisp and ironed. The air smelled like olive oil and freshly cooked bread.

Ella was in heaven.

She looked across the table at where her brother was chowing down on his pork souvlaki with just a little too much enthusiasm.

He must have been planning this for ages, the sneaky liar.

"You didn't have to do this, you know," Ella told him. "We could have gone to Chipotle."

"This is better," Rory said.

"And you were out with Vienna."

"She wasn't feeling well, anyways."

"Still." Ella leaned forward, spearing some of his souvlaki. "Thank-you, Ror."

She popped it into her mouth, savouring the taste of tangy tzatziki. God, Greek food was good. The only thing that could make it better was if Max—

Ella stopped that thought.

No.

Immediately, Ella felt guilty; she was enjoying a nice birthday lunch with her brother. Why the hell was she thinking about Max?

Unfortunately, Rory's next topic of conversation wasn't much better.

"So," he said. "University."

Ella almost choked on the pork. "Oh, no," she groaned. "Do we have to do this? Right now?"

"You can't put it off forever," Rory pointed out.

If Ella was Louise, she would tell Rory to shove it and stab at her pork mutinously until he gave up trying. As it was, Ella merely took a delicate sip of water.

"There's nothing to discuss," she said, as firmly as she could. "I don't want to go back to business school, Rory. I mean it."

"Then what do you want to do?"

Her grip tightened on her knife. Instinctively, Ella wanted to lie to him — to tell Rory that she didn't know, or invent a burgeoning interest in marine biology — but then she thought of Max's face when he overheard her singing in the shower.

What was it he said?

You're incredibly talented, Ella. I wish you'd realize it.

"Do you remember our first talent show?" Ella asked abruptly. "The one we did in sixth grade in front of the whole school?"

Rory blinked. "I—yes. Why?"

"You performed a Luke Bryan song," she said, ignoring him. "You wore those cowboy boots and everything, remember?"

"And a hat," Rory added, grinning. "God, I was terrible at guitar."

"And me?" Ella prompted. "Do you remember what I did?"

Rory screwed up his face. And even though Ella had expected it — even though she knew that he wouldn't remember — it still felt like a blow. Of course he didn't remember her questionable rendition of "Roar" by Katy Perry on the violin. Of course he didn't remember that she had spent nights painstakingly practicing the lyrics, working so hard to get it right.

"It was Katy Perry," she prompted. "A recent one."

Rory frowned. "Elle, is there some reason you're bringing this up?"

She clasped her hands tightly under the table. She wanted to shake Rory. She wanted to scream into his face until he understood, until he got what she was trying to say to him.

But Ella didn't.

She wasn't brave enough.

"It's nothing," Ella told him. "I was just feeling nostalgic, I guess." Although her stomach was in knots, she gestured to a piece of souvlaki. "Are you going to eat that?"

An hour later, they were speeding in a limo toward the University of Phoenix stadium. Palm trees and shopping mall strips rushed by them, disappearing in fireworks of green and salmon pink, and it wasn't until they were close to the stadium that Rory switched his phone back on.

"Just in case," Rory said, holding it up. "I doubt anything important has—"

His phone pinged.

And then again. And again. Rory's face changed as he took in the messages, and Ella felt her heartbeat accelerate.

"What? What is it?"

"Something bad," Rory said.

It was indeed something bad. Something very bad.

Margaux met them at the entrance to backstage, her brown frizzy hair escaping from its top knot. She was wearing an earpiece, and from the amount of wincing that she was doing, Ella suspected that whatever was being said wasn't good.

"I'm going to kill Vienna," Margaux seethed, hustling them through the labyrinth of tunnels. "The idiot decided to order oysters. In a land-locked state."

"Food poisoning?" Rory asked grimly.

"So she claims." Margaux almost collided with a terrified stage tech, who leapt out of the way. "I wouldn't be surprised if she was just pissed that you stood her up today." She rolled her eyes. "Thanks for that, by the way."

Rory winced. "Margaux..."

"Oh, and happy birthday, Ella," she added, with slightly more warmth. "I'm sorry I didn't remember."

Ella waved her off. "You have enough to deal with."

"The one day that I decide to take off," Margaux muttered, violently shoving aside a cut-out lamp prop. "I'm never taking a holiday again."

"What about Giddy Gold?" Rory asked breathlessly. They were jogging to keep up with Margaux, now. "Aren't they the back-up?"

"They dropped out. Salary dispute."

Rory paled. "What about Christian O'Neill?"

"He'll never get here in time," Margaux said.

"What about—?"

"It's over, okay?" Margaux stopped outside the door to the dressing room, thrusting it open with such force that Ella almost tumbled inside. "We don't have an opening act. End of story."

"So, what?" Rory stared at her. "You want us to just magically invent a few more songs for a longer set?"

One look at Margaux's face revealed that this was exactly what she wanted them to do.

"That's insane," Rory growled, throwing himself into a chair. "We can't just pull songs out of nowhere." He looked at the other boys for help. "Tell her that's insane."

Oliver fidgeted with his bass. "We don't have another choice, mate."

"Ollie's right," Theo said, leaning to be seen around a make-up artist. "The fans paid for a three-hour concert."

"Well, I—"

The door flew open.

"I'm the worst!" Louise declared. "Literally the worst friend ever. You can unfriend me on Instagram, if you'd like. Or burn me at the stake. I deserve both." She was still dressed in her date outfit — a black dress and glittery heels — and she tottered across the room, thrusting something long and flexible at Ella. "Here. This is for you."

Ella stared. "Is that a whip?"

"Yes," Louise said, with great dignity. "It belonged to Percy Grainger."

Ella examined it. She wasn't sure what the Australian-born composer had needed a whip for, but she suspected that it wasn't composing his folk songs. Perhaps he rode horses, Ella thought hopefully. Louise stuffed a bouquet of yellow roses into her hands next, followed by a pink sash that read "It's My Birthday and I'll Party if I Want To."

Ella shook her head. "Where did you even get the whip?"

"You don't want to know," Louise said.

"This must have cost a fortune."

"You're worth it." Louise kissed her cheek. "Happy twentieth birthday, darling."

"You didn't have to," Ella said, flushing.

"Of course I did," Louise said. "And Sophia and Ophelia recorded a voicemail for you." She fished out her phone. "They're singing Happy Birthday, although it really sounds more like a cat with vocal cord disfunction, so I would lower your expectations. Here it—"

"Can it wait?" Margaux looked chagrined. "We're in the middle of a crisis."

Louise blinked. "Are we?"

"Yes."

"Goodness," Louise said, lowering the phone. "Well, nobody thought to inform me."

Max sighed. "That's because you're terrible in a crisis, Lou."

"That's not true." Louise frowned at her brother. "Remember when you all burned down that temple in Japan? If I hadn't called the Embassy and explained that Theo didn't mean to light the curtains on fire, then—"

"We're missing an opening act," Margaux said, cutting her off. "And I have 63,000 fans waiting to be entertained. So unless Rodney, our tech guy, is secretly the next Lewis Capaldi, then you boys need to write five new songs in the next ten minutes."

"That won't work," Max said. "We need an opening act."

Margaux shook her head. "Nobody's available."

"Well," Louise said, "there's Ella."

All six people turned to stare at her — including Ella. Louise looked totally unabashed. "Well, there is," she said, shrugging. "Ella writes music."

Ella was going to kill her later. She was going to put a hair dryer in their pretty, clawfoot bathtub that smelled oddly of jasmine and throw Louise in there. Water filled to the brim. She shifted the whip in her hands.

"I don't," Ella said. "Well, I mean, I do write music, but I—"

"It's really good," Max interrupted her. "I've heard some of it."

Ella made an exasperated noise. "You've heard me singing in the shower, Max. There's a huge difference."

"Hang on." Rory held up a finger. "Why were you there when my sister was taking a shower?"

To Ella's amazement, Max flushed. "Well, I—"

"You write music?" Oliver said, looking at Ella in surprise. "But you never said."

"That's because it's not good," Ella said desperately. "It's not even pop. It's more like a classical music mash-up. I would need a synth, and a guitar, and—" She stopped abruptly as she realized that Margaux was scribbling in her clipboard. "Hang on, you're not actually writing this down?"

"Oh, yes, I am."

"I'm not going out there," Ella said, shaking her head. "You couldn't pay me enough."

She had only ever performed in front of small audiences before; at talent shows, or family gatherings, and once, at a coffee shop where Ophelia worked. The idea of performing in front of 63,000 people made her want to vomit.

Louise rose to her feet, gripping Ella's shoulders.

"Listen to me," she growled. "I have spent too damn long watching you refuse to take a chance, Ella. If you don't go out there now and do something for once, then I..." She squeezed her shoulders. "Just try it. Please."

"That's a hell of a way to try something, Lou."

"It's exposure therapy."

Ella toyed with the whip. "Well, I'm not going alone."

"Then I'll go with you," Max volunteered, and Rory whipped around to look at him.

"You can't do that!"

"Sure I can," Max said, shrugging. "There's nothing in my contract that says I have to stay backstage while the opening act is playing. I can do guitar and back-up vocals." He smiled at Ella. "That cool with you, Elliephant?"

She swallowed. "You don't know the songs."

"I'm a fast learner." Max glanced at the clock. "And you have thirty minutes. So you better teach me quickly."

They set up shop in a nearby dressing room. Max was true to his word, picking up lyrics and chords with inhuman speed. It was only Ella that stumbled over the music, her hands slipping on the violin. Eventually, Max sighed.

"Stop," he said.

Ella immediately stopped playing.

"I'm terrible," she moaned. "I'm terrible and horrible and I'm going to become one of those YouTube videos of bad audition tapes for American Idol—"

"Ells." Max gripped her hand. "Listen to me."

Ella was so surprised by the contact that she actually did.

"Do you remember," Max said, "when you were really young, and you did that performance of Katy Perry?"

Ella stared at him. "You remember that?"

"Of course I do," Max said, rolling his eyes. "It was terrible. But that's not the point; the point is that you did something that nobody has ever done before." He squeezed her hand. "The point is that you were insane enough to try playing a remixed, electro version of Katy Perry on the violin."

She looked down at their linked hands. "You just said it was terrible."

"That's because you were ten," Max said. "And you couldn't play the violin." He smiled at her. "Now, you can play the hell out of it."

Ella lifted their joined hands. Max untangled them gently, reaching out to cup her face. She hadn't realized that she was trembling until he stroked his thumb along her jaw. She closed her eyes, leaning into the touch.

"What if they laugh at me?" she whispered.

"Then I'll hunt them down and kill them."

Ella let out a surprised laugh. "There's over 60,000 people in that stadium."

Max shrugged. "I'd make the time."

"You're a good friend, Max," Ella said, opening her eyes. "First the envelopes, and now this. I..." She swallowed, aware that she was treading into dangerous territory, and yet unable to stop herself, either. "I need you. I hope you know that by now."

His face changed. "Don't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"It makes me..." Max looked away. "When you say things like that, I have certain thoughts about you. Thoughts I shouldn't be having."

She frowned. "What sort of thoughts?"

"You don't want to know."

"Tell me." Ella leaned forward, temporarily distracted from her anxiety. Her heart hammered in her chest. "I want to know."

Max seemed to brace himself. "Ella, when we were skating the other day, I felt... for a second, I thought that we might—"

They both jumped as someone wrapped on the door. Instinctively, Ella jerked backwards, ignoring the electric sparks that jumped along her skin.

Margaux peeked her head in.

"Five minutes to curtain," she said. "You both need to come with me."

Dutifully, Ella rose to her feet. A part of her wished that she could be one of those girls that was cool and calm under pressure, but her whole body was jerking around like a slinky in a washing machine. Each step felt like a mile, and when they reached the curtain, Ella was at least eighty percent sure that she was about to vomit.

"Five songs," Max whispered. "You got this."

And the curtain rose.

She stepped out on to the stage. The first thing that hit her were the lights — bright, white and glaring — followed by a noise like thunder. Ella blinked, surprised, but then she realized that of course the audience was cheering: Max was right behind her.

He gave them a sunny wave.

Thousands of voices roared their approval.

"Hello, everyone," Max said, into the microphone, and the crowd kicked off again. "Wow. Thanks so much." He strapped on his guitar. "There's been a change of plan this evening. Unfortunately, Vienna can't be here tonight, but we've got my lovely friend Ella instead."

He gave her a wink.

"Please make her feel welcome."

And the crowd exploded.

Numbly, Ella found her position on the stage — the same place that Margaux had marked for her on a map — and picked up her violin.

She closed her eyes.

I'm in the music room at home, she told herself. I'm in the music room with Max and Rory, and we're messing around before school. Just like we used to.

A warm feeling spread through the pit of her stomach.

And Ella began to play.