Our Song Read Free

lovers.
    â€œAnd, hmm, I think it’s about to get even more so.”
    â€œHuh?” I said.
    I followed her gaze to the fiddler. This time, he was the one staring—with wide eyes and a sudden mottled blush on his neck—at me!

ChapterTwo
    A fter a moment of hesitation, the boy began coming my way.
    I had no idea how I felt about this.
    But the fact is, when a very good-looking boy walks toward you, looking all blotchy and thunderstruck, you can’t help but give your hair a frantic pat and try to arrange your face into an aloof-yet-adorable expression. It’s like a Darwinian imperative.
    In this case, it also turned out to be completely unnecessary. Because after the boy reached me . . . he kept right on going! He only came to a nervous halt when he reached Nanny.
    â€œAre you Annie Finlayson?” the boy asked. His voice—a tenor with a hint of a rasp to it—trembled a bit.
    Nanny grinned and stuck out her hand.
    â€œThat I am,” she said. “And you better be taking my fiddle class.”
    â€œThat’s the whole reason I’m here!” the boy blurted, still staring at Nanny (and still completely oblivious to me). “I mean, that’s why I signed up for the June session instead of the July one. To study with you.”
    I tried hard not to roll my eyes. Then I glanced at Annabelle. She looked like she was trying hard not to laugh. This sealed the deal—I officially liked my new roommate. I leaned over to whisper in her ear.
    â€œWant to help me haul my stuff to our room?” I pointed toward the parking lot.
    But before we could sneak away, Nanny squeezed my arm and beamed at me.
    â€œYou know, my granddaughter Nell is a fiddler too,” she told the boy.
    Finally, finally , he seemed to notice that the great Annie Finlayson had a sidekick.
    â€œNell Finlayson,” he stated. He looked at me for a beat too long. He smiled, a close-lipped, small, and unreadable smile. “You’re not what I would have expected.”
    â€œHow could you expect anything,” I wondered, “when you didn’t know I existed until five seconds ago?”
    Because it’s not like you noticed me or anything, I thought.
    â€œWell, I mean, I kind of did know of you,” the boy said. The blotches on his neck were starting to bloom again. “Your name is on most of the Finlaysons albums.”
    I’d played backup fiddle on a lot of my family’s recordings, mostly when a session musician failed to show, or they just needed another layer of sound in the background. So it was true, my name was on a lot of their albums, deeply embedded in the liner notes in tiny, tiny print.
    It was kind of weird that this guy knew that.
    â€œOkay,” the boy said, taking a deep, shuddering breath, “that sounded kind of creepy.”
    â€œGotta agree with you there,” I said, but I couldn’t help but smile at him. How was it possible that his anxiety-flushed neck was so cute?
    â€œI’m just—” He stared down at the fiddle in his arms, as if he was begging it for a bailout. “I like your family’s music. And I swear I’m not a stalker in any way.”
    â€œOther than stalking my grandmother all the way to the Camden School,” I teased, “from . . .”
    â€œConnecticut,” the boy said miserably. “Which, yes, is very far away. Okay, I guess I am a creepy, long-distance stalker.”
    â€œAw, sweetheart,” Nanny assured him, “you’re a fan . I’m flattered. Don’t let Nell make you feel self-conscious. She thinks fiddling is about as everyday as making toast.”
    â€œBut it isn’t!” the boy insisted to me. “Without your grandma and your parents, there’re all these Appalachian songs that would have just disappeared! But they recorded them and even made sheet music for them so they’re preserved for history.”
    I didn’t