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respond. What are you supposed to say whensomebody tells you something that, of course, you already knew?
    Before my silence got too awkward, Nanny jumped in.
    â€œWell, bless your heart,” she said to the boy. “That sounds like a speech you’ve made before.”
    â€œTo my dad,” he admitted. “He wanted me to stay up north this summer. You know, be a lifeguard and play baseball like my older brother. He’s, um, not exactly a music guy.”
    â€œMaybe you should try different music,” I murmured.
    I heard another stifled snort come from Annabelle, who was standing just behind me.
    â€œWhat was that, Nell, darlin’?” Nanny asked, smiling at me.
    â€œOh, nothing,” I said while Annabelle grinned.
    â€œSo what’s the difference between a violin and a fiddle anyway?” she asked. “I’ve always wondered.”
    â€œOh, there’s no difference, really,” Nanny said. “A violin is a fiddle and a fiddle is a violin, especially when you’re feeling fancy.”
    â€œBut all violin-playing is not fiddling,” the boy pointed out. Fiddle music is so alive . And it’s so connected to a place. To this place. I still can’t believe I’m here.”
    Then he turned to me.
    â€œSo,” he asked me, “are you taking your grandma’s class too?”
    â€œNot exactly.”
    I glanced at Nanny. You can explain this one, I telegraphed to her.
    Throughout this whole exchange, Nanny had been beaming, giddy to be at Camden with her granddaughter, even if her granddaughter was a bit on the sulky side.
    But when I challenged her like that, her smile suddenly faded, and it was as dramatic as a dark cloud obscuring the sun.
    My heart gave a guilty lurch.
    Here’s the thing about Nanny. She rarely misses an opportunity to tease me. She never lets me get away with being a brat or a drama queen (or as my parents like to call it, being fifteen).
    But she also adores me. More than anything. Maybe even more than music. She would do just about anything for me.
    And she could clearly see in my face what I wanted from her.
    Or rather, what I didn’t want.
    I didn’t want to be Anne of Green Gables anymore. I didn’t really want to be Nell Finlayson of the liner notes either. And I definitely didn’t want to spend my summer (okay, half my summer) helping fiddle students scratch out “Britches Full of Stitches” and “The Irish Washerwoman.”
    I’d been saying as much for weeks. But for some reason, this was the moment that Nanny finally heard me; this moment when I hadn’t said a word.
    Shooting me a wistful look, Nanny told the boy, “Nell was going to assist me in my class. But . . .”
    I held my breath.
    â€œBut I think there’s been a change of plans,” Nanny finished.
    I don’t know why she did it.
    Maybe she was taking pity on me because I was invisible to the opposite sex and looked like a raisin next to my glamorous new roommate.
    Maybe she didn’t want to hear me sulk all summer.
    Or maybe she was finally starting to understand this fact about me: I may have played the fiddle since I was three. I may have played passable backup on the Finlaysons albums. I may even have had musical talent, or whatever.
    But I didn’t have the Joy.
    I squeezed Nanny’s hand, thanking her for finally getting this. Then I turned to the boy to explain.
    â€œIt’s just that . . . music isn’t really my thing.”
    â€œEven though you’re basically a professional?” he said with an incredulous laugh. “Even though you’re a Finlayson?”
    â€œWell, I don’t have a choice about that stuff,” I replied. “Do I, Nanny?”
    â€œI guess not,” she replied. “It’s our family business. I don’t think it would have occurred to us not to involve you kids in it. To us, that was as important as teaching you