Batty didn't get stagefright anymore. Her fear of public speaking or performing for an audience had once been her greatest weakness. Her Achilles Heel, as Jane put it.

She had gotten over it when she was thirteen. The middle school chorus director wanted to feature Batty. She was given a special solo in the holiday concert. Batty was fine during rehearsals. She loved to sing, and she had been taking lessons for a few years by then, so she was used to singing in front of people that she knew.

Then they got to the dress rehearsals, and Batty had been on stage, peering out at the rows and rows of empty seats, and she realized that in a few days, those seats would be filled with absolute strangers. Batty had choked and ran off stage. She told her chorus teacher she wasn't feeling well.

When she got home, Batty had cried and cried. Her dad had held her, and Iantha had made her a cup of hot chocolate. Batty still remembered how concerned and scared Ben and Lydia had looked. With Jane and the others away at college, Batty was the Oldest Available Penderwick. So far, she had excelled in the role, but her breakdown was not very OAPish at all.

Her father asked her if maybe she could pretend the audience wasn't there. If she could try a trick, like picturing the people naked, or staring at the box on the far wall. He said lots of famous performers looked not at the audience, but at the box.

"I can't do it," Batty had sobbed. "I just can't."

After a while, her father said that was fine. He would just call the chorus teacher and tell her Batty would not sing the solo. Someone else could do it.

"Maybe that Felicity girl," her father said. "She has a nice voice, she can sing the solo."

Batty froze. She wiped a stray tear off her cheek. She sniffled. She had not considered that someone else would sing her solo. She had worked so hard on that solo, and she loved it very much. And she knew no one, not even Felicity, especially not Felicity, could sing it like she could.

"No, Daddy," Batty had said. "Don't call anyone."

The next day, Batty had walked right into rehearsal. She had felt her knees quake and her breath catch at the sight of all the empty chairs, but she took one deep breath, and she imagined Felicity singing the solo. And then Batty sang. Perfectly.

She did the same exact thing at the performance.

And that was that. Every single time Batty had to perform, and she felt the familiar fear creep into her bones, she would picture someone else singing her part. And then she would open her mouth and perform.

Her father thought it was hilarious.

"Batty, never did I have you pegged as one of my competitive children," he said. "Jane and Skye were always the competitive ones. They say it's a middle child trait, and you were always the youngest. So gentle and sweet."

"But she's not the youngest anymore," Iantha said. "When me and Ben and Lydia joined the family, we made Batty a middle child too."

"Well, there you go," her father had said. "Batty, my Fierce Competitor Middle Child, with what jealousy she defends her roles."

"I'm not jealous," Batty says. "I just don't want anyone else singing my parts."

All through high school and her first year of college, Batty had never gotten stage fright. She had been cast as the lead role in the winter production of Oklahoma. The director at NYU wanted to create a bold reinterpretation, so she made Laurie and Curley lesbian lovers. Batty had rolled with it. She had already played Laurie in high school. She could sing that part any way she wanted.

Batty had gotten on the infamous NYU stage, and she had bravely held her own against older and more experienced actors. That hadn't been scary at all.

But now, sitting across from Wesley at a cafe, Batty was scared. She was feeling the old heaviness in her throat. She didn't know what to do with her hands. It was just like stage fright, only Batty didn't know how to get rid of it this time.

Wesley was talking again about how he was thinking of dropping out and moving west.

"There's just a lot going on, in the midwest," Wesley said. "Cities like Kansas City and St. Louis have these fresh art scenes."

"Oh," Batty said.

"I don't know if I'll go all the way to California, but who knows?" Wesley said.

Wesley was a masterful painter. He was a junior, and during Batty's first week in New York, he had seen her rehearsing in a practice room. He had waited for her to finish, and then he had walked up to her. He smiled (Wesley had the kindest smile), and he asked her if he could paint her. Batty was in love within days.

Batty drummed her fingers against the table. Then she sipped her latte. Wesley was waiting for her to speak. Wesley was so good at that.

"But this is New York," Batty said. "There's art here. Why would you leave New York?"

"Oh, Batty," Wesley said. "Princess of New England."

"Don't call me that," Batty said.

"Ok," Wesley said. "I won't. I didn't know you didn't like it."

Wesley had called Batty the "Princess of New England" loads of times before. He said it was because she had a sort of regal air about her, not just on stage, but in the way she held herself, tall and straight-backed and high-headed. And she talked about her childhood in Massachusetts so much, and it all sounded so idyllic.

Batty used to like the title.

"New York isn't even technically part of New England," Batty said.

"Well," Wesley said.

Wesley shrugged. He was from Idaho. A lot of girls found that so endearing. Tons of students wanted to be with Wesley. They daydreamed about his sweet smile, and everyone raved about his talent.

Batty still didn't know how she was lucky enough to end up with him.

They finished their coffee. Batty said she needed to go practice. Wesley walked her to the rehearsal room. Both Batty and Wesley could be very quiet. They could spend hours in each other's company and not say a word. Usually, the silences were nice.

Once she was shut in her little room, Batty rifled through some music. Her professor wanted her to get more opera in her repertoire. Musicals are great, the professor said, but you gotta broaden your horizon.

Batty was glad it was almost spring break. She could go home and curl up in her bed. She could sing her dad's favorite songs. She could hear about Lydia's middle school friends. She could watch TV with Ben. She could share quiet cups of tea with her mom, and then maybe tell Iantha how scared she was that she had fallen too hard for Wesley, and now he was going to leave and break her heart into a million pieces.

Batty pulled out the sheet music for "Burn" from Hamilton. She could work on her opera later.

Batty sang: "I knew you were mine, you said you were mine, I thought you were mine…"