Upstairs it's chaos as usual. Biblio only officially opens at six for dinner, but the preparations start in the early afternoon. There's inventory to take, plates to wash, stock to prepare, gelato to freeze.

Every time I walk into Biblio's entrance I love to imagine the first impression diners get of it.

It's massive – a double vaulted ceiling with chandeliers illuminating tapestries and old paintings. Oak bookshelves crowded with books bought in second hand stores line most of the walls.

The cleaner is changing the roses and candles on each table, while a waiter stacks menus on the bookshelf at the entrance. The menus are inside old book covers to keep with the library theme.

I consider going into the kitchen to say hi to mom and dad, but I know they have their hands full.

So I spend the rest of the afternoon in the back room working on my school assignments.

Even though I have a couple of solid hours uninterrupted, I still only manage to finish half what I'd hoped to get done. That's probably because every few minutes I look out the window, watching birds in the mulberry tree fighting over the fat purple fruit.

Beyond the mulberry tree, Forest Park stretches out, filled with oaks and maples lush with new summer foliage. And beyond that, the snow-capped peak of Mt Hood. I reckon it might be one of the most beautiful views in Portland.

And it's totally wasted in a restaurant back room used for storing paperwork.

I work this way until the room is infused with buttery late afternoon sunlight.

At five I pick up my guitar and head downstairs.

The shop's started to fill up.

During the week The Night Owl goes full hipster. Ironic facial hair and sailor tattoos every way you look, and loud conversations about Nietzsche and almond milk versus oat milk. I guess they like all the owls and the twelve to twelve thing – we stand out from the crowd because we're open strictly midday to midnight.

Tonight though it's a bit quieter. Men in identical grey business suits take up one table near the stage, passing around a phone and laughing at something on the screen. They're talking very loudly. It doesn't sound like English.

Near the front counter a bunch of girls around my own age are clustered around a giant mocha bowl. I don't recognize them, so they probably don't go to school with me. They're all whispering and giggling, glancing over at the counter, where Jade is whipping up espressos. All of them, except for one. A girl with curly black hair sits quietly amongst her friends, staring down sadly at her phone. She's wearing a T-shirt with "Felix Lockhart Forever" printed on it, above a group shot of the whole band. She must have missed out on Fable tickets. She looks like she's about to burst into tears. I know the feeling.

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The rest of the patrons are a mishmash group of twenty-somethings, local artists, writers, a few tourists.

It's a good crowd.

I push away thoughts of missing the concert, and I mentally banish the butterflies I get every single time before I play. It's not exactly a bad feeling – just a fluttery anticipation.

The stage is softly lit, with red velvet curtains draped behind to form a backdrop. There's a single stool and a mic stand. Jade gives me the thumbs up as I walk onto the stage.

Mic check done, ready to go.

I sit down and begin to play.

I start off with one of gran's songs. It was the first song I learned to play on guitar, so it's the first song I play every Friday.

A hush goes through the tables after the first few chords.

My aim isn't to distract people from their conversations, but that's usually what happens. As I start singing, I look up from my guitar at the audience. I can see the usual expressions.

The group of school girls is now turned totally towards me, Jade forgotten. The businessmen have stopped their lively debate and are staring.

I know that I have a talent, and I'm proud of it. Gran made sure of that.

Having a beautiful voice isn't enough, she'd say. In order to be a star you also need that extra something. An extraordinary gift. You, my sweetheart, have it. Don't waste it. A gift like that needs to be shared.

When I play like this, and I see people's jaws drop, or their eyes go wide, I know I was right to listen to my gran.

I've had people ask me after my set if I was lip syncing, because they couldn't believe that the voice they were hearing was coming from a teenaged girl. One guy actually wanted to look at the back of the stage for speakers. True story.

Ever since I was little, I only really feel like myself when I'm singing. Everything slips away, as the music takes over and I'm pulled into the bubbling melody. Soft, safe, and distant, like being underwater, swaying on the currents.

Everything feels ok when I sing.

After my third song, I notice a guy sitting all alone at a table in the dark corner under the stairs.

I'm not exactly sure what it is about him that captures my attention, but once I've seen him I struggle to look away again.

Maybe it's the fact that he has his black hoodie pulled right up over his head, as if he's trying to hide in the shadows. Or the dark shades he's wearing, even though we're indoors and the light is pretty muted. Or maybe it's the intensity of his gaze.

Even with the sunglasses, I can feel his eyes burning into me.

It's the strangest feeling, not being able to see his face clearly, but knowing that he's staring straight at me. Into me, even. It reminds me of something half forgotten I can't place, and I feel my skin prickle with goose bumps.

Then it strikes.

For just a split second, there's a dull stabbing pain on the left side of my ribcage, right under my scars. The scars I got that day. I fumble for just a moment, but I find the right cords, and I continue singing, praying my voice doesn't waver. In a moment the pain is gone, dwindling into nothingness like an echo.

I scan the crowd to see if anyone noticed, but there's no reaction. They're just sitting there, spellbound, oblivious to my momentary freak-out.

Good.

I quickly look down at my guitar, and I don't look up for the rest of the set.

After several songs I'm done.

I'm glad that this time there's just some applause, and no one comes up to me to talk while I'm packing up. I'm feeling too freaked out about just happened on stage to deal with people right now – and knowing that I'm missing my favorite band doesn't help much either. The girls will already be in line at the Rose Plaza by now. They must be so excited.

I want to go home and cry.

Just thinking about it all makes me want to crawl into a hole, so I decide not to go upstairs and say hi to my parents.

From the steady stream of people going up the stairs, I can see that Biblio's even busier than usual. Usually I'd be happy to help out, but tonight the last thing I feel like is being roped into waitressing.

I know it's selfish, but I just don't feel up to putting on a fake smile all night.