Camp — Rock.2

“Final Jam rules,” Mitchie announced, “are changing. No covers. No sheet music. You play what you feel. You play what’s yours.”

“Music isn’t fair,” Mitchie said. “It’s honest. And honesty is messy. But it’s the only thing that’s ever worked at this camp.” She looked at Rosa, who was clutching a crumpled piece of paper. “Who wants to go first?” camp rock.2

The girl’s lip trembled. “I wrote this stupid song about my grandma’s garden. It wasn’t good. The rhymes were awful.” “Final Jam rules,” Mitchie announced, “are changing

The bonfire crackled. The lake glittered. And Mitchie Torres, who’d once been a nervous kitchen girl with a big voice, realized that the best songs weren’t the ones you finished. “Final Jam rules