“Ha-ha, no.” Mr. Davidson flicked his hands. “No, I’m not changing the play because the Pyes feel ostracized by the existence of art that isn’t a direct reflection of their experiences and tastes. This whole thing is a power play to get Sarah the lead, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. Despite their additional threat to withdraw funding for the costumes and sets, which is a traditional Pye donation to the school, our Peter Pan will go on. Trust me when I tell you this is not my first, nor will it be my last, tussle with Ettie Pye.”

He winked. “I starred in our high school production of Our Town with her, did you know that?”

“No!” I wonder if that’s where Sarah got her dress.

Or if her mom made her wear it.

He sat back, lifting up his sneakers and placing them on the desk. “You know,” he said, “I’ve been here for as long as any so-called Forever. My family are very pillars-of-the-community types. And for as long as I’ve been here, there has been a general resistance in this place to anything new.”

“Someone else who’s also a pillar told me Greenville has a stick up its. . .um. . .behind,” I admitted.

Davidson perked up. “HA-HA! Yes. That would be my great-aunt Beverly! Yes, that is her common Greenville Gripe. The stick. Yes.”

“Wait. She’s your great-aunt?” I did some fast math. “So Principal Lynde is your. . .”

“Cousin.” Davidson nodded. “Yes. She is also the owner of a stick, but I will deny saying that if you repeat it.”

Small towns.

Mr. Davidson took a long sip of tea. “You know, when I was young, Aunt Bev used to take me to see plays in other cities. We took a trip to New York once and I saw Guys and Do lls.”

“Really? I love ‘Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat.’ ” I grinned. “But I’ve only seen the movie.”

“Marlon Brando!” Mr. Davidson clutched his chest dramatically. “Heartthrob.”

“Exactly.” I smiled.

“Gosh, that’s a great one.” Mr. Davidson shook his head. “One day we’ll have to put aside some time to compare our love of musicals. OH! And we should invite Beverly. You know she was quite taken with you the day you all came to take her portrait.”

The school bell rang. Mr. Davidson gathered up his tea and cookies. Then he looked at me, pointedly. “Don’t quit.”

“My mom—” I started.

“I’ll talk to your mom.” He tossed the lot of wet napkins in the bin just as the door opened and students flooded in.

“Okay.”

“Come to rehearsal today.”

“Okay.” I could feel tears stinging the corners of my eyes. “Thank you,” I said. “Really. Like. Thank you.”

Mr. Davidson waved me off with a gentle flick. “See you after school.”