Emerson ties her hair in a messy bun, takes a sip of water, and tries her verse again from the top. It’s even shakier than the last time and it’s like, Come on, girl. You are filling the shoes of the one and only Ava Fitzgerald, get it together. This is why we don’t cast freshmen in leading roles. It’s not just about the fairness of seniority, it’s because underclassmen are known to fall apart in the presence of upperclassmen. I did. Freshmen year, my very first show, I shadowed the student director, Lionel Goldstein. Lionel put me in charge of the curtain. A task that is virtually impossible to mess up.

The cords caught and tangled together and I delayed the play fifteen minutes because the curtain wouldn’t open.

I ran across the stage to find Lionel, tripped, ate shit, and my earpiece cracked against the ground and made a horrendous screeching noise that I still have nightmares about to this day. I wanted to die, or at the very least, quit. Lionel wouldn’t let me. Freshman fumbles, Jacobson. They happen to the best of us.

Emerson is eating shit all over this high note, her freshman fumble. But unlike me, the entire future of the arts at LHS rests on her not fumbling.

“You’re going to have to drop the harmony down an octave,” I say to Reid.

I don’t think so,” Reid says, lips pursed, like, Maybe let’s not have this conversation in front of the actors? Danica’s arms are crossed. Emerson’s face is almost purple.

“We’re learning,” Danica says. “I’ve messed up too.”

“The rest of the song sounds great,” Toby says.

He’s been so quiet, I forgot he was here, to be honest. Toby Daniels, a short white boy, is the only guy at LHS on the dance team, which gave him the edge for the part. Yes, there is still a dance team—it’s a sport, not part of the arts department.

“I’ll get it,” Emerson says, her voice straining toward confidence, but her eyes fill with tears and for the first time this week, I remember how young she is. I take a step back because I’m intense. I know I’m intense, and stressed, and frustrated.

But taking it out on my cast makes me the opposite of a good director.

“I’m sorry, Em,” I say. “I just want us to get this right.”

She wipes her eyes. “Can I take five?”

“I think we should all take five,” I say.

I push through the music room doors toward the hallway, toward air. After refilling my water bottle, I take a long sip. I wipe the sweat from my eyebrows and check my phone, even though Henry and I are still broken and Fitz knows better than to text during rehearsals.

“Hey,” Reid says, meeting me at the bubbler. “What’s going on?”