“So, that was quite a performance,” he says, making the first move.

“I’d argue that the Tony goes to you this week, Dad.”

His eyes meet mine, his expression softening. “Because I believed in Melted?”

I cross my arms, resisting the urge to ease up. “A reality check would’ve been helpful. At least a heads-up that they’re not replacing Miss Bryant.”

“I didn’t want to burst your bubble on the basis of speculation. You and Henry were having so much fun this summer. I loved that you were writing together. I believed you had a real shot.” Dad exhales a heavy breath and scratches his beard. “I’m sorry that you felt blindsided.”

I pick at my chipped blue nail polish, frustrated. “Sorry enough to do something?”

Dad’s silence in this moment is fortissimo.

“I thought so.”

“Natalie, it is my job to make the band as valuable to this school as possible. To make myself as valuable as possible.”

“Even if it’s at the expense of every other arts student and their clubs?”

Dad frowns. “That’s not my fault. I understand that you’re upset. But you can’t just go off the rails with an anti-band agenda. Do you understand how much trouble our family is in if the music program gets cut?”

Seriously? Dad speaks as if I don’t know that this is his job and money has been tight. Like I haven’t lived with the complicated tension of the band being a necessary evil in my life for years.

I’m aware of it. I deal with it. It doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Besides, all I did at the assembly was state facts. That’s hardly going off the rails.

“Reid started—”

Dad cuts me off. “Switzerland.”

I exhale a frustrated sigh. All I want is for Dad to not be Mr. Jacobson for, I don’t know, two seconds. Tell me that even though it’s his department, Reid wasn’t right at the assembly either. But Dad is Switzerland. “Neutral” on all things Natalie vs. Reid. What he doesn’t understand is that his neutrality is, in fact, picking a side. I don’t know why I even try.

I stand and swing my backpack over my shoulder, done with this familiar scene. “Whatever—”

The band room door swings open, cutting me off mid-exit.

“Sorry.” Reid takes a step backward. “I’ll come back later if I’m—”

“He’s all yours,” I say. “I’m out.”

I push past Reid, crossing the tiered seating of the band room and swinging the door open before anyone can read my face. Except I’m not fast enough, because I hear Reid calling my name not once, not twice, but three times as he follows me through the hallway.

“Natalie,” he repeats. “I’m so—”

I whip around to face him. “Don’t. You’re not. So don’t.”