Today Emerson and Danica are mic’d for the first time. Arjun is in the sound booth, his voice in my ear apologizing every time there is feedback. It’s not his fault—these microphones probably came with the school when it was built. Even when LHS had an arts budget, it never went to upgrading the tech. It makes me want to march into Mrs. Mulaney’s office and demand to know what we’re even fighting for. It makes me ask myself if this was all even worth it.

But then Emerson takes center stage, in costume, and recites the lines Henry and I wrote, the words we spent a summer agonizing over—and it is. What we created matters. I take a seat in the second row and switch the volume to low on my headset, absorbing it all. There will only be so many moments like this. If we fail, my brief stint as Natalie Jacobson, student writer-slash-director, will be these short few weeks. If we succeed I’ll at least have one more year, but even so, that’s not much more.

And any thoughts of success burst with the awkward pause that is Moritz’s first entrance.

I blink back to reality, reciting lines I know by heart from my chair. It throws Danica and Emerson, who look at me instead of the empty space on the stage where Reid should be standing. And without him halfway through, the blocking is all wrong. They end up mirroring each other’s moves, nearly bumping into each other twice, and then actually bumping into each other the third time, sending the screech of feedback through the auditorium.

Fitz collapses into the chair beside me. “My ears. Are murdered. You are an ear murderer.”

My fingers tap the armrest. “Emerson hit the high note at least.”

“Yeah. It triggered these poor senile microphones. Thanks.” Fitz pulls on the ends of her hair. “Ear murderers!”

I turn my head toward the stage. “What she means to say is ‘good job.’ ”

Emerson smiles her innocent-freshman-thriving-on- upperclassmen-affirmation smile.

Henry whispers “ear murderers” in my ear. He’s backstage helping the crew assemble the set, wearing a matching headset.

“Can we run ‘For the Last Time Ever’ one more time? From Moritz’s entrance.”

Danica crosses her arms, the edges of her mouth twisted into a scowl. “Sure. I mean, if only there were a Moritz. To, you know, enter.”

“I know, okay?” I snap.

“So what’s the plan?” she challenges.

“We’re giving him space and hopefully he’ll come back.” I say.

It’s a shit plan.

Reid called the Albany Institute eleven times, according to Delia.

Went straight to voicemail every time, according to Dad.

Emails? No answer.