I feel like the world’s worst director. “Director” is a fancy word for glorified problem-solver. Melted has been a special sort of disaster from inception to execution—but even the best productions have roadblocks. A good director—a great director—isn’t scared of something going wrong. That’s inevitable. Something will go wrong. A good director is prepared to fix it. I should have been from the start.

I don’t know if fixing Reid’s problem will fix the bigger problem of us.

Still, I do know that I am not a director who takes no for an answer. If I can make a musical exist, a musical that was supposed to be a play, a play that was shot down before it even had a chance—I can get Reid’s audition back. Reid believed in me once. I have to believe now.

He’ll get his audition, we’ll find a replacement in some form for Melted, and… maybe he’ll still hate me forever.

But I’ll know I didn’t take away his shot at the thing I’m too scared to try.

I click on the staff directory page and skim each member’s bio until my lids are heavy, looking for anything helpful, anything that can—

Jennifer Nelson, Professor of Clarinet

Alma Mater: Berklee College of Music ’95

I yell for my dad twice at a volume that probably wakes the entire street up. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and my heart is loud so loud in my ears. I click on the extended bio, which includes the list of Jennifer Nelson’s accolades and a personal statement in which she professes how thrilled she is for her first year on faculty for the Summer Institute.

“Dad,” I call for the third time.

My door flies open. “This better be good, Natalie.”

He doesn’t even attempt to hide the annoyance in his voice. In the course of five days, our relationship has devolved beyond passive-aggression into overwhelming silence. I was expecting a confrontation. A punishment. But Mom says he doesn’t even know what to say. How I could’ve done such a thing. She doesn’t, either. I want to say I put so much into Melted for Dad. Because of Dad. But I know that won’t be enough.

I press my palms into my thighs. “I have a question.”

Dad leans against the doorframe, folding his arms across his chest. “It couldn’t wait until the morning?”

“Is Jenny from college, um, Jennifer Nelson?” I ask.

Dad’s eyes widen. The Jenny in his stories is a fearless musician, the girl who rivaled Dad every semester for the top spot in their clarinet performance classes. Jenny’s clarinet has taken her around the world, to Vienna, Florence, Nice—everywhere. Last Dad heard, she completed a residency with the New York Philharmonic.

“Yes. Why?”

“Are you still in touch?”