Reid is so close, I could reach for his hand and twine his fingers with mine. So close I could stand on my toes and press my lips to his and we’d be Natalie and Reid again. Not Natalie vs. Reid. But I can’t read his expression.

The moment passes and Reid reaches past me, pushing the door open. “I never wanted to be skeptical of you,” he says, exiting Dad’s classroom.

Reid has an audition. He’s taking it. That’s what matters.

But I can’t help but hear an edge in his voice that says, I will always be skeptical of you.

At the top of our next rehearsal, Dad shares good news and not-great news.

“Good news first,” Dad declares. “Tickets are nearly sold out.”

“Really?” I ask.

Everyone, cast and band alike, start cheering.

“Never underestimate the power of a strong word-of-mouth campaign,” Dad says.

As it turns out, in an excellent and somewhat unexpected twist, the science teachers loved Melted on concept and latched onto the phrase an environmental call to action. The entire department purchased a section of the auditorium and encouraged their students to support your classmates, support The Sunshine Project!—with free tickets and an even more alluring offer: extra credit. Between that, the band’s family and fans showing up en masse for their musicians, and the stellar digital marketing plan spearheaded by Makayla and Cherish—our audience came through!

My shoulders relax.

It’s like the universe knows I can only handle one stressful thing at time.

“The less good news is that Reid can no longer perform as Moritz… because he has an audition for the Albany Institute!”

This means nothing to the cast, but the band kids are cheering.

After the excitement dies down though, reality sets in.

We need someone who can play Moritz.

“Why does Moritz have to be a dude?” Danica asks.

“I mean—” Henry says.

“Gender is a construct,” Fitz says, looping her hair into a topknot.

“His songs are written for a tenor,” Reid says. “It’d also leave only Kevin as the sole guy in the principal cast.”

“Is that relevant?” Kevin asks.

“Imagine! A musical with less—” Danica gasps dramatically “—men!”

“What a tragedy,” Fitz grins.

I chew on the eraser end of a Ticonderoga. “Okay. Fair point. But who even knows it well enough to be able to pull it off in time?”

Fitz smacks my forehead. Not hard, but she actually whacks my head like I’m supposed to be having a light bulb moment and I’m… not.

“Me!” Fitz says.

“What?”

Danica frowns. “Fitz, Moritz sings. Moritz dances.”