Henry and I are currently sitting on my bed, our backs pressed against the wall and feet dangling over the end. Henry has his laptop open to calculus and—is senioritis not a thing? But Henry is always on a mission, and now that Mission: College Apps is complete, Henry’s new focus is Mission: Conquer AP Tests so he can offload as many core requirements as possible.

I’m supposed to be writing up a titration lab report that is due Monday, to get ahead of it. But I can’t focus, like, at all. I don’t understand how Henry can have calculus brain right now, when Melted is less than twenty-four hours away.

“Time to turn our attention to Leo and Claire,” Henry says, closing the calculus and scooting closer so we can share his laptop screen between us.

“Yes, please.” I pass Henry a slice of pizza.

Henry always sleeps over before opening night. We eat an extra-large margherita pizza straight from the box, watch Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet, and make our what if list—detailing every possible consideration to ensure that nothing goes wrong tomorrow.

What if the mics all blow? We’ve got backup mics.

What if there’s a costume catastrophe? We have extra safety pins for that.

What if Danica forgets her sunglasses again? We’ll bring a spare.

There is no scenario we haven’t already thought of, but we go through the list anyway.

When we finish, Henry swallows. “It’s our last night before opening night.”

I punch his shoulder. “I’m trying super hard not to think about that.”

“Yeah, it’s—” Henry bites into his slice “—weird. But we did it. It’s happening. You made it happen. It’s pretty awesome, Nat. Dare I say, college essay–worthy.”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Come on. You love this,” Henry says, nudging my arm.

I exhale. “Yeah.”

Henry presses play on our favorite Shakespeare film, except I can’t focus on dashing baby Leo or the fact that Paul Rudd doesn’t age. Instead, I’m thinking about how Henry is right, I do love this. The best part of this year will come to a crashing halt after this weekend. What is the point of going to school if it’s not so I can attend rehearsals after? Every year there has at least been the spring play to look forward to, but not this time.

This year, Melted is all I have, and my chest constricts at the thought of letting it go. I hate that Henry is right, Reid is right, my parents are right—directing, playwriting, it’s not a hobby. I don’t think I ever wanted it to be a hobby.

I told myself it had to be.