Twenty minutes later, the cast and crew of Melted, as well the art students facilitating the showcase and charity auction in the hallways, are all gathered onstage, in a circle, holding hands—because, is it high school theater without an energy circle? I don’t think so.

It’s my first time leading it though. I squeeze Henry’s hand, sending the pulse of energy to my right. Henry squeezes Emerson’s hand, who squeezes Makayla’s. I track the movement with my eyes, watching it flow around the circle until it comes back to Danica. Fitz. Me.

Everyone is silent, the only noise the quiet hum of our hearts.

“Speech,” Fitz coughs, not-so-subtly.

I swallow, wishing Reid were here for this moment.

“I…” My voice catches in my throat. Do not cry, Natalie! I tell myself. Your makeup is perfect, Natalie! Tears are for emotional endings. Do not even think about getting emotional until intermission. Cry in the privacy of the sound booth. Okay, so Makayla will be, you know, doing her job in the sound booth, but she’ll ignore your tears.

“I’m so stupid proud,” I say. “Everyone in this circle stood up to show the school committee that art matters. Everyone in this circle took a chance on our parody play turned parody musical to prove that it matters—that all our arts matter. Thank you for making it possible and bringing it to life with us.”

Henry squeezes my hand and takes over. “When Natalie and I started writing together, I never imagined our show would be a musical. But I love this rogue musical that could. It’s my last show at Lincoln and I could not think of a better way to go out. Give tonight everything you’ve got. I refuse to believe that LHS drama and all the arts end with Melted.”

Fitz’s hand breaks from mine and she claps, woots, screams, “Team HAVE A HE(ART)!”

Everyone echoes, “Team HAVE A HE(ART)!”

After we get the cheers and screams out of our system, I cue Makayla and Fitz to open the house. Henry and I peek through the curtains, watching the wave of an audience flood our theater.

I’ve never seen so many bodies in these auditorium chairs. Every seat is filled.

Enthusiastic science teachers and band parents are no joke. Wow.

Henry laughs when I tell him this. “Yeah. That’s what ‘sold out’ means, Nat.”

But hearing it is one thing. Seeing it is something else entirely.

I don’t let go of Henry’s hand until it’s time to make my way to the orchestra pit.

Because with Dad gone too, I’m not just a codirector.

It’s time for me to conduct a musical.

Time is weird.