“You’re welcome.” Reid’s hazel eyes meet mine. They seem to change color depending on what he’s wearing. This morning, they pick up his green button-down. “The least you can do is be on time, considering you’re wasting Mrs. Mulaney’s.”

It’s so elementary, I almost laugh as I move from my bed to the adjacent desk and start weaving my disaster curls into two disaster braids. Any other day, I’d fire back a snarky retort. Not today. Because today is the culmination of an entire summer writing with my best friend, Henry Chao. Before homeroom, we’ll enter scene and deliver a dialogue to Principal Mulaney about why Melted deserves to be our fall play—a performance that has the potential to shift the entire fate of Lincoln High School’s drama department.

I can’t afford to be distracted.

“Bye,” I say.

I shut the door on Reid and reach for the chai on my desk. Straw between my lips, I take a long sip. It doesn’t quite taste like victory, but it’s still a Kiskadee chai. Therefore, delicious. I enjoy it, unfazed by Reid’s basic insult because with Melted I have a chance—a real chance—at convincing Mrs. Mulaney that keeping LHS’s drama department intact is just as valuable as new band uniforms.

Seriously, Reid’s biggest problem is being an outfit repeater. When the school committee announced that “significant budget cuts” were coming for extracurricular activities at the end of sophomore year, the drama club had an emergency meeting. It was initiated by me and our former advisor, Miss Bryant, who quickly jumped our sinking ship of a drama program for a full-time faculty position teaching theater at Boston Arts Academy. But when Reid heard about the cuts, he didn’t flinch. It’s that obvious the band is relatively immune from total destruction, thanks to a passionate band director who, over the course of a decade, revitalized the music program from the ground up.

That teacher? It’s none other than Aaron Jacobson. Reid’s teacher. My dad.

It’s complicated.

I pick up the pillow I launched at Reid and toss it on my bed on the way to my closet. Today’s aesthetic is comfy and confident, like how Mom would style herself for meetings with her publisher. This is that important. I pull a new floral T-shirt dress off its velvet hanger, rip off the tag, and pair it with a denim jacket and white sneakers. To complete the look, I swipe a clear pink gloss over my lips.

Satisfied, I stuff my laptop into my backpack and I’m on the move. Downstairs, the kitchen smells like raspberry hazelnut coffee and burnt toast, the scent of creative anxiety.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs when I catch sight of the kitchen table scene.