It’s Friday when I receive my next prank—and Reid got the band to help with this one! More tech sabotage. Every time I open my web browser, the home page redirects to audio of the creepiest orchestral rendition of “Let It Go” that Reid could’ve possibly arranged. Did you know that all you need is an email address to set up parental controls on a computer? I do now! Reid parental controlled me and is torturing me with orchestral music, and I do not know how to make it stop!

It is diabolical.

I need to step up my game.

Fitz and Danica onstage together is going to be a revelation, whenever we have an actual stage.

“Damn,” Makayla whispers in awe.

Henry groans. “How many times do we have to emphasize they’re sisters?”

“It’s pointless,” I say.

Saturday is, for what feels like the first time since HAVE A HE(ART) started, all about Melted. While the band is having an extra Star Wars rehearsal in preparation for the Harvest Festival next weekend, HAVE A HE(ART) takes the opportunity to have our own dress rehearsal.

The next school committee meeting is a week from Monday.

We’ll be ready.

I will call out the school committee’s messed-up valuation of arts programs.

Henry will share statistics on the correlation between robust arts programs and test scores.

Makayla and Arjun will highlight our ecoconscious message and fundraising plans.

And Danica and Fitz will deliver a riveting performance.

We even have a set concept! Since school committee meetings are open to the public, they take place in our auditorium. So Makayla and Cherish convinced Mrs. DiCarlo to let them take some giant wooden set panels for an independent portfolio project and they transformed it into a celestial canyon—all purple sky and a burnt orange scorched landscape.

I’d tattoo it on my face, I love it so much.

It’s so massive, the art pieces live in the auditorium, onstage, drying behind curtains that have been closed since Barefoot in the Park. Imagine. An entire stage gone entirely to waste. At the end of the week we’ll covertly put the pieces in place for our performance.

Since we don’t have an auditorium for rehearsals and my parents are at Dad’s gig, my basement is the next best thing. Our seats are the green microfiber couch that sags in the middle. The stage is a too-small area rug. It keeps the blocking close. Intimate. Two sisters, after a coronation that changed their lives. I’m sitting cross-legged on the edge of the chaise lounge, recording the rehearsal on Fitz’s phone at her request, so she can analyze her own performance, and giving cues. It’s effortless, my ability to slip back into being a codirector and block a scene with Henry by my side, and it feels right. It’s exactly how this year was supposed to be.