“And think of the publicity opportunities! Students proving that you don’t need a big budget to make art that matters.”

The closing argument.

“It’s good,” Henry says, the twitch in his fingers gone.

“We’re good,” I say.

Henry and I have been collaborators since middle school—but Melted marks a new era in our partnership as our first full-length script. The words poured out of us over one very long, caffeinated weekend in June. I write for character development and pacing. Henry is attuned to plot and overall hilarity.

We’re a perfect team.

“It shouldn’t even matter,” Henry says. “This. The play. Yet the idea of Melted not being enough makes me feel like I’m going to vomit.”

I snap the rubber band friendship bracelet Henry made me in sixth grade against my wrist. He is ten months older than me to the day, but it’s never mattered until this year. Because now Henry is a senior, I am a junior, and we are in our final act together at LHS.

“We’re supposed to have a final curtain call,” I insist.

Our first was A Christmas Carol. The summer after third grade, Henry and I were thrown together at the elementary school’s summer theater camp. I needed an outlet for my energy. Henry needed to break out of his shell. On the first day, he raised his hand and told Mrs. Tamorelli how weird it was to do A Christmas Carol in July. I agreed, it was weird, and raised my hand to say so, adding that it’s also weird to assume everyone celebrates Christmas.

We’ve been best friends and collaborators ever since.

“Chao and Jacobson does have a nice ring to it,” Henry declares.

“Not as nice as Jacobson and Chao.”

“Wouldn’t that be the biggest plot twist?”

Henry and I start laughing because he’s right. It would be. But Henry is going full Business Bro at Babson next year. Sure, he’ll write an entire one-act play just to make me laugh, perform Shakespeare monologues in the park for a passing audience, but it’s all whatever he can fit in between track practice, debate team, and his shifts at his family-owned restaurant, Chao Down. Art makes him happy.

Henry taught me art doesn’t have to be all-consuming, like my parents make it out to be.

It can be low stakes. It can just be fun.

“Shit.” Henry glances at his phone. We are officially late. “Where is Fitzgerald? Homeroom starts in twenty.”

Henry’s white sneakers squeak against the floor when he stands. He pushes up the sleeves of his navy half-zip, readjusts his glasses for the second time, and holds his hand out for me to take.

“Natalie! Henry!”

I hear her voice first, followed by the clicks of block heels against vinyl.