I feel the tips of my ears get hot. “It’s still a little bad, right?”

He smiles. “A little.”

My heart does this pitter-patter thing that I one hundred percent do not understand as we pull into the station, and there’s a small part of me that wants to turn around and go right back to Boston. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun or felt so inspired and I’m not sure what that means. I do know that Classical Clarinet Reid will always be The Worst. But… the Reid I spent today with?

He might not be.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I laugh at past Natalie and her confidence in her lyricism—and her ability to do it solo.

I am a playwright, not a poet.

Also, I have so much to learn about musicals. I started a list of movie musicals and I am determined to watch as many as I can before rehearsals start. Directing a musical is going to be different than a play. I can’t downplay that reality anymore.

I almost text Henry the list.

Research is his favorite part of the writing/directing process.

But then I remember that I never answered his text and we sre still very much not talking.

Like he-stopped-coming-to-Melted-meetings not talking.

And we-avoid-each-other-during-school not talking.

Pretty much we’re-both-waiting-for-the-other-person-to-apologize not talking.

So that’s not really an option right now.

At least… I have Reid? In the week since The Lion King, we’ve spent every day after school together, reworking act two and polishing my rough draft lyrics.

And all that’s left is Adina’s monologue.

I have no idea where to start, so I take a leap and knock on Mom’s office door, hoping her newfound creative energy will rub off on me in the form of a brainstorm session. But when I swing the door open, Mom isn’t behind the screen working on her next bestseller—she’s reading creative writing assignments.

“Hey, Lee,” Mom says. “Working on Melted?”

I take my spot on the futon. “Trying.”

“Same.” Mom’s chuckle is half-hearted and I mirror it, trying to hide my disappointment. I want it to be like old times, when The Lola Diaries was at the height of its success and Mom was cruising through a book a year.

I miss my mother’s words. Her energy when inspired was contagious.

Now I sit next to her and type and delete and type and delete.

A couplet.

A sonnet.

Even just a line.

Nothing is landing. Frustrated, I open the original script in the shared doc because maybe I’ll be, I don’t know, inspired by the brilliance of our creation.

When I’m not, I pull out my phone and text Reid.