As soon as the words leave my mouth, I bite my lip, eyes widening. Sure, no one likes Ms. Klein, but she’s still a teacher. Palumbo might think that I’m a disrespectful little shit or something. Turns out, I’m overthinking it.

“You’re a riot,” he says, belly shaking with laughter. “What’s bothering you about it?”

I sigh, digging my hands into my pockets. Part of me still feels weird telling members of the cast what to do, and the whole Eric thing has made it worse. I can’t sing, and I don’t know how to act, so what do I really know? I think that loving the story as much as I do helps, but sometimes I’m not sure. Being in the show is definitely different from watching it offstage—both sides see different things.

I focus on my side. What do I see? The kids playing Angel and Collins are good singers; that’s why they got picked. But their delivery of the dialogue is too wooden for such an emotional show. Even when they sing, there isn’t enough emotion. Singing is, like, the original carrier of emotion. I should feel the grief and sadness and longing just oozing out.

“I’m just not feeling the emotion,” I explain. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe they didn’t listen to the original cast recording? No one can listen to that without being hit by a ton of bricks. If they couldn’t feel it, how am I supposed to explain it to them? You know what I mean?”

“Well,” Palumbo sighs, shifting his weight. “I would suggest trying to connect it to something relatable. Not everyone has personal experience with AIDS, but everyone has experienced grief at some point.”

“That’s true.” I could try to talk to them about death. Everyone understands death—wanting to avoid it is basically human nature. But I need something more than that. “Why is this so hard?”

“It’s only hard because you care so much,” Palumbo says, a smile in his voice. “It’ll still be hard when you’re directing on Broadway, but imagine how fun it’ll be.”

I’ve only dreamed of that happening, but Palumbo talks about it like it’s a fact.

“I mean, we don’t know if that’ll happen,” I say, pulling at my hair. “There aren’t a lot of people who make it to a Broadway stage.”

“But you would.” He doesn’t even hesitate. “Don’t doubt yourself.”

“I’m not,” I say. “I just—I don’t know if it’s practical. Maybe I’ll study theater, if they don’t actually make me get up onstage, but I don’t know if I should. I could just become a nurse or something.”

“A nurse?”