I shrug, not letting myself face him. Teachers who are all supportive and nice sort of freak me out. They start to learn too much about you. In the middle of class, they could watch you daydream and know exactly what you’re thinking about. I’d like to keep some things private.

“I don’t want to go to school for something that’s artistic and hard to do and end up in a sea of debt,” I say, folding my arms. “My dad told me he didn’t finish paying off his student loans until he was thirty.”

He presses his lips together. “It’s different for everyone. I say you should go to school for something that you feel attached to, or don’t go at all. It is better to be passionate and poor than rich and depressed.”

“But what if I’m passionate and depressed?” I say. “I wouldn’t want to be fifty and living in a shoebox, calling my parents for a cup of ramen.”

“That’s not going to happen,” he says, shaking his head. “Whatever you do—writing or directing or even singing—you’ll be successful.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

My friends think I’ll be fine, my parents think I’ll be fine—all people who are biased. Mr. Palumbo just met me this year, and he’s already so confident about this. I soak it up like a plant desperate for water.

“There are always a few students who really have what it takes,” he says, lowering his voice. “You’re one of them, Simone. You just have to have confidence in yourself.”

I guess he’s right. If I can handle switching schools, HIV, and these stupid letters, I can handle anything life throws at me. That’s sort of what “I’ll Cover You” is about, actually: losing the ability to handle what life throws your way. The characters are telling us about the casualties, physical and emotional, of AIDS, in a time when no one wanted to hear about them. I’m not sure how much that has really changed.

“Hold on,” I say to Mr. Palumbo. “I think I have an idea.”

Ms. Klein is still onstage when I climb up.

“All right, remember to be quick,” Ms. Klein says as I walk past. “We want to get through the entire show before it’s time to go home.”

I ignore her.

“Guys,” I say, motioning for everyone to lean in toward me. “I just figured out how we’re going to do this song. It’s almost perfect right now, but this will make it better. Do you trust me?”

They share glances. The hardest part of being a director has been getting the cast to trust me. But I’m too invigorated from Mr. Palumbo’s pep talk to overanalyze right now.