It doesn’t help that Ms. Klein is obsessed with perfecting “Seasons of Love” today, stopping and starting over and over again. Mr. Palumbo watches with his mouth set in a flat line. I decide to wander around backstage. I could pretend I’m checking on the crew, but it would be a waste of time. My eyes look onto Miles as soon as I’m past the curtain.

He’s clad in a short-sleeve black shirt and dark jeans. As he folds his arms, the veins in his wrists ripple out. I swallow. If there were no one else around, I’d kiss him until he couldn’t see straight.

He’s pushing a towering set piece, one even taller than him, onto the stage. Once that’s in place, he picks up two benches, one in each arm. Pieces of bright blue tape signal where he should put them down. Kids scurry in different directions so they don’t get trampled. Set pieces aren’t usually that heavy, since the crew builds them on their own out of cheap plywood and other lightweight materials, but they weigh enough that teams of two are usually needed to move each piece. Miles is the only one who does it by himself. It’s totally hot, but I should probably talk to him about it. Everyone knows about his injury. I don’t want him making it worse.

I clear my throat. “Can’t believe Jesse has you moving everything all by yourself.”

He drops the benches into position, glancing up at me with a smile. I want to kiss it off his face, right here, right now, in front of everybody.

“It’s not that hard,” he says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Not as hard as remembering lines.”

“Maybe because it takes brains to remember important details.”

“Are you saying I don’t have any brains?”

I give him a pointed look. It only lasts for a few seconds, since I can’t help but smile.

“I’m hurt,” he says, holding a hand over his chest. “I might not have brains, but I have tons of skill. You know what my job was on the lacrosse team?”

“Pushing people.” I shrug. “You might’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

“Yeah, well, that’s because it’s important.”

He steps away from the set so that he’s beside me. Whatever he’s saying about lacrosse fades out of focus as I glance down at his hand. It’s barely inches away from mine. He did that on purpose, right? We’ve kissed before. Holding hands is, like, on a lower tier than kissing. I can hold his hand.

“Simone?” His voice is close to my ear. “You still there?”

I grab his hand fast. I’m sure mine is sweaty and unpleasant, but he doesn’t pull away. His fingers wrap around mine. I bite my lip to keep my smile from splitting my face.