“What do you mean? It’s Rent. You know that,” I say. We sit on a bench, his body is warm next to mine. “So it’s about a bunch of people who live in New York and have to deal with AIDS and relationships and stuff, but they sing.”

“I know,” he says, the corners of his mouth turning up. “I’ve read the script.”

“Okay. So you know the ‘big deal.’ ”

“Not really. I don’t understand why Ms. Klein is always freaking out.”

I glance up at him. Now that I’m close, I can see the barest hint of a mustache over his lips. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I can see the hint of freckles along my cheeks, but Miles doesn’t have any of those. His skin is consistent, no blemishes, just smooth darkness.

“Because it’s the first time she’s directing something and all those parents were freaking out about the show, so she wants to prove herself.”

“Wait,” he says. “What happened with that? People were freaking out?”

“It was this whole thing at the beginning of the year,” I sigh. “Tons of people in the PTA Facebook group were talking about how they objected to the show’s ‘portrayal of prostitution’ or the characters’ drug use or something.”

“Seriously?”

“Why are you so surprised?” I say. “The PTA is wild. You know Mike Davidson’s mom?”

Miles nods. “She’s the president. She does all the fund-raising stuff.”

“Right, so she came to rehearsal once and actually lectured Palumbo about it.” It’s hard to keep the heat out of my voice. “She spent, like, twenty minutes talking about how inappropriate it was and that it wasn’t setting the right example for high school kids.”

“But we aren’t even doing the real version,” Miles says. “There are—Jesse was talking about how all the lines were changed.”

“Yeah, we’re not even getting the full Rent experience, and it’s still not good enough for Mrs. Davidson,” I say, shrugging. “Anyway, I think that’s why Ms. Klein wants us to win at the High School Theater Awards. It’ll make her look good or something. And it’s not like we’re doing an easy musical. Rent is a modern classic. She’s probably nervous about pulling it off.”

“You know a ton about musical classics,” he says, nudging my shoulder. He taps a finger against my forehead. “Do you have a library of musicals up there?”

“Yep.” I smile. “Needed to fill all that space up somehow.”

He snickers, the finger tracing my cheek. It feels like my skin is about to catch fire.

“When was the first time you watched Sweeney Todd?”

“Bro, I didn’t watch the movie,” I say, raising my eyebrows. “I saw the musical on Broadway.”

“Of course.” He laughs. “I forgot who I was talking to. You probably saw the original cast and everything.”