“I’ll try,” I say wryly as I enter the classroom. All I’ve done for two years is compare myself to everyone and try to come out on top. But sure, this last-minute advice is definitely going to rock my world.

“I’m serious,” he says, following me in. He leans against the wall next to the doorframe. “Some kids here get everything handed to them. Tutors, dance classes, summer programs, MAT prep, blah blah blah.” He waves a hand in the air dismissively. “So if your resume doesn’t look just like everyone else’s, that’s cool. Don’t get down on yourself.”

It feels a little fake to hear this from a rich white dude who went to a top-five licensing college. The man literally has a scholarship fund named after his family. He teaches at a school where his family’s foundation redid the building he teaches in to be fancier. So excuse me if I’m not falling over myself to vibe with him about how “different” I am from everyone else at T. K. Anderson.

I take a deep breath. The scholarship application deadline is only two weeks away, and I can’t afford to mess this up when I’m so close.

“Thanks,” I say, flashing him what I hope is a passably sincere smile. “What did you need me for? I don’t want to miss too much of rehearsal, or else Brittany might, like, murder me.” I tense. Wrong thing to say. I meant that as a joke, but it’s too close to the truth. “I don’t want to hold everyone back,” I add awkwardly.

“Yeah, she’s being a real tight-ass about this show.” He chuckles. I try to laugh with him, but it feels so forced that I quickly give up on it. “I thought you could use a break from her torturing you guys. We can work together on your choreography for ‘The Block Party.’ ”

“Oh.” I thought I made it clear already that I didn’t want special help last time he asked about this, but I guess I suck too much to ignore.

“I hope I’m a better partner than Kevin,” he says, stepping toward me with his hands held up. I hesitate, but there’s not a polite way out of this situation, so I steel myself and take his hands. His skin feels uncomfortably warm on mine. “From the section after ‘You’re dancing with the only hot girl here,’ ” he says, quoting some of the lyrics. I nod, and he counts us off.

I hate every second of us dancing. We’re too close. I can smell the light scent of cedar wafting off his clothes. I’m torn between the urge to rip my body away from him and the need to be mature about this. Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t so bothered by people being in my personal space.