My heart drops. Shit. The scholarship deadline is tomorrow. I was so close to the finish line. If I had just maintained Mr. B’s good opinion until this was all over, I could have won. I always thought I could get the scholarship by pushing myself to be the best version of myself. Maybe I should have just pretended to be someone else.

Chapter 28

OSCAR:

I love you

Even though your family’s a mess

Even though your clothes are cheap

Your cousin’s a freak

And your mom is just so indiscreet

VALERIA:

Excuse me?

—Lyrics to “My Unfortunate Condition” from Bronxtown Brooms

I submit my final scholarship application before school the next day. It should be an earth-shatteringly meaningful moment. Instead, I stare at my gold signature for a few long seconds before shoving the pile of papers into the waiting tray. A sick sense of dread pools in my stomach.

“You’ll know by the end of next week if you’re a finalist,” the secretary drawls, her fingers clacking on her computer keyboard. “Good luck.”

The office door opens behind me. I turn, and there’s Ana. Her mouth hitches up in a tentative half smile. The dread in my stomach intensifies. She’s going to win. She’s going to win, and I’m going to lose, all because I messed everything up.

“Hey,” she says. She slips past me and places her own application on top of mine. “Want to walk to class with me?”

I’m already backing toward the door. “Um . . . no. Sorry. I have to go to my locker.”

The disappointment that flashes in her eyes haunts me all day.

When I walk into rehearsal that afternoon, Mr. B clocks me, then turns back to his conversation with Brittany. My heart sinks. His expression isn’t exactly cold, but it’s nowhere near the warm smile I’m used to seeing. Soon after Ana arrives, he makes a beeline for her. Suddenly, the Mr. B charm is switched on again. Even from across the room, I can tell that he’s turned the full power of his interest and enthusiasm on her. They stand in the aisle and talk for a while as I watch, feeling like a pile of hot garbage.

Things only gets worse once rehearsal starts. Mr. B singles me out even more obviously today, making me run my solo over and over again while everyone waits impatiently.

“I just need more from you,” he says. “You’ve got dead eyes. Lights off, no one’s home.”

“Right,” I say, nodding deferentially. “I’ll, um, make them less dead.”

His stare is hard and uncompromising. “Do you understand what I’m saying here?”

Not at all. “Yes,” I say.

“Okay.” He sounds skeptical. “Let’s try it again, then.”