“He told me that doing the musical would be really good for my scholarship application,” Johnson recalls. “It was obvious what he meant, but I was convinced he was just trying to be nice.”

Thus began several weeks of escalating harassment from the drama teacher. Mr. Brockton is a favorite at T. K. Anderson Magical Magnet School. His connections to the Brockton Scholarship, however, allow him unchecked power over students seeking the scholarship.

— Selection from the article “Jeffrey Brockton Grooms Scholarship Candidates,” written by Alexandra Evans, Shayna Johnson, and Ana Álvarez

On the Saturday of the scholarship ceremony, I wait for my parents at the kitchen table. My chest is tingling with nerves. It’s time to tell them. It was probably time to tell them long before now, but I can’t avoid it anymore.

I spent the whole week dodging my parents, putting off the inevitable. It wasn’t hard to avoid them, since I had so much rehearsal. Torturous, never-ending rehearsal. Everywhere I turned, Mr. B was there. If I thought he had favored me before, that was nothing compared to this. His attention was like a spotlight I couldn’t escape. He praised me constantly and shot sly grins my way, as if we were both in on some big secret. Even though my body buzzed with nerves every time he approached me, I did my best to fake a smile. Meanwhile, Brittany lingered in the background like a ghost, never quite making eye contact with me.

Restless, I straighten the piece of paper I have in front of me and push one of the midair plants farther away from my head. Then I hear Mom’s heavy step coming down the hall. “You’re ready already?” she says, clocking my all-black performance outfit as she enters the kitchen. She’s still wearing the jeans and blouse she’s been in all day.

“Yeah,” I say, laughing awkwardly. She tugs at the magic in the stove, turning on one of the burners, and grabs a pot from the cabinet. God, facing Mr. B wasn’t as scary as talking to my own mother. “I have something I need to tell you about.”

She mm-hmms at me, busy filling the pot with water from the sink.

“Um . . . here.” I stand and thrust my paper at her. There are perks to the fact that, as a part of our plan for tonight, Lex, Ana, and I wrote a summary of more or less everything that’s happened. She gives me a puzzled look, then puts down the pot and takes it.

Her face goes ashen after scanning a few lines. “Mark!” she bellows. “Get in here!”

Dad appears in the kitchen moments later, half-dressed in his khaki work pants and a nice blue button-down. “What?”