“That’s awesome. You’ve had it all figured out for a while.” He shakes his head wryly. “I only stumbled into what I wanted to do after college, so you’re way ahead of me.”

I wonder briefly how he got into Willington. Did he just get in because of his family’s money? Or was he an incredible student in high school?

“I was glad to see you at the meeting today,” he says. A little thrill runs through me. “We need more people like you applying.”

I smile uncertainly. Is he talking about me being Black? Or something else? I decide to go with a safe response. “I would be really honored to have such an amazing opportunity.”

He laughs and pushes himself back to sit on his desk. A few wayward papers crinkle under his khakis. “You don’t have to be so formal, Shay. This isn’t official Brockton Scholarship business. I promise I’m not judging you right now. Relax.”

I force a laugh and swing my legs up to sit cross-legged on the block. Hopefully that makes me look more relaxed. God, there’s nothing less relaxing than being told to relax.

“Congrats on the concert last night,” he says. “Your solo was incredible.”

“Thanks.”

“Your technique is great,” he continues. “Not many high schoolers have that kind of breath control.”

“Thank you,” I say again, beaming. “I had a good time at the concert. The stuff we sang last night was . . .” I pause, because I’ve dug myself into a hole. Our Salute to America concert is always pretty mediocre. It’s so soon after winter break that we only have a week and a half to properly rehearse. “It was nice to sing ‘America the Magical’ again,” I finish awkwardly.

Mr. B snorts quietly. “Ms. Mooney loves having you guys sing that.”

Ms. Mooney, our choir director, whips that song out every time we have to do something on short notice. “All of us have sung it before except for the freshmen, so it’s easy to put together.”

He leans slightly toward me, lowering his voice. “Just between you and me, if I hear that song again, I’m going to rip off my own ears.” A full-blown cackle escapes me in my surprise at hearing him say that. He grins mischievously. “Just keeping it real.”

“I mean, you’re right.” I shrug. “She has truly beaten that song to death.”

“I shouldn’t make fun of it too much, though. The drama club performances at that concert aren’t much better,” he says. “I have students perform those same monologues about the ‘value of hard work’ and how ‘magic is the great American equalizer’ every year.” He does a spot-on impression of the painfully earnest student performances as he quotes the monologues. I laugh. Those monologues are just so cringe.