“Let’s get one last round of applause for the cast!” Ms. Mooney says, and the auditorium erupts in cheers. Then we all run offstage, riding high on the audience’s applause.

The cast goes to IHOP after the show, which is some kind of T. K. Anderson theater tradition. We fill up a whole section of the restaurant, and people haphazardly put in orders. Members of our cast sing parts of the show at top volume, dart back and forth between tables, and generally become our waitress’s biggest nightmare.

“So we fucking killed it tonight,” Ed announces to our table. Ana, Ed, Mikey, and I are all at a booth in the corner.

Mikey nods seriously and continues assembling his floating tower of half-and-half containers. He transfigures his straw wrapper into a tiny flag, which he stabs into one of the top containers.

“Yeah, it was good,” Ana says. “It almost sounded like our cast spoke Spanish.”

Ed laughs, and then the two of them switch into Spanish. Based on the number of times I hear them quoting lines from the show in slow, exaggerated American accents, I would guess they’re still making fun of our castmates’ mangling of the Spanish language.

My gaze lands on Brittany, who sits quietly with a group of other senior girls. A sigh escapes me. I’m worried about her. Mom went to meet with Brittany’s mom a few weeks ago, because she and Dad agreed it was wrong to keep that kind of secret from someone’s parents. Mom came back to the apartment humming with disappointment. When I asked her how it went, she sucked her teeth and looked up to the heavens for patience.

“That woman . . .” she said. “Mm.” Then she disappeared into her bedroom and never spoke another word about it.

Should I reach out to Brittany again now that things have settled down? I’ve made it through all the interviews with the principal and the school counselor without mentioning her, so it must be clear to her that I’m not telling anyone.

Ana flicks me on the wrist. I yelp and swat at her hand. “What the—”

“I know that face,” she says, bumping her shoulder against mine. “You’re overthinking something.”

“Okay, maybe I was,” I say, laughing. “But don’t call me out like that.”

“So did you see the statement the Brockton Foundation released?” Mikey says, and for a moment I’m amazed at this entire normal sentence he’s spoken in my presence. Thank god his misplaced anxiety around me is gone.

“Oh yeah,” Ana says. “They’re doing everything possible to distance themselves from Mr. B. Apparently they’ll be bringing the scholarship back next year after some kind of review.”

“They should just give you the scholarship,” Ed says to me. “Reparations, man.”

“Yeah, it’s bullshit that they canceled the whole thing for this year,” Mikey adds.