After school ends on Monday, I head to the auditorium, going through the lyrics to “My Soft Place to Land” in my head. I can do this. I will sing adequately enough that Mr. B will cast me as a minor part that nobody pays much attention to. I’ll be good enough that he’ll be impressed with my commitment and willingness to try new things, but not good enough that he’ll expect me to ever do a show again.

There’s a loud group of students in the hallway outside the auditorium entrance. People yell across the hall at each other, raucously laughing and swapping nonsensical inside jokes. A group of girls shrieks some musical theater song at high volume, each one of them posing and pouting at nobody in particular. Another group of people sings a different song while doing some intense-looking choreography that involves them shooting flames out of their hands. I lean over the sign-in sheet sitting on a small folding table and scrawl my name on the last line. Another name on the list catches my eye.

Oh no. You have to be kidding me.

I glance behind me and, sure enough, there’s Ana Álvarez sitting cross-legged against a wall. She makes eye contact and considers me for a moment. I frown. She stands and saunters toward me.

Why is she here? She doesn’t even do theater. Plus, she’s the least expressive person I’ve ever met—as far as I’ve seen in the two years I’ve known Ana, her emotions range from smug to serious and back again. She stops in front of me and lifts her chin in greeting. Tilting her head to the side, she considers me, her dark eyes unreadable.

“You’re auditioning?” I blurt out.

“No, I just like hanging out in this hallway.”

“Ha ha.” I purse my lips and flip my hair over my shoulder. She’s not going to rattle me.

“Did Mr. B get to you too?”

Just kidding, I’m already rattled. “Um.” I open and close my mouth wordlessly.

She raises her eyebrows. “So . . . yes?”

Oh my god, get it together, Shay. I cross my arms over my chest. “He said I should audition, if that’s what you mean.”

“Guess he was desperate for brown people,” she says, grinning smugly at me. Her dimple deepens on her cheek. A rush of annoyance fills me. I don’t like her writing me off like that, even though it’s probably true.

“I bet he was scared Don’t Hate, Educate would protest the performance if he did a mostly white Bronxtown Brooms,” she continues.

I snort. “They don’t care about T. K. Anderson.” The closest Don’t Hate, Educate chapter is in Miami, more than an hour away, and they spend all their time picketing our senators’ Miami offices.