I head back to the arts building. Everyone else should be gone by now. Probably. People hang out with him for so long after rehearsal ends that I wonder if Mr. B has a life outside school.

Crossing my fingers, I walk through the auditorium and over to Mr. B’s classroom. The light is still on inside, thank god, so I go in.

Mr. B sits at his desk, phone pressed to his ear. “Yes, sir,” he says, his shoulders hunching until he’s a shadow of his usual self. I stop in my tracks, still in the doorway. “I’ll be at the groundbreaking for the new property, and I do appreciate how generous—” He pauses, clearly having been interrupted by the person on the phone. “This is not a hobby, it’s my career, so please—” He pauses again. Closing his eyes wearily, he rubs a hand over his brow. Seeing him like this feels like an invasion. It’s so far from the confident teacher that everyone knows. “I’m not trying to relive anything, Dad. And calling them my glory days . . .” A bitter laugh escapes his lips. “Well, you’re vastly overestimating how cool I was in high school.”

Oof. I definitely shouldn’t be hearing this. I scuff my sneaker loudly on the floor and lift my hand in greeting. Mr. B looks my way, startled. A ghost of a frown passes over his face. Then he pulls himself up, flashing me a boyish grin, and he’s once again the Mr. B I’m used to seeing.

“Give me a sec,” he mouths, holding up a finger. I nod and flee back into the hallway.

After a few minutes, he pulls open the door and beckons for me to come in.

“Sorry about that,” he says as I follow him into the room. He settles into the chair behind his desk and rolls it back and forth absently. “Parents, man,” he says, shaking his head good-naturedly. “They don’t get any easier.”

“That’s . . . depressing,” I say. Thinking about him having parents is weird to me. “Um, my phone died. I was wondering if you had a charger?”

“Yeah, somewhere around here.” He starts riffling through his drawers.

The photos sitting on his desk catch my eye. There are seven of them, and each one shows him and one of the Brockton Scholars. I don’t see a photo of any of the wizards who have won, but the witches are well represented. Seven beautiful white girls hold framed certificates and smile like they just got everything they’ve ever dreamed of. Their names are inscribed on plaques at the bottom of the frames. Meredith. Lydia. Heather. Ericka. Wendy. Sarah. And at the center of his desk, Brittany. She beams out at me from the photo, her teeth perfectly white and her hair impeccably curled. I stare at her, wondering what it feels like to not worry about your future.