“Got it,” Mr. B says triumphantly, pulling a phone charger out of his bottom drawer. “Can I have your phone?” I hand it over, and he plugs it into the wall behind his chair. “It’s getting late. Where’s your ride?”

“I don’t know. My dad said he was running late, but I haven’t heard anything else from him for a while.”

“I can give you a ride home if you need one,” he offers.

That would be so much time stuck in the car with him, and I would be worried about impressing him the entire time. Hard pass. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “My dad will be here soon.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know where he was?”

Ooh, he really just called me out. I blink and change tactics. “I mean, he’ll be worried if I’m not here when he gets here.”

“Shay, I’m being selfish, okay? I want you to get home earlier so you can get some sleep tonight and not be exhausted in rehearsal,” he says. “Sorry, I’m a jerk, I know. But let me help you.” He pauses and grins. “For me.”

His eyes crinkle as he smiles, and a few tiny crow’s-feet crease at the corners. He seems not that much older than us when he’s joking around with students, but sometimes he shifts into adult mode, and I realize that he has to be at least thirty.

“Well . . . I really don’t want to bother you,” I say hesitantly. “I live kind of far away.”

“I don’t want a young, pretty girl like you stuck outside so late.” He leans forward, propping his elbows up on his desk. “Makes me nervous.”

The word pretty feels weird coming out of Mr. B’s mouth. I mean, he’s my teacher—I don’t want him to comment on how I look. But his expression is so earnest. It feels like he’s a concerned older brother more than anything else.

I wave away my discomfort before I start overthinking this. Still, I don’t really know how to respond. “Um.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see the light from my phone screen turning on. “Oh, my phone is on. Can I . . . ?”

“Go ahead,” he says, scooting his chair out of the way. He gestures for me to come over to the other side of the desk.

I’m hunched over where my phone sits on the floor and am checking for new messages from Dad when the door to the classroom opens. “Hey, are you—”

I turn and see Brittany stop in her tracks. “Oh,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “What are you doing here?”

The real question is, what is she doing here? It’s super late for her to still be hanging around campus.

“Brittany,” Mr. B says, giving her a look of weary amusement. “Come on. Be a little nicer.”