“I guess you’ve got to become a Brockton Scholar,” he says in this devastatingly casual tone. He says it like Brockton isn’t his last name, like he isn’t one of the people who makes that happen.

“I guess I do.” I address that to the glove compartment in front of me because I can’t pretend to be relaxed about this and look at him at the same time.

A few minutes pass where Mr. B drives without saying anything. I see two witches on matching brooms zoom above us, hair streaming behind them as they fly. They have those classic Ford brooms, the ones with the old-school brush tails that look like they’re straight out of a vintage broom show. The handlebars and shafts are a brilliant gold with crimson accents, and the seats attached to the shafts are leather. If only I had a broom. I could be flying myself home right now and looking cool as hell doing it.

Mr. B’s gaze flashes toward them as they go by, and then his face lights up. “I’ve been thinking about the award ceremony night, trying to figure out what would be the best numbers for us to do,” he says. “We usually do two, a group number and a solo.”

Oof. I have actively been avoiding thinking about the Brockton Scholarship award ceremony. When I heard that the drama department does a selection from the spring show at the ceremony, my blood curdled. On the most nerve-racking night of my life, I’ll have to suffer through the embarrassment of musical theater performance? No fucking thank you.

“I’m considering doing ‘Bronxtown Broom Race’ for the group number,” Mr. B says. “What do you think?”

He wants my opinion? Wow. “That’s probably our most impressive song,” I say. “The choreography looks cool.”

“Good point. We’ll have to make sure we whip that one into shape.” He checks over his shoulder and shifts the car into the next lane. “I think we’ll do ‘My Soft Place to Land’ as the other song.”

My solo? He wants me to do my solo at the award ceremony? “Okay,” I say, pretending that my soul didn’t vacate my body when he said that.

It really hits me then that I’ve done it. He likes me. And if I win the scholarship, some people might say that I only won because I was one of his favorites. My gut twists at the idea, but it’s too late to stop now. I can’t go back to the time before I auditioned, before he noticed me at that info meeting. The only thing I can do at this point is move forward.