“You’re a trooper.” He pulls a chair over from another mirror station and sits across from me. Now that I get a good look at him, I can see a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his breathing is ragged. All of that coordinated, high-level magic he’s been doing for the last half hour must be taking its toll. “I wanted to ask if everything is okay with you,” he says. He pauses briefly but continues off my blank look. “You’re looking a little . . .” He flaps his hand vaguely.

“Dead tired?” I supply for him. He nods. I shrug and dab some potion onto my knee. The skin tightens, then itches as the raw skin scabs over. “I’m just stressed with school and stuff.”

“You’re a special kid, Shay,” he says, patting my hand. “There aren’t a lot of students at this school like you.”

I smile. “Thanks.”

“You know, I started the scholarship because I wanted to give people who’ve been overlooked the attention they deserve,” he says thoughtfully.

My heart flutters at the mention of the scholarship.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’m having the kind of impact I want, because so many of our applicants are just . . .” He waves a hand in the air. “Middle-class kids who’ve had every opportunity handed to them. But then candidates like you come along. Students who’ve really struggled, you know. You guys make it all worth it.”

“Thank you,” I say, ignoring the knot of irritation in my chest. He’s not totally wrong. My family makes less money than most people at this school. I’m not sure I would describe myself as having “struggled” in life, but I can suck it up and ignore that.

“I’m lucky to have you and Ana doing the show.” He says Ana’s name wrong, giving the first A in her name a super-nasal sound. I don’t correct him. If he can’t even say her name right at this point, I’ve really got her beat as far as making a good impression on him goes. “This show would have been a snowstorm without you.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“A snowstorm?” he repeats. “Like . . . very white?”

“Oh,” I say, not sure how else to respond.

“Is that not a thing the cool kids are saying nowadays?” He puts on a dorky voice and does the super-cringey hand motions white people think all rappers make.

I laugh, trying to pretend away my discomfort. “No.”

“Great,” he says, chuckling. “Good to know I’m officially out of touch. Anyway, I’m glad to have you in the show.” He puts his hand on my thigh and leans forward to inspect the newly formed scab on my knee. I go completely stiff. When I look at his face, his expression is one of concern. His thumb strokes the top of my kneecap once, twice. Then he pulls his hand away.