With his hand gone, I feel silly for overreacting. He was just looking at my injury. “You’re working really hard,” he says. “I know you don’t have tons of experience with dance—well, you look great during the salsa sections, but that’s more natural for you. Don’t beat yourself up about the other stuff. Just, you know, do your best and all that jazz.”

I’ve never felt less encouraged by a pep talk in my life. What the hell was that salsa comment? I swear he’s seen my mom at fine arts events—how has he not figured out I’m not Latina? I highly doubt he thinks I’m Afro-Latina either.

“Okay, heart-to-heart over,” he says, slapping his hands to his knees. He pushes himself to his feet and strides toward the door. “Thanks, Shay.”

“Yeah.” I nod at him as he leaves even though I have no idea what he’s thanking me for.

That was my chance to finally explain to him that I’m not Latina, and I totally missed it. Mr. B gets a four out of ten for racial sensitivity. Good intentions, bad execution. But I don’t want to be the one who calls him out on that.

After the last few weeks, I thought Mr. B understood me, at least a little, and was on my side. Now I’m almost positive he just thinks I’m special because I’m some poor, brown charity case. I finally have his attention, but I’m just mad. I guess this is what I have to deal with until this year’s Brockton Scholar is chosen. If he wants to think I’m an underprivileged Latina girl who desperately needs his help, that’s his problem. I’ll ride his assumptions all the way to the scholarship, even though the idea makes me sick to my stomach.

Besides, if I were white, I wouldn’t be worried about this at all. Mr. B favors white kids all the time, and they go on to win the scholarship, go to Willington, and have the perfect lives the American Magical Way promises. The game has always been rigged in their favor—why shouldn’t it be rigged in mine for once?

I finish cleaning my other knee in a huff and go back onstage. We’re still on a break.

Mikey rushes over to me right away. “Hey, I’m so, so sorry about that,” he says. “I should have checked to see if you were ready.”

“It’s fine,” I say.

“We’re supposed to . . . breathe together? And make eye contact? Before we . . . do it?” He punches a fist into his palm awkwardly, looking like he doesn’t know what he should be doing with his hands. “Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ll do that. Next time.”