It seems like that’s all he’s going to say, so I drop my backpack on the side of the room and open Instagram to kill time until we start rehearsing.

“You know, I think she’s a little jealous of you.”

I glance up from my phone, confused. “What?”

“It’s not that crazy,” he says, sitting on one of the rehearsal blocks. He fixes me with an ice-blue stare, his expression serious. “You’re smart and beautiful, and you give everything a thousand percent. She’s threatened.”

Why is he talking about my appearance again? Ugh. It’s uncomfortable that he’s talking about two of his students like this. He tries so hard to vibe with students that sometimes he crosses the line and says something I don’t think a teacher should really be saying. It’s clear that he doesn’t mean anything inappropriate by this. Still, I hate it. “Thanks,” I say reluctantly.

“Winning the scholarship has made her pretty used to being the special one. But she’s not the first student I’ve mentored, and she won’t be the last.” He lifts his hands lazily while shrugging, as if to say “It is what it is.”

Is he implying that he wants to mentor me like he mentors Brittany? Dear god, no. I can’t deal with any more of his weird, insensitive comments. Ana was right. He’s so not woke that he’s basically asleep. I get why other people like him—he’s charming and funny and obviously cares about his students. But I can’t be genuinely close to him, since he can’t talk about race without making me want to leap out a window. My goal is to maintain a nice, surface-level relationship with him until the scholarship is awarded.

He stares at the photos on his desk, his expression clouding. “She reminds me a little of Meredith sometimes,” he says so quietly that I wonder if it’s to me at all.

“Meredith?”

He flips around one of the frames, showing me a picture of him with a grinning redheaded witch. “I mentored her a few years ago. She was a great kid—just got too cool for me after she won the scholarship.” He chuckles.

I imagine myself standing where Meredith stands, grinning into the camera with Mr. B. Maybe I can do what she did and deal with Mr. B’s “mentorship” until I win the scholarship.

“Sorry that Brittany’s been getting on your case in rehearsals,” he continues, pushing himself to his feet. “She’s a lonely person. Plus, her mom is a real . . .” He mouths the word bitch, and my heart just about stops. “And sometimes . . .” He grimaces. “Apple. Tree.”

“Yikes,” I say, which is mostly an automatic response to suddenly having Brittany’s personal information dropped on me. On the bright side, it also works as a response to what Mr. B said about Brittany’s mom.