“If you’re here to get class credit or use this as an extracurricular for your college applications, you’re in the wrong place. No room for impostors here.”

He pauses, surveying the crowd, his impressive height commanding immediate authority on the stage. Judging by his manicured goatee and short ponytail of dark hair gathered at his neck, the boy in black has spent ample time reading How to Look Like a Broadway Director, and I’d bet good money he’s got a picture of Lin-Manuel Miranda on his bedroom wall.

“In the immortal words of Polonius, ‘To thine own self be true.’ So make your choice. Are you in or out?”

Through the hush in the vast auditorium, a rustling draws everyone’s attention to a freshman-looking boy in the back who gathers up his stuff and scurries out the door, followed by every set of eyes in the room.

“For those who remain, this will not be like any other club. Theater is a way of life. Theater is life.”

He turns dramatically, pointing to a girl in the front row.

“You will find yourself on this stage. The lights can reveal you, if you let them.”

Yeah, this was definitely a bad idea. I would flee after that other poor impostor if I weren’t glued to my seat with fear of interrupting this guy’s grand monologue.

“This year, we will be bringing the stage to life with…”

He pauses for dramatic effect, soaking in the anticipation as every head leans forward. I worry Asad may literally fall out of his seat.

“The Wizard of Oz!”

A gasp ripples through the rows, followed by a chorus of chatter.

“Like Dorothy, we will wend our way down the yellow brick road. We will head into the dark forest. We will emerge triumphant—transformed.”

He points a finger again toward the girl in the audience.

“Are you ready for the journey?”

He offers her his hand and in one fluid movement lifts her onto the stage. Row by row, everyone leaves their seats to climb up, too. Asad stands and turns to me.

“You coming?”

I grip my bag tighter against me.

“Wait, we have to do that? Even if we’re crew?” I hope there’s been some serious miscommunication and the backstage folks like us get to slink unseen behind black curtains.

“Yup. Drama club tradition. Follow me,” he says.

I shake my head.

“I—I think this was a mistake.”

He looks at me for a second and then at the row of people behind us like he’s noticed for the first time that they’re whispering, watching to see if the scar-faced girl will take the stage.

His dark eyes capture mine.

“ ‘Fortune Favors the Brave,’ ” he says.

I think for a second.

“Les Mis? No, wait, Aida. Definitely Aida. Final answer.”

He smiles wide.