In choir, though, a distraction: I audition for — and get — the soprano descant solo in “Silent Night.” But as pleased as I am to have gotten the part, there is as always that intertwined thread of wondering where this musical gift came from, if anywhere. Each good thing seems to be tangled up with a shadow side. Even with the things that make me special, it hurts to think I might always feel like I don’t really belong anywhere.

After school, I sit with Elliot at rehearsal, watching the cast work through a couple of scenes from act 2 as I wait to meet Hunter. Elliot rubs his beard as he watches, an intense expression on his face. The set is starting to shape up nicely, and I have to admit that Serena is actually really good — better than I imagined. When he calls for a break, I tell him he did a great job with casting. He gives me sort of a sad smile. “It’s working out pretty well,” he says. “But I’ll always wish you were in the show.”

“Me too. But I doubt anyone else would have found you Sam Jones’s painting,” I say, trying to stay upbeat.

“Oh my god, that painting!” His eyes widen. “I couldn’t have dreamed up anything more perfect.”

“Right? And the crew is doing an amazing job with the walls. And that window!”

He nods. “I just hope the snow goes okay — remember in Enemy?”

I laugh. “How could I forget? I was picking it out of my hair that whole night.” I glance at my watch and my stomach dives. It’s almost five thirty. “Oh gosh. I have to go.” I get up and gather my things, then give Elliot a hug goodbye.

It’s time to meet Hunter.

It’s a beautiful evening — clouds are scattered across a pink-tinged sky — which makes this all the harder.

Hunter is waiting at the sculpture for me, his hair wet from a shower. “Hey,” he says. He smiles a little but makes no move to touch me.

A lump forms in my throat before I even speak, because it’s clear he knows it’s over, too, and somehow knowing that it’s real brings a rush of hurt. “Hey,” I say. I sit on the base of the sculpture, and he sits beside me.

“Beautiful sky,” he says.

“Yeah.” I glance at him. “Did you have an okay time? The dance, and the party?”

He looks away. “I tried,” he finally says.

“Oh, Hunter,” I say softly. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted to disappoint you. Or hurt you.”

He nods. “I know.”

A couple of his friends shout to him as they head toward the parking lot. He holds up a hand in a wave, but his expression remains stoic.

We sit in silence for a few minutes.

“This sucks,” he finally says.

“Sucks donkey dicks,” I agree.