“I’m not panicking. Who’s panicking?” I said this louder than I intended to, and Eric (with a c) looked up from where he was sitting on the couch next to Jayson and Erik (with a k).

“Um—you?” he ventured.

“Do we know for sure the list isn’t going up today?” Stevie asked, her voice calm and reasonable. Stevie, for reasons passing understanding, didn’t want to keep acting in college or try to do it professionally. She had it planned out—she wanted to go to Northwestern for undergrad and then Harvard for law school, just like her dad had done. She intended to be a lawyer, also like her dad. And while I disagreed with this career path entirely, since she would be throwing her talent away—it would be like Simone Biles going into taxidermy—I had to admit that there were times when I could see it, Future Stevie methodically working through some contract, taking the legalese point by point.

“Well, that’s what I heard,” Emery said. The thought that the list wouldn’t be up today had honestly not occurred to me. It would be like the sun rising in the west—it just wasn’t what was supposed to happen.

I crossed the lobby and sat on the floor, trying to steady myself, my back against the side of the couch.

Mr. Campbell would sometimes complain, when he was passing through the lobby and we were all lounging around, eating (or throwing) snacks, that this building wasn’t even ten years old and we’d turned it into a rec room. He wasn’t wrong—I’d probably spent more time in the theater department lobby than anywhere else in the school over the last four years. If I had an open and wasn’t going off campus, I’d always hang out here. Even if I was just doing homework while curled in one of the overstuffed armchairs, I still preferred to be over there than anywhere else. It was our headquarters, our hideaway, our clubhouse. The theater building was home. All the rest was just a school.

Stevie shot me a look as she came over and sat on the couch behind me, and Teri joined me on the floor. “I don’t think you should worry,” Stevie said in a half whisper, widening her eyes toward Emery, across the room on the opposite couch. “You know how she is.” She pulled at her hair, and it tumbled down from her makeshift bun in one long sheet, like she was a cartoon princess.

I nodded, telling myself to calm down. Emery did love to stir the pot—I should have remembered that. Also, why wouldn’t Mr. Campbell be posting the casting today like normal? It didn’t make any sense.