The applause thundered, from me louder than anyone. The gleam in Mrs. Leach’s eye betrayed a rogue hope that she might just pull this off. The noise died out until a single clapping sound continued from somewhere in the auditorium aisle. We all turned to look, shading our eyes from the stage lights. The clapping had a remarkable consistency, as if it might continue in that manner until it drove you mad. In fact, it wasn’t clapping at all.

“Marvelous.” Steve Jorgensen-Warner kept bouncing his ball. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Claire blushed and pointed the toes of her boots together as if self-conscious about her exposed calves.

“Lessons,” she said. “Mum and Da had me in fencing for six years.”

“I’m so glad they did,” Steve said. “It’s just magnificent.”

The drama dorks were breathless, caught off guard by this intrusion of flirting into their after-school geekery. Only Mrs. Leach frowned. She didn’t trust a sportsman infiltrating her hallowed sanctuary.

“Can we help you, Mr. Jorgensen-Warner?”

Steve flashed his movie-star grin. With feet trained on the court and field, he took the stage steps in three agile jumps, the ball smacking upon each step. Thespians, not the most coordinated bunch, murmured in appreciation. Claire’s eyes were on the star athlete the whole time.

“There’s a bit of an emergency with my grades.” Steve faked an abashed smile. “Coach said there’s a point system I can use to boost my average so I can play on Friday. Geez, everybody is counting on me to play. The whole town, seems like. Anyway, Coach gave me three options.”

He took the ball under his arm and removed a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. Mrs. Leach took it, flapped it like a fan until it opened, and read it aloud.

“A: Trigonometry Contest. B: Build a Solar Panel Science Project. C: Theater Understudy.”

“Coach said it was like being on the bench. I swear I won’t get in the way. I just want to help out however I can.”

Rarely in life does one get to witness such expertise in disarming a hostile adult. Few teachers at Saint B. could rival Mrs. Leach in day-to-day bitterness, and yet she melted right there before our disbelieving eyes. She folded the note and put it in her pocket. What, was it going into her personal scrapbook?

“Of course, Steve, we’d be happy to have you. It never hurts to have understudies. Your timing is perfect, actually. We have to get our Romeo into costuming. Jim, lend Steve your script for the balcony scene while we get you fitted.”