“Maxwell! Stop flirting with the crowd. Forget about the crowd. Sing to your wife, sing to your undiscovered child. Sing to anything that will make you wipe that smarmy car salesman look off your face!” Mrs. Nicky is having a rough night. She turns to me at our table in front of the stage. “Lou, where is Evan? We need our Prince out on stage in two minutes.”

“I’ll find him.”

I don’t have to find him. I know where he is. He’s in the hallway with Mary Katherine. He is always somewhere with Mary Katherine. The only time he ever makes it onstage in time is when he’s supposed to be in a scene with Mary Katherine. Unfortunately for all of us, this is not one of those scenes.

Rehearsal ends at nine. Not because it’s over and perfect and we’ve nailed our last run-through, but because the parent’s association says all extracurriculars for middle schoolers have to be over by nine, a fact that Mrs. Nicky threatens to appeal at least once every rehearsal.

“Hey, we’re headed to Sonic. Want to come?” Geneva asks on our way out to the parking lot. She’s left her witch makeup on. It works on her.

“Cherry limeades and tots FOR THE WIN!” Tucker cheers. He’s been working double time trying to get the set finished, which means double dinners plus snacks. They both hop in Geneva’s mom’s SUV, and Jacob climbs in after. Jacob has maybe the best theater job. He can hide up in his AV box away from the chaos. But it must have been a rough night for him, too, because he’s got that glassy-eyed look he sometimes gets after playing too many video games.

Well lifts his eyebrows at me before stepping up onto the foot rail of their car. It’s his “Whaddya say?” face. But I spot Ginger’s Lexus under the glow of the farthest parking lot light.

“Nah, there’s something I’ve got to do. Thanks, though.”

“Oh, mystery. I’m intrigued. Tell me about it tomorrow.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t wait for an answer before piling in with the others. I follow their headlights all the way down the drive and really, really wish I could just go get a slushie at the drive-in instead of what I’m about to do.

Twenty minutes later, Ginger and I pull up to the Cracker Barrel off Cool Springs Boulevard. Melissa is already there, leaning against a black Camry.

I point to the car.