Jacob and Tucker got a pass to study hall today, because, as Mrs. Nicky put it, “Their services are not needed.” I wish that were true for Mary Katherine, or any of the eighth graders. None of them know their lines, which means that I, as the assistant director, am basically reading the entire script aloud.

“No!” Mrs. Nicky yells, and snaps her fingers. I jump, and Geneva lifts her head. “Stop shaking the table.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. Even when I know it’s coming, it’s still hard to make my body stay still.

“Mary Katherine, Lacey, Evan… you three listen to me.” Mrs. Nicky pushes up the sleeves of her shirt. It’s a man’s button-down, and the sleeves fall right back down over her jangly bracelets. “This is a story of wanting.”

She starts marching around the picnic tables.

“Wanting what you can’t have and giving up everything, everything,” she stage whispers, “to get it. Rapunzel, you want freedom. Cinderella, you want love. And Jack, you’re not just trying to sell a cow. You want fortune and glory. But—” She pauses and looks every one of them in the eye where they sit cross-legged in front of her. “But,” she whispers again, “that is just the beginning of the story. This is about what happens after happily ever after.”

Mrs. Nicky is good at monologuing. All three of them nod. But I can see Mary Katherine texting under her leg. Well smirks. Despite what he said about getting a small part, he’s the Baker, the one who basically ties all the characters together. Geneva is the Witch, which is right up her alley. Yesterday, at lunch, she practiced casting a spell on her cheese sandwich to turn it into a grilled cheese sandwich. She said it was to get into character. She made me taste it. We both agreed it was a little warmer. She and Well already know their lines.

But as the assistant director, or AD, I’m looking at the production calendar and counting down the six weeks we have until the show and wondering how all these different parts and all these different people will come together to become the “musical masterpiece” that Mrs. Nicky claims it will be. I’m glad I’m going to be standing offstage on opening night.

When the bell rings at the end of class, Mrs. Nicky throws her hands up in exasperation and stalks off, leaving me to gather up all the scripts and return them to the dance room. Well helps, claiming chivalry, but I know he just doesn’t want to go to English. We have an in-class essay on The Giver today, and he hasn’t even finished the book.