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“Whoa, cool. That’s a great show—my parents and I saw it in New York when Jessie Mueller was still performing with the original cast. I’m sure the touring cast was good as well, though.”

I cut my eyes to Hoshiko—she’s trying to control her annoyance, but seriously, what did I ever see in this guy? I don’t remember him being like this when we were together. But, let’s be real, I know exactly what I saw in him. He’s 100 percent swoony lead actor material. He looks like Zac Efron during his oldHigh School Musicaldays, all wavy brown hair and white-toothed smile. And, unfortunately, he’s just as talented as Zac too. I can already imagine him taking the theater world by storm as soon as he graduates and moves to New York. The thought makes me tighten my hands into fists.

“Listen…” He glances at Hoshiko and steps closer to me as if to edge her out of the conversation. “We’re cool,right? We never really got a chance to talk. I hope you aren’t still upset about the breakup—it just made sense given how busy I was going to be. With all the rehearsals, I wouldn’t have had time to hang out anyway.”

“Yep. Not upset in the least. In fact, now I’m super busy myself.”

He squints in confusion. “Really? With what?”

“I have a job after school,” I blurt out before I can think better of it.

“Where at?”

I silently kick myself. I should’ve walked away as soon as he came over. I have zero interest in explaining about my new job (or why I had to get it), but I also can’t stand letting him think I’m alone and pining over him while he’s off living his best life. I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders back.

“Sword and Board Games.”

“You’re working at your dad’s store? But you don’t like gaming.”

“Sure I do.” I take a step away from him. “I have lots of interests I never told you about.”

Paul opens his mouth to say something else but is interrupted when Miss Sahni claps her hands twice, calling our choir group together. At that, we start our warm-ups and I’m saved from any more commentary from Paul.

Typically, Miss Sahni uses every available minute of class time for choir practice since we only have an hour together, but today she stops us ten minutes early. She sits down on the piano bench in the front of the room and surveys our group.

“Hey, everyone.” She waits a few more seconds untilthere’s complete silence. “Listen, before we end, I have some news I need to share. As you know, Mrs. Bordenkircher retired as musical director last year, and it seems that the school’s faith in our musical program retired with her. From what I’ve been told, the administration feels that interest in the spring musical is fading. Fewer students are participating, there are fewer community donations, and lower ticket sales.” She scans the room, her head tilted and her eyebrows scrunched in sympathy. “Given the lack of interest, they’ve decided to save funds by cutting the musical from the budget. So, while we’ll still have choir, that means the spring musical has been canceled.”

There’s a simultaneous gasp from the students that could only be pulled off by well-trained singers with strong lungs. Hoshiko’s hand grasps mine and squeezes tightly, but I can’t pull my eyes from Miss Sahni’s face. No spring musical? That’s not possible. We’ve had a musical at the school for almost twenty years now. Even when other high schools started dropping their musicals and extracurriculars, ours stayed strong. They can’t justcutit out of the blue like this.

“I’m so sorry to have to break this news to you, particularly when we’re only a few weeks into the school year. I know this is a huge shock. But money is always tight in the arts, and one thing we can agree on is that the show must go on in one form or another. So we’ll show off all your talents at the winter choir recital instead.”

As soon as she finishes speaking, the room explodes with noise as everyone turns to each other.

“This is so unfair!” Hoshiko’s voice is wobbly and I know she’s just as brokenhearted as me. She can be shy andsoft-spoken during everyday life—it’s only onstage that her real power and confidence come out. I know how important this show is for her.

“We can’t let this stand,” I say.

She bobs her head miserably. “I know. It’s horrible.”

I turn to her. “No, I mean it. This can’t be the end. There has to be something we can do.”

She squints at me. “I wish, but it sounds pretty decided.”

“Things are always decided until you find a way around them,” I mutter, and stare down at my checkered Vans. Hoshiko was willing to give up onWaitress,too, and I found a way to get us to the show. Sure, I’ll be paying forthat choice for the next eight weeks, but the point is that Ididsomething. And I’m going to do something about this too.

“Can you believe this?”

I don’t have to look up to know it’s Paul again. I bet he’s especially happy he got to perform inThe Music Manthis summer now that we’ve all lost out on our musical. I don’t even acknowledge his question.

“I’m going to talk to Miss Sahni,” I tell Hoshiko.

“You and the rest of the choir,” Paul says, and gestures down at the piano. Sure enough, a lot of students have already surrounded her, and it looks like several are crying. It’s understandable, but not the most productive way to use their energy.

“I’m not giving up,” I say, still pointedly looking at Hoshiko and not Paul.

Paul steps closer again, like we’re a little team. “Listen, if you want my advice, you should bide your time on this. Noone’s going to be swayed by a bunch of high schoolers whining. But money talks and that’s how you sway them.”

I purse my lips, frustrated by the fact that Paul is making sense. Complaining to Miss Sahni isn’t going to do anything. Looking around the room at the distraught students surrounding me, it’s clear there’s still plenty of interest in our musical. But Mrs. Bordenkircher hadn’t been choosing musicals we were particularly interested in—last year we didPirates of Penzance,which isn’t exactly looping on our Broadway musical playlists—and she was a total drill sergeant about rehearsals. Only the most dedicated of us had stayed.