No, your a nice guy

You walk up to up amd put her arm on her shoulder. “Hey, you alright?” You ask and she turns around to show her young face now covered in mascara. “I don’t know what I’m doing” she cries, revealing something you’ve known since the second you entered the classroom. You decide to be the nice guy, and ask “look, it’s alright we’ve just got to start from scratch, it'll be hard but I’m sure you have some musical talent somewhere.” She stops huffing for a brief moment. “ you really think so?”

“You best believe it.” She stops crying and hugs you; you break away, startled at her embrace. “Thank you, I really needed that.” She gets up and dusts herself off, you do the same.

You look at the clock, this whole crisis has cost you half of your lunchtime. You grab your stuff and head for the door, but not before you ask her, “hey, one more thing, how’d you get this job if you can’t play?” She looks at you with a monotone face, “I ate out the principal.” You blush and leave the room.

You arrive at the lunchroom and look around to see most tables already filled with people your age, and now the age old question arises: