By the time the teacher finished imitating her, the whole class was laughing.

“I don’t know why you even bother, Angela,” Ms. Reynolds said in that sharp, nasal voice she used whenever she wanted to cut someone down. She tilted her head, squinted her eyes, and mimicked her in a baby tone. “‘Um, I’m just not good at science,’” she whined, then straightened and dropped her voice back to normal. “That’s what you sound like. That is exactly what you sound like. And you know where that attitude gets you? Nowhere.”

Snickers rippled across the classroom.

Angela froze in her plastic chair, her fingers digging into the edge of her desk. Her throat burned. She focused on the periodic table stuck to the back wall of the California classroom, bright colors blurring together under the buzzing fluorescent lights.

“I don’t even sound like that,” she whispered.

The boy behind her leaned forward. “Yeah, you kinda do,” he muttered just loud enough for the people next to him to hear.

They laughed harder.

“You can dish it out, but you can’t take it, huh?” Ms. Reynolds planted her hands on her hips. “Let me be clear, Angela. Nobody is going to take you seriously in the real world if you don’t toughen up. I would think long and hard about your future before you decide to fail my class.”

It was third period biology in a public high school just outside San Diego, but it felt like a courtroom and a live studio audience all at once.

The bell shrieked. Chairs screeched. Backpacks zipped. Everyone surged for the door. Someone bumped Angela’s desk on the way out, jarring her notebook off the edge and onto the floor. No one bothered to pick it up.

She waited until the room emptied, then knelt, picked up her notebook, and clasped it to her chest like a shield.

“Don’t let her get to you,” a voice said from the doorway.

Her brother.

Angelo leaned against the doorframe with his usual lopsided smirk and messy curls, his backpack half-zipped, a worn script poking out the top. He was nineteen, technically a senior—for the third time. The guidance counselor called it “being held back.” Most kids just called him “Grandpa” or “Old Man.” Half the teachers had given up on him.

He had not given up on anything.

“Shouldn’t you be in class?” she asked, her voice still a little shaky.

“Free period.” He shrugged and walked in. “I heard the Wicked Witch of AP Bio is on a roll today.”

“I don’t even take AP…” She stopped. He was teasing. He always teased. It was his way of telling her, You’re okay. I’m here.

He climbed up to sit on the front lab table, swinging his legs. “So, what’s she mad about this time? Did you breathe wrong? Blinking too loud again?”

Angela huffed out a tiny laugh she didn’t feel. “She did… this whole thing. I don’t know.” She dropped into a chair and pressed her palms to her eyes. “I hate being here.”

“Well, in case it helps,” he said lightly, “you looked very composed during your public execution.”

“Great. Maybe I can put that on my college apps. ‘Super good at not crying in front of jerks.’”

“There you go. ‘Special skills.’” He looked at her for a moment, smile fading a little. “Hey. You love that YouTube channel where everything works out, right? The one with all the dramatized life lessons and inspirational music?”

She lowered her hands just enough to peek at him. “Obviously. That’s literally my therapy. Unlike this place.”

“Maybe it’s not just a show,” he said. “Maybe life can kinda work out, too.”

“Not here.” She gestured at the ugly green walls. “This is like… if the comments section of the internet was a building.”

“You wanna know a secret?” he asked.

“No. Yes.” She scowled. “Maybe.”

“You really want to know?”

She sighed. “What?”

“You should talk to him,” Angelo said, jerking his thumb toward the hallway. “The drama teacher. Mr. Grunwald. Auditions are tomorrow.”

Her stomach lurched. “I am not auditioning.”

“You’ve been running lines in front of a mirror for two weeks.”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s literally the point.”

“I am not standing alone on a stage in front of the entire school while Chelsea and her clones sit there filming me for their story,” she snapped. “I already gave them enough to laugh about last year.”

The memory slammed into her: freshman year, Winter Showcase, her first choir solo. One shaky note, one crack, one recorded video uploaded on Snapchat with the caption “RIP our ears,” and she’d watched her courage splinter in real time.

That video had followed her for a year. So had the nickname.

“You were twelve,” Angelo said quietly. “They were mean. That’s on them, not you.”

“Yeah, well, the internet doesn’t come with a delete button.”

He gave her a look. “You sure? Because I distinctly remember you deleting my YouTube history whenever Mom tried to check what we were watching.”

She gave him a faint smile despite herself. He hopped down and reached for her backpack.

“Come on,” he said. “Lunch. Then rehearsal for auditions. I need you to run lines with me.”

“You’re auditioning?” she asked, surprised.

He grinned. “Obviously. My destiny is to become a wildly overdramatic actor who cries on cue and pretends to be British in interviews.”

“You already pretend to be British.”

“See? I’m ahead of schedule.”

They headed out into the Southern California sunlight, crossing the cracked concrete toward the cafeteria. The air smelled like pizza, tater tots, and heat. A girl’s laughter cut through the noise—sharp, tinkling, dangerous.

“Oh my God,” Chelsea drawled, walking past with her little pack of followers. She was in head-to-toe white athletic gear, hair in a sleek ponytail, lip gloss shining like she’d walked out of a reality show instead of third period math. “Is she still watching those cringe videos?”

Angela realized she’d been scrolling on her phone, a clip from her favorite inspirational channel paused on-screen. A girl facing her bully, dramatic music swelling.

“At least my hero isn’t a TikTok couple that broke up in 2021,” Angela muttered under her breath, locking her phone.

“What was that?” Chelsea asked, eyebrow arched.

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.” Chelsea flounced away, ponytail swinging.

Outside, under a half-dead tree by the parking lot, Angelo sat cross-legged on a bench, flipping through a stapled stack of paper. When she reached him, he slapped the script against his thigh.

“All right. Line run,” he said. “You’re the little sister I tragically have to leave behind in the Christmas play. Again. Very meta.”

She dropped onto the bench. “Oh no. We have no gifts. What are we going to do?” she read flatly.

He gave her a look. “Try sounding like you’re not reading a ransom note.”

She rolled her eyes and tried again, putting more heart into it. “Oh no. We have no gifts. What are we going to do?”

“Who says we can’t have Christmas without presents?” Angelo’s voice shifted, growing warm, bright, theatrical. His eyes lit up like there was already stage light on his face. “We have each other. And that alone is a miracle. I promise we’ll find a way to make this the best Christmas ever.”

“You know these lines better than I do,” she said. “Maybe you should audition for my part.”

His grin was a flash of pure joy. “My next point exactly.”

She snorted. “You really think Mr. Grunwald is going to give the lead to someone who’s still technically the class of, like, 2019?”

“I think he’s going to give the lead to whoever makes people feel something,” he said. “And that’s my entire personality.”

She couldn’t argue with that.

The next day, auditions were held in the school theater, a slightly musty, slightly magical place with red velvet seats and a stage that creaked in all the right places. Angela sat in the back row, twisting her fingers together while kids went up one by one, reading lines in nervous monotones.

When Mr. Grunwald finally called, “Angela Martinez,” her heart slingshotted into her throat.

She stood. The lights blurred. Her palms dampened. The stage looked like a cliff.

“Next,” Mr. Grunwald called when she took too long to move.

She swallowed hard and forced her legs to climb the steps. She took her mark under the hot white light.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the drama teacher said, pen poised.

She opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Her chest tightened. The faces beyond the darkness blurred into one, and all she could see was the glow of a dozen phones raised in the dark, screens recording, recording, recording.

Her vision tunneled.

“Is she… okay?” someone whispered.

“Please wake up,” another voice said, distant, echoing.

She realized a second too late that she wasn’t standing anymore.

She was lying on the stage floor.

“Where am I?” she mumbled.

“In the theater,” Angelo’s voice said gently. “In front of the whole school. Again.” He forced a smile. “You passed out. Very dramatic. Ten out of ten. Totally method.”

“Kill me,” she muttered, covering her face with her hands.

“No,” he said. “You don’t get to die before I become famous. That’s the rule.”

She let out a muffled, strangled laugh that turned into a sob.

“I can’t do this,” she said into her palms. “I cannot do this. I’m not giving them more to laugh about.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “The whole school… or Ginny and her front-row phone.”

She lowered her hands. “What?”

He shrugged. “You know it’s like five people, right? They just yell the loudest. Don’t dim your sparkle because you’re afraid someone won’t like how bright you shine.”

She blinked. “Did you just quote one of my videos at me?”

He raised his brows. “Obviously. You make me watch them.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “But my sparkle can shine from my bedroom. With the door closed. In the dark. Under a blanket.”

He sighed. “We’ll figure it out.”

That night, she sprawled on his bed, doom-scrolling. He stood in front of his mirror with a hoodie pulled over his head, doing a perfect impression of Chelsea.

“Oh my gosh,” he squeaked, flipping imaginary hair. “Do not tell me you shop at Forever 21. I would literally pass away.”

She snorted, then cackled. “Stop. That’s too accurate.”

He spun, still in character. “Wait, you’re eating carbs? Like… during the week? In public?”

“Stop,” she wheezed.

“I’m going to record this,” she said, already rolling over to grab her phone.

He froze. “No, no, no. Absolutely not. My art is sacred.”

“Only if you do it with me,” she bargained.

His eyes narrowed. “You want to roast the Plastics?”

“Duh.”

He grinned. “Hand me my beauty blender.”

Ten minutes later, they were standing in front of his window—good natural light—evening sun slanting across their faces. Angela had drawn on an extra-thick eyeliner wing. Angelo had smudged foundation onto his jawline and overlined his lips. They both looked like low-budget reality stars, which was exactly the point.

She propped the phone against a stack of textbooks, hit record, and launched into a perfect imitation of a dramatic babysitter from one of their favorite moral-lesson videos.

“Hi! How are you?” she trilled. “We’re going to have a blaaast.”

Angelo sashayed into frame, hand on hip. “But if you break a nail,” he said in an overly breathy voice, “you might literally die.”

They ad-libbed, threw in lines from their favorite “villain” characters, and collapsed on the floor laughing when she muffed a line.

“Do not post that,” Angelo said when she grabbed her phone.

“Okay,” she said.

She posted it.

The next morning, she woke up to her phone buzzing like a trapped bee on the nightstand. She blinked awake, groaned, and checked the time. 6:13 a.m.

Then she saw the notifications.

Her heart stuttered.

Her video had 37,000 views.

She refreshed.

49,000.

“Angelo!” she screeched, launching herself across the small hallway and into his room. “Angelo, wake up!”

He bolted upright. “Is the house on fire?”

“Yes,” she panted. “Our house of obscurity.”

He squinted at her. “What?”

She shoved the phone in his face.

He blinked. “Is that… us?”

“Look at the comments.”

She scrolled. Heart emojis. Cry-laugh emojis. “Bro this is exactly like the rich mean girl in those videos.” “I’d watch them do this all day.” “You guys need your own channel.”

“I’m going to cry,” she said, her voice shaking. “Hand me my beauty blender.”

He stared, then started laughing. “Does this mean we’re, like, famous?”

“Not yet,” she breathed. “But this is insane.”

By the time they got to school, the video had passed one million views. By lunch, it was over three million.

People who’d never spoken to them before stopped in the hall.

“Yo,” a boy from the soccer team said, pointing at Angelo. “Your TikTok was hilarious.”

Another girl at the drinking fountain said, “I can’t stop saying, ‘We’re going to have a blaaaast,’ because of you.”

Angela felt light as air.

Until she walked into the cafeteria.

“Well, well, well,” Ginny said loudly, tapping her phone screen. She was one of Chelsea’s orbiting moons, always just behind her. “If it isn’t the cringe queen.”

Angela’s steps faltered.

“I guess you can’t be queen,” Ginny went on, “since your brother is the ultimate cringe king. That makes you…the little cringe princess.”

Kids nearby snorted.

“He’s not cringe,” Angela snapped before she could stop herself.

“I didn’t say he wasn’t funny,” Ginny said. “He just doesn’t realize we’re laughing at him, not with him.”

Her cheeks burned. She opened her mouth to reply, but someone stepped between them.

“Girls,” the librarian called from a nearby table. “People are trying to study. Take the drama down a notch.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Relax. We’re just having fun.”

She flounced away. The echo of “cringe king” clung to Angela like smoke.

That afternoon, in chemistry, Mr. Grunwald walked into class to talk about the theater program. When he saw Angelo, his face changed.

“Angelo Martinez,” he said. “I’ve seen you somewhere.”

“I’m around,” Angelo said cautiously.

“My son is apparently a fan of yours,” the teacher said. “He won’t stop saying, ‘We’re going to have a blaaaast.’”

A couple kids laughed.

Mr. Grunwald actually smiled. “I didn’t know you were on TikTok.”

“Uh… yeah,” Angelo said. “I just started… posting stuff.”

The teacher tapped the stack of audition forms in his hand. “Well, Mr. TikTok Star, I’m looking forward to your audition tomorrow.”

Angelo’s grin spread slowly. “You… still want me to audition?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Mr. Grunwald asked.

Someone at the back muttered, “Because his acting sucks,” and another snickered, “It’s so over-the-top.”

“Stand out or sit down,” Mr. Grunwald said briskly. “The stage isn’t for cowards. If you can make people feel something, that’s all that matters. The rest,” he flicked his hand, “is noise.”

That night, as they rehearsed, Angela caught Angelo scrolling through comments on the video, his expression changing.

“What?” she asked.

He turned the screen toward her. Among the thousands of nice comments were a few sharp ones.

“Secondhand embarrassment.”
“This is so cringe.”
“You’re too old to be in high school, dude. Go get a job.”

He chuckled, but it sounded forced. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe this is stupid.”

“Angelo—”

“Maybe Mr. Reynolds, or whatever, was right.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe I’m just… a joke. On stage, on TikTok, everywhere.”

“Mr. Reynolds?” she asked.

“Whatever. Every teacher is the same.” His jaw clenched. “I’m nineteen, Angela. Everyone from our class is already posting pictures of dorm rooms at UCLA and UC Davis. I’m still stuck here doing lines in a bedroom while our internet barely holds a livestream.”

“You love this,” she said. “Acting. Performing. You light up on stage. You know you do.”

“Yeah, well, maybe people only like me when I’m making fun of other people,” he muttered.

“Okay,” she said. “That’s enough self-pity for one night.”

“You fainted on stage,” he pointed out.

“And I’m still here,” she shot back. “I still want to try again. You think I don’t hear the word ‘cringe’ every time I open my phone? It’s the background noise of my life. But every time I watch those videos—my videos, our videos—it’s the first time I don’t feel like a joke.”

He stared at her.

“Remember when you said don’t dim your sparkle?” she said softly. “That applies to you, too.”

He blew out a breath, then laughed weakly. “When did you get so wise?”

“Right after my public execution in third period biology.”

He smiled. Slowly, he put his phone down and picked up the script.

“Again?” he asked.

“Again.”

The day of callbacks, the small theater buzzed with tension. Parents lined the back rows. The principal sat in the middle. Chelsea was in the front with her arms crossed, looking like she already owned the place. Her little brother, Max, sat beside her, swinging his legs.

Angela sat in the second row, hands shaking. She hadn’t been able to sleep, but she’d practiced quietly in the bathroom mirror until her eyes went blurry.

One by one, Mr. Grunwald called names. When he finally said, “Angelo Martinez,” the room shifted.

Angelo walked onto the stage in worn sneakers and a faded hoodie, script in hand. Under the lights, he looked almost… professional. Calm.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Grunwald said.

Angelo dropped the script at his feet.

Gasps. A few laughs.

He didn’t even look down.

“Oh no,” he began, voice full and warm, eyes locked on the audience as if he could see each person. “We have no presents. What are we going to do?”

For fifteen seconds, nothing existed in the world but his voice.

“Who says we can’t have Christmas without presents?” he went on. “We have each other. And that alone is a miracle.”

His tone softened, raw and real. Angela felt something twist in her chest.

“I promise we’ll find a way to make this the best Christmas ever,” he finished, and the words hung in the dusty air like a blessing.

The room was silent.

Then someone clapped.

Then another.

Suddenly everyone was clapping, except for a few scowling theater kids and one glowering Chelsea.

“Brilliant,” Mr. Grunwald said quietly. “Both of you,” he added, glancing at Angela in the second row, remembering her earlier attempt. “I’ve got a difficult decision to make, but I’ve made it.”

He picked up his clipboard.

“The lead role in this year’s winter production,” he announced, “goes to… Angelo Martinez.”

Angela’s heart burst. She jumped to her feet, clapping harder than anyone.

Chelsea’s jaw dropped. “He only got it because of TikTok,” she hissed to Ginny. “They just think it’ll help ticket sales.”

Ginny nodded, outraged. “His acting is so over-the-top. It’s cringe.”

Angela ignored them. For the first time in a long time, she felt like she was in one of her favorite videos—where the underdog actually won.

That night, Angelo’s video hit five million views. A week later, local news did a short segment on “the San Diego high schooler going viral for comedy sketches.” His follower count exploded.

Some kids at school still whispered cringe. Online, he had fans leaving comments like, “You got me through a panic attack last night,” and, “When’s your next video?”

In between rehearsal and homework and late-night filming, things were messy and exhausting and real.

Even with all the new attention, not everything magically got better. Angela still had to face Ms. Reynolds and her thinly veiled insults. Ginny still rolled her eyes in the hallway. Some comments on their new videos stung.

But when opening night finally came, when the curtain rose on the winter play and the stage lights hit Angelo’s face, the only thing that mattered was the look in his eyes.

Fear. Joy. Fire.

Angela watched from the wings, heart thudding.

He didn’t miss a single line.

When he delivered his “We have each other. And that alone is a miracle,” there was a tremor in his voice that wasn’t planned. It was real.

He was thinking about their parents working double shifts to pay the rent. About staying back a grade not because he failed, but because life knocked them sideways. About blackout nights when the electricity went off and they’d used their phones as flashlights and acted out scenes to distract each other.

He was thinking about her, fainting on this very stage and getting back up anyway.

When the lights blacked out for the last time and the curtain swung closed, the entire auditorium roared. The applause crashed over them like a wave.

Angelo and the cast bowed. They stepped out again when the principal motioned. The applause grew louder. Someone whistled. Someone shouted, “Angelo!”

From the front row, Max tugged on Chelsea’s arm. “That’s him,” the little boy whispered. “That’s the guy from TikTok.” He climbed over his sister’s lap and ran up to the stage.

“Excuse me!” he called. “Can I… take a picture with you?”

Angelo blinked, then grinned and hopped down. “Of course, man.”

Max held up his mom’s phone with both hands. “Do the voice,” he pleaded.

“What voice?” Angelo asked, eyes sparkling.

“You know. ‘Hi! How are you? We’re going to have a blaaaast!’”

The entire section around them laughed. Even a few teachers.

Angela watched Chelsea’s face as her brother beamed beside Angelo, her front-row seat suddenly feeling like the worst place to hide.

After the crowd thinned, after cast photos and hugs and a few teary parents, Angela and Angelo made their way outside into the crisp December night. The parking lot was speckled with headlights and wisps of steam from breath in the cold air.

“You did it,” she said, bumping his shoulder.

“We did it,” he corrected. “You posted that video without my consent, remember?”

“You’re welcome,” she said.

He laughed.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it.

Then it buzzed again, and again, vibrating insistently.

She sighed. “I swear, if it’s Chelsea telling me I was still off-key from the audience—”

She pulled it out. It wasn’t a text. Or a comment notification.

It was an email.

She opened it.

“Dear Angelo,” she read aloud, then stopped. Her hands started to shake.

“What?” he asked. “Is it bad? Did we get canceled?”

“It’s from the production team,” she said slowly, her eyes skimming the lines. “For ‘Real Stories Online.’”

He blinked. “The channel you’re obsessed with?”

She nodded, speechless.

“What does it say?” he asked.

She swallowed. “‘We’ve seen your videos and think you’d be perfect for an upcoming episode. We’d love to invite you and your sister to audition as guest actors. We film in Los Angeles. Let us know if you’re interested.’”

For a full five seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then Angelo whooped so loud half the cast turned to look.

“Are you serious?” he shouted. “LA? Real sets? Real cameras? Real craft services?”

Angela laughed, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Real you. Real me.”

He grabbed her hand and spun her in a sloppy circle right there in the parking lot, under the flickering security light, on cracked asphalt.

“See?” he said breathlessly. “Told you. Sometimes those videos aren’t just videos. Sometimes life actually works out.”

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “If you don’t quit halfway through the episode.”

He squeezed her hand. “Deal.”

When they finally stopped spinning, the world was still a little blurry around the edges. The theater loomed behind them, warm light spilling out the doors. A few kids were still hanging around, backpacks slung over shoulders, breath puffing in little clouds.

Ginny walked by with her friends, eyes glued to her phone. For once, she didn’t say anything.

Angela didn’t need her to.

Her sparkle didn’t feel fragile anymore. It didn’t feel like something she had to hide or justify or shrink.

It felt like stage lights. Like a camera turning on. Like a story starting.

“Ready?” Angelo asked.

“For what?” she said.

“For whatever the next scene is,” he said. “New episode. New arc. Same cast.”

She smiled.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think I am.”