Mr. Daniels grunts. “Someone please write a Wikipedia page immediately.” Everyone laughs. “Son, your quote-unquote ‘August method’ might be working for you now, but it won’t always work. Then what will you do?”

“It’s worked so far,” I say.

“Why waste your time at this school if you have it all figured out?”

“I came here to get better at my way of acting.”

Mr. Daniels shakes his head, then turns toward the actors in the wings. “Grease is a light and fun musical, but the characters must feel real. There must be honesty in your acting. Otherwise, the audience will not connect with you. They will not care who put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop.”

Everyone nervously laughs.

“Meena, cue the music,” Mr. Daniels says, returning to his director perch. “Mr. Greene, how about doing what I asked? Humor me, please.”

I start singing like my life depends on it. I don’t use my own experience, but I use my own anger. And when the song ends, I hit my note, and there’s silence. “Nicely done, August,” Mr. Daniels says, “I could feel the anger.”

“Let’s take ten and run the second act,” Meena announces.

8:19 P.M.

I’m slow-walking home from the subway. I didn’t know this level of exhaustion existed. And I still have homework to do.

I regret calling it the “August method.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but I wanted to be honest about my process. And for that, I got my ass handed to me by Mr. Daniels. Elijah assured me it was no big deal and promised everyone would forget by tomorrow. The second act ran smoothly, but I was in my head. I was angry. I’m still angry. But not at Mr. Daniels. Oddly enough, I’m mad at my parents.

I stop at my favorite bodega, two blocks from Aunt Lil’s, for a bacon-and-egg sandwich. No matter what time of day or night, breakfast is served at the bodega. While I wait for the sandwich, I scroll through my photo library and select a photo of me onstage in a silly pose. I post it with the caption: The August Method. I figure I’ll get ahead of the joke by making it first. I have over a thousand followers. Mostly people from school after hearing about the casting of Grease.

When I get to the apartment, I try to be quiet—not knowing what to expect.

“That you?” I hear my aunt ask from the kitchen.

“No,” I say in a deep voice. “It’s the police.”

“Come on and arrest me, then,” she says. I set my bag down, hang up my coat, and bring my foil-wrapped sandwich to the kitchen—ready to hear a lecture on the evils of bacon.