“August Greene will be stepping into the role of Ajax. Chris Caesar would have been an amazing Ajax, but now we have August. Everyone welcome August.”

I smile at everyone, but I don’t know if they can see me, I’m so small from that introduction. “Great to be here,” I say, feeling the need to say something. People say hello.

“All right,” Joshua says, yanking back the attention. “Solid rehearsal today, gang. The second act is coming together, more of that tomorrow. We are eight days out. I need you all to step it up. Now, are we ready?” A few heads nod, then everyone closes their eyes. “A moment of silence for all the people who are in, have been in, or will be in conversion therapy. We do this show to bring awareness to this problem, and we’re thinking of you every day as we try to honor your life and struggles.”

I open my eyes and look at Joshua. That was unexpectedly touching. Maybe he’s a nice guy and putting on the big bad director act?

“Have a good night,” he says, then everyone falls out of the circle and heads backstage. I’m almost offstage when I hear Joshua say, “August Greene, can we talk?”

“Of course,” I say, and walk toward him. The theater quickly clears out, and it’s just me and him. He smiles at me, but it doesn’t feel welcoming.

“August, you look scared. Are you scared?”

“No,” I lie.

“I promise I won’t bite,” he says. “We got off to a bumpy start. I know that was partly my fault.”

“I understand. You miss Chris Caesar,” I say, stating the obvious.

“You’re absolutely right. I miss him. I had the perfect vision of this show, and all those protesters took that away from me.” He puts a toothpick in his mouth. “But here we are, and we’re going to make the very best of it,” he says.

“Sounds like a good plan,” I say.

“You’ve read the script?”

“I have.”

“Your monologue at the end of act one, that’s the moment that drives the second act. The suicide of Ajax is what inspires the characters to fight against the therapy. I know this puts pressure on you, but the show’s fate rests on your shoulders. And that means my fate rests on your shoulders. I’m going to get what I need out of you for this performance. Even if it means pushing you beyond what you are capable of. You understand?”

“Yes,” I say, overwhelmed.

“Right. Glad we are on the same page,” he says, chewing on his toothpick.

I should speak up. Talk back. Run away? Instead, I stand frozen with fear.

“We’ll be doing a put-in rehearsal for you on Friday. Sound good?”

“I won’t be onstage until Friday?”

“Correct. We will have the understudy stand in.”