After Betty exits, I pull myself up and walk over to the desk. There’s a prop knife hidden under the desk table. I fish around and find it. Look at it. The lights go dark and I scream.

The actors start clapping. I can be better, but it felt good. I smile at Betty, who hugs me again. “You did good, kid,” she whispers.

Joshua walks down the steps slowly, like he’s thinking. The smile is gone. He jumps up onstage and walks over to me. I want to hide behind Betty.

“Was that a joke?” he says, stomping on my confidence.

I straighten myself up. “No,” I say.

“What was that curl in a ball thing? Where did you learn that? Surely not this prestigious school of performing arts.” Joshua swivels and faces the actors. “Did you know he goes to this very school?” He turns back to me, arms crossed.

“I was just feeling the scene out,” I say. “I can do better.”

“And that—what was that?—weeping? Do you think that’s how a real person would ever cry?”

“No,” I say, my mouth tasting sour with hate.

“And the yelling, oh my god, the yelling. Is Ajax a yeller to you?”

“He’s frustrated.”

“Frustrated? He’s frustrated? You think he might be a little past frustrated?”

“What would you like?” I ask, my face red and sweat building on my forehead.

“I would like something to work with; you’re giving me NOTHING.” He turns around and walks into the audience. “Do it again.”

Betty and I head backstage. She gives me a hug, and we start again. I don’t curl in a ball, don’t weep, and act like I’m done with the world. Lights out, I scream. No claps this time. The lights come back on and Joshua says, “Run it again.”

“No notes?” I ask.

“I’ll give you notes when you give me something to note.”

We head backstage, Betty hug, scene, lights down, scream. “Again,” Joshua says.

We do it again. “And again.”

We run the scene two more times before Joshua asks me to stand in the middle of the stage. I glance over at the cast, embarrassed. I shouldn’t be—I wouldn’t think less of an actor, watching this unfold—but I do. “Why aren’t you crying?” Joshua asks from the audience.

“You want me to cry every time?” I ask.

“That’s what the script says.”

“I can try,” I say, my throat sore from the scream.

Joshua paces the aisle of the dark theater. “What’s Ajax’s objective in this scene?”

I can almost hear Mr. Daniels laughing. “His objective is to end his life.”

“I don’t think that’s what he planned at the beginning. Do you?”

“He hid a knife in his desk earlier, I think he’s been planning it.”

Joshua laughs. I don’t know why. “And what’s Ajax’s super-objective?”