“No, sir,” I admit. “But I have played the lead in every musical at my school.”

“How charming. Did you at least prepare two monologues?”

“I did,” I nearly yell, relieved to have something. “First one is from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. But—could I have a moment?” I ask. I need to ground myself.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Greene. We will wait.”

“Thanks,” I say, ignoring his sharp tone. His words have bite, but his eyes are kind. I turn my back on my audience of two. A rush of nerves hits hard, causing my muscles to clench. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. Right now, I’m not the “infamous” August Greene auditioning at the School of Performing Arts. Right now, I am Brick. It’s summertime in Mississippi. I’m sweaty, angry, and tired. Also, drunk—very drunk—and secretly gay. I direct my anger and confusion toward my wife, Maggie.

I face my audience. Mr. Daniels flips a page in his book, almost challenging me to keep his attention. His assistant gives me a big smile, making me feel things. Holding myself up with a stool—Brick has a broken leg—I step into character. “All right. You’re asking for it . . .”

I put everything into the next two minutes, ending the monologue feeling spent. Last night, I read audition tips online—one suggested watching the “signs” from the people across the table. Anna snaps to show her support. Good sign. And from what I could tell, Mr. Daniels kept his eyes on me and not the book. Another good sign.

“August, nicely done. I see why your aunt speaks so highly of you.”

He’s not a fan of nepotism. Bad sign.

He continues, “Do you know how often a spot opens up in the drama department at SPA?”

“Not often?” I guess.

“Never,” he says, then pulls an orange out of his desk drawer and starts peeling. “A student relocated to London last minute to join the cast of Pippin in the West End. This has only happened a handful of times in my tenure here. . . .” He stops himself. “So please know how rare an opportunity like this really is, son.”

I stand up straight to show my readiness to accept the great weight of this opportunity. “Thank you,” I say, having no idea how to respond.

He eats an orange slice. “Not saying it’s your spot. I’m merely confirming the existence of a spot.”

That’s a bad sign. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable in this moment. This audition means everything to me. Based on this man’s decision, my life could completely change for the better, or get much worse. I’m freaking out and he’s having a snack. I need to connect with him. “I love oranges,” I offer.