Having nowhere to go, I sit on the cement benches in front of the school and process how I did. Before today, I’ve only auditioned in front of my teachers for school shows. Not really high-pressure situations. Also, I didn’t sleep much last night, my mind running lines from the monologues over and over to avoid thinking about other things.

I untangle my phone from the Maggie wig, ignore the five voicemails on it, and dial my aunt. I promised I’d call after the audition. She dropped me off on her way upstate to sell art. No clue what “upstate” is exactly, but it sounds fancy, bucolic, rich. Nothing like downstate. I picture Aunt Lillian driving her bright yellow vintage truck. After two rings she picks up. “Tell your favorite aunt some good news.”

I wish I had good news to deliver to my only aunt. “I’m still alive,” I announce.

“Hallelujah,” she sings. “And how was the audition, my love?”

“I truly don’t know, but I did my best.”

“Good,” she says. “That’s all we can do in life.”

“I don’t think Mr. Daniels warmed to me,” I admit.

She laughs. “Yeah, he can be a real sonofabitch, but there’s a heart somewhere in that chest of his.” The way she says “chest of his” makes me wonder if they once dated. I don’t know much about my aunt’s love life. “Now, how will you spend your first day in the city?”

I look around at the concrete buildings stacked up over me. “I’ll wander around. And try not to get kidnapped.”

“Wonderful. I’ll be home for dinner. Call if you need me. Bye, love.”

When I end the call, there’s another voicemail waiting for me. And twenty-one unread texts. All from Mom. Each one more urgent and angrier. The most recent text mentions the cops. I should call her before I end up on a missing-child commercial, but Aunt Lil and I made a plan to call her after we find out if I get into SPA.

This is my first attempt at running away from home. It’s too early to write my official review—I’m only twenty-four hours in—but so far, it’s been a roller coaster. For the most part, it’s one long adrenaline rush—I’m free! I can do anything!—and panic attack—I’m going to jail! Or worse!

When I look up from my phone, there’s a new friend at the end of the bench. “Hello, pigeon,” I say to the bird. He stares at me intensely with one eye while the other wanders. His feathers look like they were glued on by a child. The bird hops closer to me. Is this how I die?

“What are you doing?”