Mr. Lancaster sits on the stool, so calm and collected, as Ms. Ramos hands pages to a guy and girl. They walk up to the stage and begin the scene. It starts slow and choppy, but I’m amazed at how quickly they adapt. The scene works, and we clap loudly. They bow and wait for notes.

“Not bad, you two,” Mr. Lancaster says with a thumbs-up. “The scene started bumpy. Be careful of pauses. Let your words flow and follow your instincts.”

Students write this advice down as Ms. Ramos hands out more scripts. Three new actors get up and do a scene on a train—all bouncing up and down like it’s a very shaky ride. It’s hilarious—the class cracks up. “Fantastic,” Mr. Lancaster says. “You were all present and playing with each other. The casting directors like to see that in an actor.”

“Yazmin,” Ms. Ramos says, “game to try a cold reading of a monologue?”

And there she is—Yazmin Guzman. She’s in three of my drama classes and US History. We haven’t spoken since the first day, but I can feel the beginnings of a crush. She takes a script from Ms. Ramos on her way to the stage. Her hair is curly today (some days it’s straight), she’s wearing a baggy shirt and leggings (sometimes she wears jeans and sweaters), and she has a couple of scrunchies around her wrist (always). She has that pretty and tough thing, with strong eyebrows that define her face and bring out her eyes.

She clears her throat and pushes the hair behind her ear. “What am I doing here?”

The class watches as she finds her footing in the monologue. I hang on her every word. Yazmin acts self-assured and closed off, but onstage, there’s a vulnerable openness. There’s something different about her delivery, and something different about her. I look around—the class is caught up, too. Whatever it is, she’s got it. She could be in the two percent.

After she finishes, her friends yell “Yes, Yaz” as the class claps. She smiles and my heart races.

“That was wonderful, Yazmin,” Mr. Lancaster says. “But I’d like to see you make slightly bigger choices. Take more risks.”

“That’s all I do,” Yaz jokes.

“Stay up here for one more,” he suggests.

“I’ll find you a scene partner,” Ms. Ramos says, stepping over and around us as she makes her way through the room. “Not you,” she says, patting someone on the head like it’s a game of duck, duck, goose. “Not you, or you . . .” Not me not me not me. “Not you, not you.” She stops by me. Please not me. Please not me. “You,” she says to me. “Would you join her onstage?”