I get to my feet and take the script, my hand shaking as I try to scan the lines and walk to the stage. My foot gets wrapped up in a backpack strap, almost tripping me up. The script is about two con artists, I think. The couple hate each other—I think. I’m having trouble breathing. There’s no spit in my mouth. A panic attack is nearing.

Once I’m onstage, I say, “Hold on, I need a second.”

I know this looks silly—and the snickers confirm it—but I turn my back on the audience and shut my eyes. Focus on a breath. I just need one. I’m in a battle with my binder and no one has any clue what’s happening. I loosen my shoulders and get air in my lungs. Relief washes over me. I turn around, all eyes on me. “I’m ready.”

“Wonderful, August,” Ms. Ramos says. “You had us all on the edge of our seats!”

Yazmin has the first line. She goes small, and I decide to go big. I look up and nearly yell: “I cry all night because of you.” The class laughs at my strong and wrong choice. Yazmin goes bigger, meeting my energy. We make eye contact, but I get nervous and look away. I continue the angry-guy act even though the words are about forgiveness and love. It makes no sense, but I’m committed, and I carry it out until the end. The class laughs each time I say something, so I keep it up, even angrily saying, “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Very interesting choices,” Mr. Lancaster says. “You two didn’t connect as scene partners. The audience can tell.” I walk offstage feeling mortified. I try to smile at Yazmin, but she doesn’t look my way. Several more groups go onstage, then the bell rings, ending the school day. Everyone claps for Mr. Lancaster, then heads out. Some students wait to talk to the director, but I want to forget this class happened. I walk into the hallway expecting Anna to be waiting for me. She loves our after-school walks to the subway.

“Hello, Mr. Greene,” I hear from behind me.

I turn on my heel, facing Mr. Daniels. “Hello, sir,” I say.

“Could I get a word with you?”

“Of course,” I say, immediately running out of breath again. I’d like to cut myself out of this binder. I find a deep breath while we quietly walk to his office. My mind races trying to figure out what he wants to talk about.

He opens the door for me. “Come in; this will just take a minute.”

His office is mostly bookshelves full of leather-bound hardcover books. A globe by the window. Old Broadway posters framed. He’s so elegant with his elbow patches and globes. Mr. Daniels sits down behind his desk, and I take the chair facing him.