He turns his attention to the class and regales them with a story about something, who knows, I’m not listening. While skimming the monologue, I search for the character. I’m an aging man, maybe a grandpa, looking for my lost dog. At the end, I realize the dog has been dead for years. I’m forgetting things, then mourning over and over when I remember they died.

I clear my throat. “I’m ready,” I say, even though I’m not ready.

“Very well,” Mr. Daniels says. I spot Anna in the front row, not even looking at me. Yazmin is watching me, smiling, making me instantly nervous. I look back down, take a breath, and get started. I am Grandpa; my mind is foggy. Things don’t make sense. I loosen my body, confuse my mind, and begin. I talk slow and take pauses like a man searching for his next thought. I really nail the ending. The realization surprises people.

“Nicely done, August,” Mr. Daniels says after I finish. “Hard to tell which method you were evoking for this exercise. Let me guess. Chekhov?”

“No, sir,” I say, not even knowing that one.

“Strasberg method?” he asks.

I hesitate. The truth is, none. For me, it’s not about being in the moment, or repetition of words, or using my own experiences or feelings. I have my own method. I step into the character, like putting on a mask. I can be Party Guy, or Serious Student, or Old Man with Dead Dog. Offstage and onstage, it’s all the same. But I can’t tell Mr. Daniels that.

“Yes,” I say finally. “Strasberg.”

“I knew it,” he says, acting victorious. “Tell us, what experience did you tap into?”

I hesitate, searching for a lie. “My dog died a couple years ago. I was so sad,” I say, giving puppy-dog eyes.

“Well, it worked. Good job, son,” he says. I take my seat feeling good.

5:25 P.M.

At Riley’s party, Elijah made me swear on a stack of Playbills that I would come with him to Underage Open Mic Night at Haswell Green’s, a bar in Times Square popular with actors on Broadway and Off-Broadway. Every Monday night, they open at five and host an open mic for teens. It’s cool to be in a bar—even if it’s not serving alcohol and smells like the inside of a beer bottle.