I bite back my frustration and throw myself into acting, trying to replicate whatever it was I did last week in our private rehearsal. No matter what I do, though, it’s not good enough.

We eventually go back and run the section that leads into “My Unfortunate Condition” because Mr. B was so dissatisfied with how it went yesterday. Before we start, I cast a wary eye out at where he sits in the audience, writing idly in his composition notebook. With his legs propped up carelessly on the seats in front of him, he looks relaxed. Once we start the scene, however, he waves a hand for us to stop after only a few lines.

“Shay?” he says, not looking up from his notebook.

“Yeah?” I say with trepidation.

“What?”

“Yeah?” I repeat, louder this time.

He cups a hand to his ear and shouts, over-enunciating each syllable. “I can’t hear you. Please say your lines louder!”

Ana goes very still beside me.

“Burn!” someone hollers from offstage. Other people hoot and hiss and laugh. Brittany lets out this obnoxious, simpering cackle right in my ear. I give Mr. B a thumbs-up. Something touches my arm lightly, and when I look over, I see that it’s Ana’s hand. She gives me a sidelong look. For a moment, I feel less alone. Then I realize I’m a dick for letting her comfort me when I’m being so weird to her. I take a deep breath, paste on a smile, and go back to my spot to start the scene again.

When we take a break, Ana pulls me aside in the greenroom. “What the hell?” she says, her voice low and angry. “He’s being such an asshole to you this week.”

“Yeah, well . . .” I lean back against the wall and cross my arms over my chest.

“Did something happen?”

The image of Mr. B talking to her before rehearsal flashes in my mind, and my insides curdle. I bite my lip, not meeting her eyes. “No.”

“You’re a bad liar,” she says softly, and a pang of shame goes through me.

When rehearsal ends, I don’t stick around to chat with Mr. B and the rest of the cast. I head right out to the pickup circle to wait for Mom. Thankfully, Mom gets there pretty quickly. She sticks her head out the car window.

“Johnson Taxi Service?” she says. “Are you Shay?”

“Mom, no,” I say, shaking my head. I climb in the passenger side and throw my backpack in the back. “Who are you? Dad?”

“He got all his best jokes from me.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, but the words come out flat.

She flies the car out of the pickup area and onto the main street. “Did something happen today?” she asks. “Seems like you’re in a mood.”