I feel a little embarrassed, then remember she isn’t really talking about me.

“What did you think of the scene?” she asks.

The students shift on the stage: The boy crosses his arms challengingly, and the girl looks a little hopeful.

“It was great. You guys are doing a great job.”

“No, they’re not,” says Professor Lehman. “It’s dead! The scene is dead. We all know it—that’s why we’re here today, we’re workshopping. We’re not here to congratulate each other on how amazing we all are. The scene isn’t working. Now, I’m going to ask you again: What did you think of the scene?”

I don’t need any psychic memories to suddenly know what it’s like to be her student.

“Um…”

“We don’t do um in this classroom, Meg, you know that.”

“Right.” I almost say um again but catch myself in time. I do wish I’d had her around when I started auditioning, because I made that mistake all the time. “I think there’s a way to add some depth. It’s easy to say he’s the abusive husband, she’s the shrinking violet. The wife is scared until the end when she snaps. But there’s another way to play it, where both characters’ anger is present onstage, so the audience doesn’t know which of them is going to snap. Right now, it’s a bully pushing until he gets punished, and that’s not really very interesting.”

The guy looks satisfied, as if the note isn’t for him. The girl blushes.

“So, you”—I point at her—“bring up your confidence and sort of”—I look for the right word—“seethe a little more, and you”—I point at him—“bring a little more fear into your performance, because that’s where your character’s anger is coming from. Then you both meet in the middle and you’ll find a more interesting story. Less predictable.”

Everyone blinks at me and I shrug a little.

“Let’s run it Meg’s way, from the top,” says Professor Lehman, spinning in her seat and crossing her legs as she watches the stage.

Both actors look more nervous now.

They do it again, but neither of them nails it.

“No, no, no,” says the teacher. “Meg, why don’t you go show them how to do it? You read as Isabel.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. That’s—they’re doing a good—”

“Now, Meg.”

Yikes.

She holds out her hand, flapping fingers, and I realize she wants me to hand over Maureen’s leash. I do, then see the girl is handing me her script, but I don’t need it. I’ve heard the scene twice, and I vaguely remember it anyway. I hand it back to her, slightly bashful as I tell her I’m good.