Noelle's POV:

  I've been standing at the edge of the auditorium for five full minutes. All of them have been spent scrolling through nothing on my phone and trying to look busy.

  The room buzzes with people trying to make good first impressions. Everyone's a little too loud, a little too animated. Some people have already formed clusters. They lean in, nod with exaggerated interest, and exchange names and past credits.

  I tuck a strand of hair and scan the room for an opening. My thumbs hover over my phone, on break, as I type and delete the same text to my mom.

  Made it to orientation. It's going

  Delete.

  At school now. Everyone seems nice.

  Delete.

  Why is updating her so complicated? Probably because she'll have follow-up questions you don't want to answer. Probably because everything will be measured against her expectations.

  I slide my phone in my pocket without sending anything.

  A guy near the front looks like he's holding court. He has one hand gesturing theatrically as a small crowd around him nods. "–and then Pacino actually told me my interpretation was 'refreshingly bold.' His exact words."

  Someone nearby whispers, "That's Kirk Daniels. He was in that HBO miniseries. The one Soprano's rip off. He was the lawyer's assistant who got murdered in episode three.

  I shake my head. There's always one.

  Across the room, I spot a man sitting alone with his nose buried in a book. He's older than most of the students here. And unlike them, he has the presence of someone who doesn't feel the need to perform his personality.

  He's the perfect candidate for a warm-up conversation.

  I walk over and sit in the empty seat beside him and glance over at his book. Dak Kapital. "Do you plan on seizing the means to production?"

  He looks up but keeps his expression neutral. "I'm just trying to figure out whether capitalism or acting school are going to disappoint me more."

  "You already hate it?"

  "Hate's a strong word. I save hate for describing the art of practicing law." He dog-ears his page and closes his book. 'm Danny.

  "Noelle." I nod toward the group at the front. "Not feeling Pacino story hour?"

  He follows my gaze to Kirk, who is now describing his approach to character backstory.

  "Guys like him think they're the main character. I've met enough of them." He says. "Luckily, you got stuck with the grump of the room."

  "You seemed the least exhausting."

  He gives me a small smile.

  "What kind of law did you practice?" I ask.

  "I worked for a Republican congressman."

  I blink. "Well, that's...unexpected.

  "I had a crisis of conscience after defending budget cuts to after-school programs. So, I'm trying something different."

  "Talk about a career change."

  "My boss was shocked too. Especially when I helped pass medical marijuana on my way out."

  I laugh, genuinely surprised. "Are you serious?"

  "There's an art to making people think your idea was theirs all along."

  For the first time since arriving, my shoulders relax. There's something refreshing about Danny's bluntness.

  "What about you?" he asks as he looks me over. "What brings you to Deer Lake?"

  Before I can answer, I hear a sharp, excited voice call my name.

  "Noelle? Oh my god, Noelle!"

  I turn to see a flash of movement as someone weaves through the crowd toward me.

  Amelia.

  The relief is immediate and unexpected. We only met for a weekend during the in-person interviews, but she's a familiar face. I stand up as she reaches me, and she pulls me in for a hug.

  "I was so happy when you got in," she says as she steps back to look at me. Her hair is different, short now, but her energy is exactly as I remember it. "When you texted me last month, I almost screamed. Did you just get here? Have you met anyone yet?"

  "I arrived," I respond. "And I was just talking to–" I gesture to Danny to cue him.

  "Danny," he supplies.

  "Danny was just telling me about his past life as a Republican lawyer turned revolutionary hero for the stoner community." I explain.

  "It's less exciting than she makes it sound," Danny says as he reopens the book. He wants to be left alone.

  Amelia gives me a look before she links her arm through mine. "There are some people you need to meet. Some of us got coffee beforehand. I think you'll love them."

  I hesitate and glance back at Danny. "Hey, don't overthrow the bourgeoisie without me."

  He looks up just long enough to smile and nod. "Wouldn't dream of it."

  Amelia tugs me toward a small cluster on the other side of the room. "Who reads Marx at orientation?" she whispers.

  "Maybe it's a kink."

  She snorts, and the sound is so unrestrained that a few people turn to look. Amelia doesn't notice or care.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "So," she says, "How was your summer? Did you do the community theater thing? Are you moved in yet? I'm at Social Onyx. It's not terrible, thank god.

  "Slow down," I laugh. "Yes to community theater. Yes to moving in. I'm at The Pelican, though. And my summer was..." I search for a word that isn't a lie but doesn't invite questions.

  "Transitional."

  Amelia accepts it with a nod. "Well, we're here now. Blank slate, right?"

  "Right."

  We reach our group. It's three other students engaged in conversation. One of them, a shorter girl with blonde hair, looks up as we approach.

  "Amelia! We were starting to think you got lost." Her gaze shifts to me.

  "This is Noelle. We met during the interview weekend. Noelle, this is Harlowe."

  Harlowe gives me a once-over that's somehow both scrutinizing and friendly.

  Amelia clears her throat. "Noelle was the only one who called out this fucking pretentious guy in our group interview. He just going on and on about the 'raw approach to vulnerability."

  "Oh god, him" I groan as the memory comes back. "He tried to make us all hold hands, so we could all process our feelings about the audition.

  Harlowe snorts. "Did you do it?"

  "I told him I had hepatitis B."

  This gets a genuine laugh from all of them, and something in my chest loosens. For a moment, I can imagine sliding into this group like I belong.

  "So, I've been watching everyone all morning," Harlowe says, "and I've already identified the try-hards and the breakdowns waiting to happen.

  Before she can elaborate, a guy my age, maybe younger, jumps in.

  "Are you talking about Kirk?" He turns to me with an outstretched hand. "I'm Jason, by the way,"

  "Noelle," I reply as I take his hand.

  I look over to the other person in the group. It's a petite woman with delicate features and enormous eyes.

  "This is Kristi," Amelia says. "She's with us in track two, whatever that means."

  Kristi smiles at me. "Nice to meet you."

  Across the room, movement catches my eye. Danny is still in his seat, but he's not alone. I can't really see the other person but somehow, he also got Danny to talk.

  "Noelle?" Amelia says as she taps me on the shoulder.

  I blink and refocus. "Sorry, just taking it all in."

  Amelia follows my gaze across the room probably wondering why I'm looking at the Marx guy again. "We should sit somewhere."

  Before we can move, the doors at the back of the auditorium swing open. A hush falls as a man strides in. He wears a leather jacket, has a greying beard, and has tired eyes of watching too many student productions.

  "That's him," Harlowe whispers, leaning into us. "Dean Garret. He used to be big on the Shakespeare circuit back in the day. But apparently, he had a meltdown during a production of Hamlet and slapped his Ophelia."

  "That can't be true," I whisper back.

  "According to my extensive research–"

  "You mean the Deer Lake subreddit?" Amelia interjects.

  Harlowe shoots her a glare. "–he's been divorced three times and got this job because the college president liked his performances so much."

  Dean Garret approaches the stage, carrying confidence in his steps. He climbs the steps, adjusts the microphone, and surveys the room.

  "We should sit," Kristi says as she tugs on Jason's arm. "I want to be in the front."

  Jason immediately nods. "I see a few down there."

  "My hero," Kristi says.

  We follow them toward the front and settle in a row that's three rows back from the stage. I'm in between Amelia and Harlow.

  Dean Garret taps the microphone and a screech of feedback cuts through the room. Several people wince. He doesn't apologize. Instead, he just waits for the sound to dissipate before leaning in.

  "Welcome to Deer Lake Acting Conservatory," he says. "First off: you all suck."

  The room goes silent except for a few nervous laughs that are quickly swallowed.

  The dean cracks a smile. "Relax. I'm just cappin'."

  The use of "cappin" in his sixty-something mouth makes me physically repulsed. Harlowe makes a choking sound that she disguises as a cough.

  "But seriously," he continues, "I was looking at your financials. Y'all are broke as hell."

  A ripple of genuine laughter now. It's true. We are.

  "Are you getting cool divorced dad energy?" Amelia whispers.

  "I'm getting uncomfortable uncle at Thanksgiving vibes," I whisper back.

  The dean launches into what feels like an unpolished welcome speech. He paces the stage. Somehow, he sounds so casual as he dismantles every fantasy we might have about our time at Deer Lake. Each sentence feels designed to puncture the pretentiousness of theater.

  "You're going to spend the next two years exhausting yourselves, questioning your life choices, and, if you're doing this right, probably using your scripts to dry your tears."

  Some students look mildly horrified. Others lean forward, enthralled by his brutal honesty. I'm somewhere in the middle. I appreciate the lack of sugarcoating, but another part wonders if this tough love act is just as much a performance as anything else.

  "This school has a reputation," he continues. "You don't get to half-ass your way through this. That means you're going to work a lot. You're going to suck at things. You're going to watch yourself suck on video playback. And then you're going to do it again, and again, until the suck gets slightly less noticeable.

  In front of us, Kristi nods enthusiastically. Jason notices and mimics her.

  "And if you're worried about the student loans you're taking out," the dean shrugs. 'That's a you issue. But don't worry, with our help, your first blockbuster check should take care of them."

  "Or sucking dick!"

  The words crash into the room like a wrecking ball. For a moment, it's completely silent, except for the collective intake of a breath as everyone processes what was just said.

  Then, it's chaos. Laughter erupts from every corner. Some people gasp, others let out howls. A few students frantically look around and try to identify the culprit.

  I clap my hand over my mouth. I don't know if I'm horrified or impressed by the audacity.

  Dean Garret pinches the bridge of his nose. "Alright," he says, voice flat, dead inside. "Which smartass said it.?"

  There's more scattered laughter, and the dean just rolls his eyes.

  "Yeah, okay, get it out." He waves a dismissive hand. "Moving on...I'm going to turn things over to..." He cringes. 'This guy!"

  He doesn't even introduce the man who takes his place. Instead, he gestures vaguely before stepping aside. The new guy is the dean's complete opposite: crisp suit, perfect posture, an expression that suggests he sees every wrinkled shirt in the audience.

  "Good morning students," he says. "I'm Assistant Dean Wallace, and I'll be handling the administrative aspects of your time here. Schedules, logistics–all that fun stuff."

  He outlines the structure of our program. It's a two-track system. Everyone has the same core classes, but others differ based on our specialization. Since I'm in the screen-acting track, most of my non-core classes will focus on that.

  "Now," Wallace continues, "let's talk about your first major performance: the Fall showcase."

  The energy in the room changes. Bodies straighten, attention snaps back. Even I feel a flutter of anticipation.

  "Each of you will have two components to your showcase: a partner scene recreation and an original monologue. The partner scene," Wallace explains, "will be assigned at random. You will be given a scene from an existing film or play. You will be expected to rehearse outside of class and critiques will begin 8 weeks before the showcase."

  Random assignments. My stomach tightens. I glance around the room and calculate the odds. There are maybe thirty of us, which means twenty-nine possibilities, and they range from "great partner potential" to "an absolute nightmare." The thought of being paired with someone like Kirk wants me to book a plane ticket to a remote island.

  "As for the monologue," Wallace continues "this will be a solo performance and one you write yourself."

  Write it ourselves? The challenge rattles my core.

  "For both components," he adds, "you will swap tech roles with other students."

  This gets a more pronounced reaction. Near the front a hand shoots up. Kirk. Of course.

  "You mean," he says, his voice tinged with horror, "we're doing crew work?"

  "Yes, Mr. Daniels," he says cooly. "You will, in fact, touch a light board at some point in your acting career."

  A few students snicker. But Kirk turns so white that he looks physically ill.

  "This is a collaborative industry," Wallace continues. "I you cannot respect the work being done behind the scenes, you won't last here. If you're too good to move a prop or call cues, I suggest you reconsider your career path."

  I find myself nodding. There's something refreshing about his approach.

  Wallace closes his binder with a snap. "That's all for now. Your full schedule will be sent by the end of the day. Partner assignments will be given in the coming weeks. And...Welcome to Deer Lake."

  As he exits the stage, the room lets out a collective exhale. Conversations burst to life; they're excited, anxious, and speculative.

  Amelia turns to me. "Thoughts?"

  "I think I'm actually excited," I admit.

  Harlowe leans across me. "As long as I don't get paired with Kirk, I'm good."

  "I bet he'll write about the time he met Pacino," I say, and we all laugh.

  For the first time in months, I feel a glimmer of something I'd almost forgotten– possibility, the sense that something good might be waiting around the corner. I don't examine the feeling too closely, afraid that I might scare it off.

  Instead, I let myself smile as I follow my new friends out of the auditorium and to wherever orientation takes us next.