“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 Harlowe.

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 a 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 your 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 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 coolly. “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 schedules 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.