Noelle’s POV:

“And then the entire tree collapsed right on top of her while she was in the middle of her monologue about her dead grandmother,” Amelia says with her hands flailing wildly to illustrate the disaster.

“No, I gasp and cover my mouth. “Please tell me she kept going.”

“She absolutely did not keep going,” Amelia says. “She screamed ‘fuck’ so loud they heard it in the administrative building.”

“I mean, that’s kind of impressive though,” Harlowe muses. “I mean, he almost got flattened with plywood. That’s at least a B+.”

I snort. “Wallace would have knocked off points for breaking character. ‘A prop malfunction is merely an opportunity to demonstrate your resilience.’”

My impression of Assistant Dean Wallcace makes Amelia choke on her coffee.

We got here early for the Friday workshop, the first cohort wide class of the semester. Even though we have a lot of classes with the theater actors, this will be the only class we share with the tech-track during our time here.

When the class fills up, and the clock is a few minutes past the start time, a door wings open and a woman rushes in. She balances a coffee in one hands and a a notebook in the other. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she’s wearing jeans and a blazer that somehow look both expensive and lived-in.

“Morning, everyone!” she calls out, as she sets her things on the lone podium of the auditorium stage. “Sorry for being late. My sitter was running late, and my son decided ‘hide my shoes’ is his new favorite game.”

It takes me a second to recognize her. Mia Winters, or Detective Rosen from “Mercy Falls.” I’d seen a few episodes during a binge-watch phase after–well, after everything.

“Alright, circle up,” she says and gestures us closer. She’s smaller in person than she seems on the screen, but her energy fills the room. “I’m Mia. For those who don’t know me, I’m on hiatus from ‘Mercy Falls’ while my kid figures out how to sleep for the night. And I decided I need a few hours a week to spend with adults.”

She sits down on the floor with us and spends a minute scanning our faces. “So, full disclosure: I am not a career acting teacher like your other professors. I’m just someone with a lot of experience and a lot of love for Deer Lake.”

A lot of people crack a smile. She’s nothing like our other professors with the distance and carefully crafted syllabi. She feels like that friend who’s just a few years ahead of you in life, telling you the real shit over coffee.

“So, let’s dive right in,” she continues, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. “We’re starting with an exercise called ‘Honest Minute.’ It’s simple, but don’t let that fool you– I’ve seen it break down walls faster than anything else.”

She explains how it works: one minute, no interruptions. You have to tell your partner something you haven’t told anyone at Deer Lake yet.

“And no,” she says, catching Harlowe’s hand grip my arm, “not with your friends. Go find someone you don’t normally talk to.

There’s the expected shuffling and awkward eye contact as people search for partners. I end up with a tall girl from the tech track whose name I think is Alina.

“The timer keeps it contained,” Mia explains before she starts the game. “There’s something about having sixty seconds that makes people cut through their own bullshit. What you tell each other doesn’t have to be deep; it just has to be true.”

Skeptical murmurs ripple through the room, and people eye their partners.

“I know, I know,” Mia smiles. “I thought it was dumb the first time I did it. But I promise you it works. Now, go!”

Alina goes first and confesses that she threw up from nerves right before the in-person interviews. She had to borrow the sweater of one of the student facilitators. I find myself laughing with her, not at her. When my turn comes, I admit that sometimes I still get stage fright so bad I have to do times tables in my head to stop from freezing.

It’s not my darkest secret, not by a mile, but it’s true. There’s something freeing about saying it out loud.

As we rotate partners from the second round, the room loosens. People are laughing, gasping, nodding in recognition. Each small confession creates a thread of connection that wasn’t there before. By the third round, I’m paired with Krist. She surprises me by admitting she misses figure skating so much she sometimes cries about it at night.

“I haven’t put on my skates in three years," she says, her voice quiet but steady.

It’s unexpected coming from Kristi. So, when my turn comes, I find myself admitting something I hadn’t planned to: how sometimes I rehearse conversation with people before I have them, running through every possible response like it’s a script.

When Mia calls time, there’s a different energy in the room. It’s lighter somehow, despite everything we shared.

“See?” Mia says. “That’s what we’ll be working on all semester: Finding the truth in the performance and the performance in the truth.”

She’s about to continue when the door opens, and Assistant Dean Wallace enters with a clipboard and his usual neutral expression.

“Ms. Winters,” he says with a nod. “I apologize for the interruption, but I need to make an announcement.”

“The floor is yours,” she tells him.

Wallace clears his throat. “As you all know, the partner assignments for the semester showcase are a significant component of your grade. These partnerships were determined by random selection across all tracks.”

I shift in my sheet.

“Listen out for your name. You will receive your scene assignments and scripts via email by lunch.”

He begins reading his list, “Danny and Alina.”

“Jason and Kristi.”

Jason lets out a small whoop that makes Kristi cringe, but I catch a small smile on her face.

“Sammy and Ethan.”

My attention drifts as Wallace continues. Kirk has his fingers crossed in the corners and mouths what is probably a prayer.

“Harlowe and Amelia.”

They erupt in silent celebration and hug each other.

“Holy shit,” Harlowe whispers and squeezes Amelia’s arm. “Dream team.”

I’m still smiling for them when Wallace says, “Noelle and Elliot.”

My stomach drops, then fills with butterflies having a cocaine party.

I look up and across the room to find Elliot already looking at me. The corners of his mouth lift into a small smile, and I return the one before I look away. My heart pounds in my ears,

“Your first workshop performance will be in four weeks,” Wallace continues, oblivious to the fact my internal organs are on the brink of collapse. “I expect focused preparation from all of you. Make time to rehearse outside of school.”

When he leaves, the room erupts with chatter. Harlowe elbows me.

“Look at you, Miss Lottery Winner,” she says with a dramatic sigh. “You get to stare at those forearms all semester while I’m stuck with this one.” She jerks a thumb at Amelia, who flips her off without looking up from her phone.

“Like you would trade me,” Amelia says.

“Never,” Harlowe agrees. She leans into me. “But seriously, if he takes his shirt off during rehearsal, I expect a full report. AO3 level shit.”

Before I can respond, Mia calls out attention back.

“Alright everyone, let’s do one more exercise before we wrap up,” she says as she claps her hands. “I want you to grab your new partners and find a space. Wallace’s timing is perfect because you’re going to start getting to know each other right now.”

My pulse quickens as I watch Elliot already making his way toward me. He weaves between other students, but he keeps his eyes on me. He’s soon close enough that I catch the faint scent of his cologne.

“Hey, partner,” he says, his voice low.

“Hey yourself,” I manage, hoping I sound more casual than I feel. My body hasn’t apparently accepted the fact that this is a professional relationship because my skin is doing that warm-tingly thing it does when he’s close.

Mia motions for everyone to sit, and we both sink to the floor.

“This exercise is called ‘Three Questions,” Mia explains, walking between pairs. “It’s a condensed version of a famous connection exercise. You’re going to take turns asking each other a few things while maintaining eye contact.

My throat suddenly feels dry. Extended eye contact with Elliot feels like a recipe for disaster.

“I’ll give each of you a sheet,” she continues. “Start with the first question. You both answer, then so on and so forth.”

As she hands us our sheet, Elliot shifts to sit criss-cross in front of me. I focus on the paper to avoid being obvious about looking at him. But I can tell he’s looking at me. And I hope he can’t see how my hands are trembling as I read.

“Question one,” I say.