I exit the room, caught off guard by the ghostly stillness of the building. Not a single soul in the hallway or downstairs, not one person roaming the campus.
Does everyone start at nine? No free periods?
I should’ve studied the guide more carefully. Instead, I focused on the map, though I don’t seem to remember much right now. I reach into my bag for it, but it’s nowhere to be found.
Shit. I left it upstairs.
My wristwatch says I don’t have time to run back up two flights of stairs and a maze of corridors, while my brain reminds me that close to none of the information I filled my head with yesterday survived the night.
The only thing about the theater I remember is that it’s a separate building. I break into a clumsy jog, my eyes darting between the path ahead and my surroundings.
There’s the boys’ dorm, there’s the main building, there’s the cafeteria... the theater should be right—
Bingo.
With less than two minutes to spare, I reach the door, burst through, then apply the brakes. Not only because I’ve made quite a loud entrance and everyone’s staring, but also because the architecture matches the main building, meaning this theater was here from the start.
Why would they build a theater for mentally ill patients? Was it therapeutic somehow?
In the heart of the stage on the opposite side, another stern-looking woman pins me with an icy-stare.
Everyone’s so stiff around here.
The woman is Angela Townsend. Acting coach, former Broadway actress. That’s all I remember from the orientation guide which lists the staff’s accomplishments beside professional headshots.
“Running late on your first day, Miss Vaughn?” she drawls, her voice echoing throughout the nearly silent room.
I guess that’s introductions done.
Good. I can’t imagine getting up on that stage to say a few words about myself. It would not go down well.
Hi, I’m Hailey. I’m from Florida which is apparently in Ohio now. I’m twenty, but in my head I’m eighteen, and I’m an amnesiac...
“Punctuality is not optional in my class,” Angela adds, tapping her heeled boot against the wooden stage.
“I’m sorry,” I wheeze, on the verge of doubling over and coughing up my lungs.
Who knew two weeks in bed would make me pant after jogging three hundred yards? Or maybe I hadn’t been in the best shape before the accident...?
Angela studies me a moment longer, her lips pinched as she points toward the front row. “This isn’t high school. Next time you’re late, you won’t be allowed to stay.”
Technically I’m not late. I still have a minute left, but I don’t argue the point. With a quick nod, I slink toward the indicated spot, head down, cheeks on fire as I pass my fellow students.
Everyoneis staring.
It’s a small class, less than twenty, but they’re gaping at me, my scars, and my bruises, making me wish the floor would swallow me whole.
I block out the embarrassment, focusing on the grand theater instead. It’s a mini amphitheater of sorts, with rows of scarlet seats descending toward the stage. Framed posters depicting classic plays hang beside bright, modern ones, a timeline of America’s theater history. High ceiling, red curtains, a sleek, black piano in the corner.
“Given your late arrival, Hailey...” Angela’s stern voice draws my eyes back to her slender figure pacing the stage. Whatever she said while I was admiring the room went right over my head. “You have a lot of catching up. Acting class is no walk in the park.”
I nod, feeling the weight of the missed classes. She looks like she gives ten hours’ worth of homework every night.
God, I feel like I’m back in high school.
“Today,” she continues, addressing the class, “you’re performing a five-minute scene in pairs. I’ve already assigned your partners, so don’t get excited.”
A collective groan ricochets off the walls. I barely have time to feel my stomach drop at the idea of performing in front of strangers before she’s rattling off names.
