Patti sets four scripts on the ground: two for a ten-minute play called "The Bad News," which she seems really excited about; and two more for a ten-minute play called "First Date," which she seems less excited about based on the way she tosses them in the center of the circle we're sitting in at the back of the stage.

"These are our two choices. For the ten-minute plays, Mrs. Permala passes out scripts randomly to the troupe leaders."

Which I guess is Patti.

"And then we can decide which pairs do what. Now that you're here Janie, we can actually do the ones she chose for us. We were thinking she might have to find a three-person scene, and then we'd be the weird ones."

We're not already the weird ones?

"I think I have an idea of which one I want to be in," Patti says with a sneaky little grin.

"Well, you pick then," Thatcher tells her, "since you have a preference. I really don't care which one I'm doing."

Patti hems and haws for a solid minute as she looks over the scripts. In the meantime, I scan the other troupes for any other familiar faces. I recognize all the students on the stage, either from classes or from sophomore class events, but I haven't really had a conversation with any of them. They sit around laughing and talking as they plan their scenes, and I feel a strange ache in my stomach watching them. I can't quite put my finger on what the feeling is. Am I embarrassed for them for caring so much about a silly ten-minute play in their sophomore year theater class, or am I jealous I don't have the same connection with these people that they all clearly have with each other? I'm the outsider, and though I've always felt like I didn't fit in, being so shy, I've never gotten used to it. I don't think feeling misplaced and alone is something anyone gets used to.

"Okay, I know," Patti finally says, and I have to stop myself from actually saying "finally" out loud. It would be nice to laugh and talk with her like the other troupes do one of these days.

"What's the plan?" I ask. Thatcher gives me a sideways glance, the corner of his lip upturned in a little smile. "What?" I say.

He smirks and shakes his head. "Nothing."

Patti continues before I can respond at all. "So I think that me and Timothy should do 'The Bad News,' because I've always considered myself more of a dramatic actor, and because I haven't done a scene with only you in a while," she tells Moth.

"How did you do these two-person scenes last semester?" I ask.

"Paige Brewster moved," Thatcher tells me. "Her parents got divorced and then, like a week later, she was gone."

"We've been flying solo for a few months now," Moth says.

"Solo with three people?" I ask.

"Ha," he laughs, "Yeah, I guess so."

"Anyway," Patti continues, "that leaves 'First Date' to you and Janie," she tells Thatcher. "I figured since you're so experienced with acting, maybe you could kind of help her out too. Also, it's a comedy, so it will be a fun one to get you started with our troupe, Janie."

"Thanks," I say, though comedy has never been my strong suit. Sarcasm with those closest to me, yes, but comedy in general, no.

"So, if everyone is okay with the scenes, I say we break up and start planning them out. The sooner we get them blocked and memorized, the sooner we can make them amazing," Patti says.

"What does that mean, blocked?" I ask.

She takes a deep breath, probably in preparation to explain it all, but Thatcher stops her. "It's okay, I'll explain it all to her."

"Okay," Patti says. "Then... break!"

She takes Moth by the forearm and leads him farther into the lit area of the stage, leaving Thatcher and I back in the shadows.

"Blocking is staging," he tells me.

"What's that?" I ask.

He smirks again. How am I supposed to know these things?

"It's like planning all your movements."

"Oh okay. Do we do that first?"

"No. We read through it first," he says, picking one of the scripts up from the middle of the circle.

I swallow hard and grab the other one. "Okay, well, I'm new, so I might read really slowly," I lie.

"It's okay, you'll get it," he says. He shifts in his seat so that his abnormally long legs can stretch out in front of him. He shakes them out. "My leg's asleep," he explains.

I look down at the script. "Okay, well, you start."

He reads over his first line to himself, his legs still shaking. They look like those heavy ropes weight trainers use to work their arm muscles. Finally, he starts to read the scene, and I pick it up with my lines. Slowly.

George: Hi there, are you Clarice?

Clarice: That's me. Which would make you George?

George: That's right. Wow, you're a stunner. I knew that site matched us together for a reason.

Clarice: Thanks. It's nice to finally talk to you face to face, instead of between a screen.

George: Agreed. Thank you for meeting me. I was afraid I would be stood up.

Clarice: (checks her watch)--

"No," Thatcher interrupts the scene, "you don't have to read the words in parentheses. You just do it, so just bow your head to check your watch."

I nod, swallow my nerves, and then bow my head to check an invisible watch. Focus Janie, I tell myself. I don't want the words to get any more confusing right now. I'd be way too embarrassed. I haven't read this much out loud by myself since... I don't even remember.

Clarice: You're the one who is fifteen minutes late.

George: Oh, so this is how it's going to be.

Clarice: I don't know what you mean.

George: Now it's that I'm tardy, then it will be that I left my socks on the floor, then that there are dishes in the sink, and then that the kids are crying for Daddy to come play.

Clarice: Woah, woah, woah. Who said anything about all that? You're jumping way ahead.

George: What do you mean?

Clarice: You don't talk about living together and having kids on the first date. It scares people off.

George: I see.

Clarice: What?

George: So now you're bossing me around? Now it's don't say this, don't say that. What will it be tomorrow? Don't invite your secretary to our Christmas party? Or don't wear that shirt now that you've gained all the sympathy baby weight?

Clarice: (sighs)

Thatcher opens his mouth to correct me again. I hold up my hand. "I know," I tell him, then sigh for Clarice. This scene is crazy, but so far, I'm holding my own. I'm actually sort of proud at how well I'm plugging along. Maybe no one will ever have to guess what my brain does while I read.

Clarice: Let's just order our coffee.

George: Fine, whatever you say your majesty.

I do as the script asks of me. I pretend to step up to a counter and order a venti iced mocha.

George: Wow, high maintenance.

It tells me to roll my eyes and wait a few beats, and I guess that that means to wait for a little bit of time. After years of hearing and reading words I don't know, I've become good at guessing what they mean in context.

"You going to read?" Thatcher asks.

"It says to wait a few beats," I explain without moving my script from my face.

"Oh, okay. I wasn't sure if you knew what that meant."

I want to tell him I'm not an idiot, but the truth is that I am, so I shake my head and continue, starting the line by speaking to an imaginary barista.

Clarice: Thank you. Anyway, George, what will you order?

George: Quad venti soy caramel macchiato.

I laugh.

Clarice: Yeah, that's much less high maintenance than my order.

George: I'm a pretty simple guy. (To barista) Thank you.

Clarice: So, aside from misunderstanding simplicity, what are your hobbies? Your profile said you like traveling.

George: Oh, yeah, love it.

Clarice: Where have you traveled?

George: Everywhere. To the store, to work. There's this quaint little park down the street from my apartment. I love traveling there.

My line tells my character to laugh, which is easy for me to "act" since I laugh at Thatcher's last line anyway.

Clarice: So you've never been out of the country?

George: No, no, no. I'm terrified of flying.

Clarice: Why?

George: What happens if you fly too close to the edge? Bet you never thought of that.

Clarice: What edge?

George: The Earth is flat, Clarice. There are edges.

Clarice: Moving on... what else do you like to do?

George: I love going out to steakhouses and getting the biggest cuts they have. Chowing down. Nothing better than that.

Clarice: I don't know anything about that, I'm vegetarian.

"Me too," I say to my script. Thatcher smirks, then continues.

George: You'll have to stop with that nonsense. How will we be able to share food at restaurants?

Clarice: We won't, because I hate sharing dishes. I don't want anyone else touching my food.

Thatcher throws down the script as it asks for George to throw down his menu. I crack a smile.

George: How are we supposed to share our life together if I can't even share a meal with you?

Clarice: Calm down, George. We only just met.

George: You never let me in, Clarice.

Clarice: You know what? I forget that I have, um... I have a thing... it's really important.

George: Are you leaving?

Clarice: Yeah, you know what? I really enjoyed this, but... um... yeah, I'm out of here.

I set my script down as my character is supposed to exit.

George: I had a great time too. Hey barista, I'll take an iced mocha.

Thatcher waits for a moment--a beat--then says, "And scene."

I laugh and he smiles too. "That is a really crazy scene. Your character is insane," I say.

"That's not how you act on first dates?" he jokes.

"Uh, no. Not that I've ever had one, but when I do one day, I will not do any of those things, except to maybe leave like Clarice."

"Well, I've been on many a date," he boasts jokingly, "and they've all gone very well with that same strategy. I'm telling you, George is a player."

I laugh and take "a beat" to picture what Thatcher and I must look like to the other troupes: Two actors, maybe friends someday, talking and laughing about their scene. Was that my introduction to the class? Am I like the other students now?

My thoughts must be all over my face, because Thatcher laughs to himself and asks, "What are you thinking? Your face just got really serious."

I bite my lip in hesitation. Is it embarrassing if I tell Thatcher the truth? Well, I just read through a ridiculous scene with him that, once blocked, will definitely be more embarrassing, so I decide to tell him.

"It's nothing, just that I don't have too many friends or groups that I belong in. I'm new to the troupe, but it was nice to laugh about that stupid scene. Like maybe I'll get along with you all here."

He smiles. It's so strange to see him so smiley here, because last year in English, he was all business. I remember wondering once if he ever took anything as a joke, since he was so intense about everything. I guess he does in theater class.

"Well, yeah, you're in our troupe now. Do you want to read through it again? This time a little faster?" he asks.

My smile drops.

"What?" he asks. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I just...."

Admitting to Thatcher what I've never been able to admit even to myself would be crazy. It's only my first day. I don't want him to be scared off or think I can't participate in the scenes. Not now that I've started, against my best efforts to spite Mrs. Thomas, enjoying myself here. "I don't like to read, so I'm not good at reading quickly," I lie. Well, is it a lie if it's partly true?

"That's okay," Thatcher tells me, and for a moment, I'm shocked by how easily he said it. Like it really isn't a big deal that I don't read well. "We'll take the scene slowly again, and soon you'll have it memorized. Then we can go faster and add personality to it."

"Really?" I ask. "That's okay?"

He smiles, like he's waiting for me to tell him I'm kidding or something, but when I don't, he says, "Yeah... that's fine."

"Okay," I say with relief. "Go ahead George. Take me on a horrible first date."

He smirks. "For the record, I think you did an awesome job on the first read through."

There he goes, lying again. "Just read," I tell him, but it's nice to be complimented on anything for once.