Page 15 of His Drama Queen

"Vespera Levine?"

We turn to find a man in his forties, sharp-eyed and elegant, clipboard in hand.

"I'm Marcus," he says, and this is Dad's friend, the one who got me in. "Your father's told me so much about you. We're thrilled to have you joining us."

They exchange pleasantries while I sit on the bed, trying not to look like I'm about to pass out. The room spins slightly, but the drive gets blamed for it.

"Callback for Medea is tomorrow at ten," Marcus tells me. "I've seen your tape. You're exactly what we're looking for. Raw, powerful, uncompromising."

Raw. If only she knew how raw.

After Dad leaves—reluctant, worried, trying not to show it—unpacking happens slowly. Each item finds its place: leotards and tights in the drawer, character shoes lined up under the bed, makeup kit on the desk. The three dresses brought for presentations hang loose now. Fifteen pounds lost in two weeks. The rejection is eating me alive, but from the outside, I probably just look like a dedicated actress who forgets to eat.

My phone buzzes. Stephanie again.

Please just let me know you're okay

I saw your dad's car. I know you're in Columbus

I'm so sorry

The guilt is killing me

Please

Delete them all without reading the rest. Her guilt is not my problem.

"Oh good, someone's here!"

A whirlwind of energy bursts through the door—a guy about my age with artfully messy brown hair and the kind of smile that suggests he's never met a stranger. His scent hits me a moment later: Beta, warm and uncomplicated like cinnamon toast.

"I'm Ben," he announces, dropping his bags in the hallway. His hands are already moving—gesturing, punctuating, creating shapes in the air like he can't help but perform every sentence. "Ben Rosen. Acting track, with a minor in making terrible life choices." He does a little flourish with his fingers that somehow makes the self-deprecating joke land better. "You must be my neighbor—I'm in 312. Please tell me you know where we're supposed to be for orientation because I'm already lost and I've been here exactly three minutes."

Despite everything, I laugh. His hands never stop moving. It's like watching someone conduct an invisible orchestra while they talk.

"Vespera. And orientation's in the main theater in an hour."

"Vespera," he repeats, hands tracing the syllables in the air like he's tasting the name. "That's beautiful. Unusual." He leans against my doorframe, and even standing still his hands gesture conversationally, adding emphasis to thoughts he hasn't even voiced yet. Natural performer's presence radiates from him. "So what's your story? Why Columbus instead of, I don't know, enjoying summer like a normal person?"

"Normal's overrated." Standing tests my balance. Steady enough. "Plus, Medea doesn't cast itself."

His eyes light up, hands spreading wide. "You're going for Medea? That's incredible. I'm reading for Jason tomorrow, theabsolute bastard." He makes a theatrical gesture like he's being stabbed. "Maybe we'll get to destroy each other on stage."

There's something in the way he says it—playful, flirtatious but not aggressive, punctuated by those expressive hands. He's interested but not pushing. After months of Alpha intensity, it feels like being able to breathe.

"We should head to orientation," I say, grabbing my bag.

"Lead the way, evening star." His hands sweep forward in an exaggerated courtly bow.

The theater is a five-minute walk that takes me ten, though I hide it by stopping to "admire" the architecture. Ben chatters the entire way, hands painting pictures in the air as he tells stories about his hometown (Austin), his three sisters (all bossy—he demonstrates each one's signature hand-on-hip stance), his decision to pursue theater (scandal in the family—complete with dramatic hand-to-forehead).

The orientation room is packed with fifty other summer intensive students, all radiating that particular theater kid energy—too loud, too emotional, too much. A seat in the back appears, but Ben drops beside me without hesitation.

"Nervous?" he asks, fingers drumming on his knee.

"No." Yes. But not about the program. About whether my body will hold up. About whether the rejection sickness will get worse. About the constant feeling of being pulled northward, toward Northwood, toward them.

Marcus takes the stage, welcoming us to six weeks of intensive training. The schedule she outlines is brutal—voice and movement at 7 AM, scene study, audition technique, combat training, dance, rehearsals until midnight or later.