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work (not much to tell). The trio sized her up to see if she matched the physical type they were looking for—slim, tall, mane, good face. Apparently, she passed the first hurdle.
    â€œWhenever you’re ready,” the director said, holding out his hand in the “please proceed” gesture.
    Sophia exhaled. She opened her mouth to deliver the opening lines of the pages she’d memorized … and couldn’t remember a single word.
    â€œAre you okay?” asked the woman, the writer.
    â€œI need a prompt.”
    The casting agent said, “‘It’s all about control.’”
    Yes, that was the first line. Sophia cleared her throat and said, “It’s all about control.” And then … nothing. A blank. A void in her head where the words were supposed to be. “I’m so sorry, this has never happened to me before.”
    The CA repeated, “‘It’s all about control. Self-control, and controlling other people.’”
    Sophia said the line, praying the rest of the material would magically pop into her head. Nope. Her mouth was dry, like she’d swallowed sand. “Can I glance at the sides? I’ve got this. Just a quick look and…”
    â€œThank you,” said the director, this time giving her the “please leave” hand gesture. She was only halfway out the door when she heard the writer say, “Well, that was a complete waste of time.”
    Too stunned to be crushed, Sophia walked out of the room in a daze. A text came in from Agnes: “How did it go? Call me.”
    Sophia couldn’t bring herself to reply. What happened? Leandra would blame Demi for upsetting her mojo. But then again, Leandra would blame Demi for climate change, the recession, aliens attacking the planet. Demi would blame Leandra for shit-stirring and suffocating her. Last night, Sophia had stared at her vision board and tried to manifest getting this part. Why wasn’t The Secret working?
    Because I’m just going through the motions , she thought.
    She had to admit the truth. Her focus was off. She was staying up all night (for work and after), making out with randos, sleeping late, blowing off workouts, eating like shit. She had to get her head in the game.
    Sophia rode the elevator down to the street with half a dozen other would-be stars. Some looked happy; most were dejected. She refused to put herself in that camp. She had to do something to break out of this negative mind-set and sharpen her edge.
    Maybe Marina was right. Taking an acting class might be a good idea.
    *   *   *
    That evening, Sophia entered the front door of the main building at the Toronto Academy of Dramatic Arts for an evening workshop for amateurs and students. As instructed by the website, she came ready to deliver a monologue. She was going to do the Niagara sides, just to prove to herself that she could do it. After a fall, you have to get back on the horse. Right now, Niagara was her horse.
    She opened the classroom door. If Marina was there, Sophia might have to turn around and leave. There was only so much perky she could stand in one day. A dozen other people were seated in plastic chairs in two rows (no Marina, thank god). It was a nice mix of older and younger, male and female, a few people of color, including herself. It wasn’t a typical acting class of young beautiful people, which was a relief. Sophia took an open seat. A man went to the front of the room and introduced himself as Wesly Shamrock, a part-time professor at the school. She put him in his late thirties, handsome, thin, with a quasi-brogue like a footman on Downton Abbey .
    â€œI see a new face tonight,” he said. “Come on up here. Show us what you got.”
    Sophia jumped right up. This kind of felt like performing for her parents’ guests at dinner parties when she was a kid. When she was done, maybe they’d give her candy! She clicked to the