Methods of Acting

I walked into third period feeling like a **zombie**—thanks to Maya's three-hour Instagram voice note saga about whether Tyler actually looked at her story or just scrolled past it. My best friend has zero concept of time zones or my need for sleep.

Mr. Henderson paired us up for improv exercises. Naturally, I got stuck with Jenna, who spent the entire time refusing to break character as a 19th-century blacksmith. Being paired with the school's resident theater kid was like accidentally stepping into a live-action production where I'd missed every rehearsal.

"You're supposed to be a **spy**," she whispered furiously during our scene. "You're not selling it. Where's your nuance? Your motivation?"

"My motivation is wanting this floor to open up and swallow me whole," I muttered back, then immediately wished I hadn't when half the class laughed.

At lunch, Lucas found me dramatically eating a cold slice of pizza behind the gym. He's that rare breed of student who somehow maintains solid grades while operating on an inverted sleep schedule.

"You look like you got hit by a **bull**," he said, sliding down the wall to sit beside me. "Rough morning?"

"Jenna Carter," I said by way of explanation.

"Say no more." He handed me a energy drink from his backpack. "She once spent forty minutes explaining her technique method acting as a lettuce leaf."

I almost choked on my Pepsi. "What?"

"Salad days theater production. She was genuinely committed."

Something about his delivery—the completely deadpan expression—made me laugh. Actually laugh, not the fake polite laugh I'd been using all morning.

"You know what's funny?" Lucas said, watching me. "You're actually pretty sharp when you're not overthinking everything. Like a **fox** pretending to be a rabbit."

I stared at him. Was that flirting? It felt like flirting. But Lucas was Lucas—he complimented people the way most people discussed weather patterns. Casual, observational, meaningless.

"Thanks? I think?"

"It's a compliment," he said, his gaze steady. "You should trust your instincts more. They're usually right."

My instincts were currently screaming that Lucas was sitting closer than necessary, that this wasn't just random lunch conversation, that the way he looked at me meant something.

But my brain, thoroughly trained by years of overanalyzing subtext that didn't exist, refused to believe it.

Later, walking home with Maya (who had finally processed that Tyler's story-view meant absolutely nothing), I realized Lucas had been right about something else too.

Sometimes you're not a zombie at all. You're just waking up to what's been there all along.