The light comes on suddenly, blinding me. I close my eyes and turn my head away. I don’t need to look. I know he’s there.

Then I hear his footsteps. He walks toward me and stops with an abruptness that makes me flinch.

“You smudged your makeup.” His voice is edged with jagged steel.

I would apologize — I would say anything to keep him from being angry with me — but there’s a piece of tape over my mouth.

“You promised me,” he says, kneeling down. He wipes my cheeks with a paper towel so roughly that I start to cry again. “You promised you would try your best.”

I feel like I’ve been punched. I am trying. I’m trying so hard. Can’t he see that? For days I’ve been trying to do as he says, to be good enough.

“Faith, when we started rehearsals, I told you that if you got the scene right, I would let you go.”

I nod. I try to plead without words. I try to convey how frightened I am. Maybe he’ll take pity on me. Maybe he’ll give me more time.

He takes my hand in his. His voice is soft with compassion. “I’m so sorry. It’s just not working out.”

I’m paralyzed by the words. He makes a regretful clucking sound and reaches forward. I flinch until I realize that he’s not trying to touch me — he’s playing with the necklace that hangs around my neck, moving the rose charm back and forth on the chain. “I understand if this is upsetting. I’m sorry I was short with you earlier. I know that’s not the way to bring out your best work. You might as well go ahead and cry. I’m going to have to fix your makeup anyway.”

The tears break free in a flood.

He walks back to the door, pausing to move a wheelchair out of his way, and turns to look at me. “We’ll do the final performance tonight. I have a few things to take care of first.”

Then he shuts off the light and leaves me alone with the echoes of his footsteps climbing the stairs.