The day after the cast announcement, my mum picked us up from school, told us to wait on the playground, and marched in to confront Miss Snarling.

You didn’t want to mess with my mum when she had something bothering her. I was hoping Miss Snarling would be scared of her, back down, and give me a part. With any luck, those happy angels were up there and were going to organize a miracle for me.

I sat on the bench in the playground chewing my lip. When Mum came out, I wanted to ask if Miss Snarling had changed her mind but Mum looked huffy and marched to the car, so I could just tell it wasn’t the right time to ask. On the drive home, Georgia kept looking from me to her and raising her eyebrows. It was kind of obvious the answer was no. Mum said Miss Snarling was “a difficult nut to crack” but to me she was just a fistful of nettles in a teapot full of puke.

When we got home, Georgia put her bag in the hallway and went upstairs. I knew it wasn’t OK to ask to watch TV, so I went into the kitchen to get some water. Mum was banging around, taking out frying pans, and slamming cupboard doors. Our kitchen is usually a happy place: it’s square and yellow with herb plants on the windowsill and multicolored tiles so it looks like a box of sunshine and rainbows, just with cupboards. It has a big counter in the middle where Mum and Dad chop veggies. But this was not one of those moments.

I went to sit on the couch. The smell of frying green stuff filled the air. I knew it was kale because it stank of soy sauce. Mum made us eat it about three times a week, and the smell of soy sauce cooking made me want to throw up (not very Cambodian, I’m guessing).

Felix came home, and a little later, Dad walked in. “Kale again, eh?” he said to me, popping his head into the living room. He scrunched his nose up.

“She’s banging pots,” I said.

“Oh dear. Better go and see why.” He was braver than the rest of us. He went into the war zone kitchen, and I could hear them talking but I couldn’t hear the details, even though I strained really hard.

When we all sat down to eat, there was this fog of seriousness hanging over us.

“So…um…what did she say?” I asked. Because, honestly, how long can you suffer when your whole life is at stake? “I didn’t get a part, did I?”

I don’t know why I thought things would change, but I did. It’s just my inner optimism (which will get me far in life. As far as Hollywood, with any luck).

Mum looked at Dad. Dad looked at me. I held my breath. Dad sighed and put his cutlery down. He obviously got the job of telling me because Mum is majorly blunt sometimes—she’s famous for it. Dad rubbed his stubbly chin and said, “Well, you see, Dara…” and then he stopped midsentence. I was looking at him, like, Ye-es, go on, Dad. I need to breathe again soon…

“Miss Snelling…didn’t…well, she…thought…” He looked at Mum and made a face like he was in pain.

I still wasn’t breathing so I glared at him.

DAD. GO ON.

“So…she…”

You could tell my dad was just never going to make it to the end of the sentence without help. I was going dizzy with lack of oxygen.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Mum snapped. “No, Dara, I’m sorry to say that you didn’t get a part. And Miss Snelling said if you really want a lead role, you have to stop thinking you’re already a Hollywood star and go to her drama group.

Huuggghhhtttt.

The shock and devastation made me gasp, which was good because my lungs needed to fill with oxygen or I’d have died right there on the floor. Her drama group was so lame! Not that I’d ever been, but Ella Moss-Daniels and Abi Compton went. It was for all those people who didn’t know how to act. They were all wannabes. Lacey and I were already-ies (or whatever the opposite was).

“Knew you should have let me say it,” Dad said to Mum.

I clutched my heart as if it had been shot by an arrow, and it took every ounce of strength I had not to fall off my chair. “Drama group?” I gasped. “Me?”

“Mind you,” Dad said, “judging by this performance, I’m not sure you really need it.”

Felix and Georgia giggled, but I glared at them. How exactly was this funny? I pushed my chair back and tried to keep my heart in my chest.

“And,” Mum said, “she also suggested taking up her offer of being stage manager. I was livid, of course, because you don’t need to be good at acting to be in the school play. All I was asking for was a part where you went onstage, even if you just stood there.”

DON’T NEED TO BE GOOD AT ACTING? WENT ONSTAGE AND JUST STOOD THERE? I thought Mum was asking for the part of Maria! Not for me to walk on and stand around like a lemon!

“If you ask me,” Georgia said, even though no one had asked her, “it’s a good thing she didn’t get Maria ’cause she’d get such a big head. It’d go whooooppp like a beach ball until it burs—”

“That’s enough, Georgia,” Mum said sternly. “Dara,” she said, turning to me, “it’s not the end of the world. There’ll be other plays, and you’ll get your turn. Maybe you’re just not right for Maria but it doesn’t mean you won’t be right to play someone else.”

The walls started going woooo in circles. I was going to pass out any second. “I…I can’t eat,” I said, pushing my plate away. “I’ll…I need to go to my room.”

“Dara—” Felix said gently. I looked at him in relief. Felix was my savior. He’d tell me it was all a big joke and of course I didn’t need drama lessons, hahahaaaaa. I’d sit down, and he’d break the news that Miss Snarling had given me Maria after all, and we’d all have a good long laugh about how easy it was to trick me and how I fell for it.

“Yes, Felix?” I breathed.

“If you’re not eating those,” he pointed to the bean burgers on my plate with his knife, “can I have them?”

Ten minutes later, Mum came into my room. I was lying on my bed, plotting forty-seven different kinds of revenge on Miss Snarling, each more genius than the next.

“You OK?” Mum asked.

“I might not make it through the night,” I whispered.

“Oh, you’ll pull through. You’re a fighter.” She smiled and sat down on my bed. “Dara, listen. If you really want to act, I think you should consider what Miss Snelling said. She knows what she’s talking about. I mean, I’m annoyed with her for leaving you out, don’t get me wrong, but she has plenty of experience. She’s been in lots of Shakespeare plays, West End musicals, TV shows…she only teaches part-time in your school, you know. She’s the real deal.”

What? I frowned. Miss Snarling? She didn’t even do any faces.

“I’m just saying,” Mum went on, “if you’re really interested in acting, lessons aren’t a bad idea. I know you think her drama group isn’t for you, but if you want to get good at something, you need to learn and practice. Think about it and let me know what you decide.”