Backstage, minutes before the class play, Maya rubbed her palms on her costume and tried her opening line for the tenth time. Theo, waiting in the wings with a stack of cue cards, whispered, "You've got it." Maya wasn't so sure. The stage manager flashed two fingers: two minutes.

When the curtain rose, the lights were so bright that the audience looked like a blur. Maya's first line came out thin as thread. She swallowed, tried again, and then her mind went blank. From the wing, Theo's whisper bobbed toward her like a lifeline; the next words returned, and the scene moved on.

Halfway through, trouble struck. The cardboard "map" nailed to the painted backdrop snagged on a costume and ripped a jagged line across the river. The audience gasped. Maya felt a bolt of panic, then, unexpectedly, a steadying breath. She stepped toward the tear. "A storm must have torn our map," she announced, widening her eyes. "We will have to trust the stars." Theo slipped her a scrap of cloth, and she mimed patching the rip as the other actors followed her lead.

Laughter rippled, then applause. By the final scene, Maya's voice had weight. When the curtain fell, she realized the mistake hadn't ruined the play at all; it had given her a way to be brave.