That struck Miss Junior so plainly she nearly dropped the basket of figs she was carrying. Later that night, under a streetlamp that smelled faintly of varnish, the director offered Miss Junior a role—minor, perhaps, a walk-on in a seaside scene—but real. It was the sort of thing that should have been celebrated, but the sash around Miss Junior’s waist felt suddenly heavy with the look of her parents’ faces: steady, uncertain, threaded with the fear of change.