My finger tips tingle as they drum against the script. The lines we had practiced every day until twilight flutter in my head like caged birds. I try as hard as I can to keep them from escaping, to remember.
People around me pace; I watch the, my eyes following them back and forth. Their shoes shovel holes in the dark green carpet. The people who aren’t pacing mumble their lines under a nervous breath. Or they shout; the shouters scare me.
Those who are shouting hover over us, looming shadows that fall on us. They yell that we are going to mess this up for them. I move my eyes from the costumed blurs back to one who is still yelling. Harsh words crash through the cold air, the air conditioning squeaks in rhythm behind me. A sixth grader mutters his lines quick as a motor. The shouter’s voice rises slightly and his motor mouth sputters to a halt no longer spewing out unvoiced words.
I shut my eyes, squeezing my eyelids until dots dance around on the dark skin. I imagine; I think about what is going to happen. The curtains are going to slide open like doors to the past and we are going to say our mouthfuls of words as carefully as we practiced, just as perfect.
We were told that we did great at rehearsals; I heard praise so much that I can serve up compliments in at least twenty different flavors. But we have to prove it to the crowd. To the soccer moms and proud fathers with eleven-year-old cameras that have been watching us since we were born. We have to make sure our picture perfect play will be watched through the cracked lenses that capture our movements.
Music starts behind the green room door, we are silent and still, everyone frozen. Loud orders knock on the wooden door and the glass rattles in the window. The director’s assistant opens the door; the hinges worn down over the years let it fall back against the painted concrete walls. We flinch at the impact, no longer frozen in a block of nerves.
Like children we are lined up, single file and lead through the doors and into the hallway. It is cool here, empty. Most of us would rather stay out here instead of being forced to face the crowd that is waiting on the other side of the stage door. I take a deep breath and march backstage.
Claustrophobia reaches for me and panic tries to ensnare me as I tip-toe across the wood. Step lightly, sound travels, I repeat over and over. In front of us the director yells orders loud enough for us to hear but soft enough to leave the audience clueless. Behind the director I can see some one’s shadow dance along the planks of the stage, the lights throwing shadows where they wouldn’t be normally.
We shuffle forward like a deck of cards, waiting to play. I watch as the king and queen are thrown down. They are leaders of the show. Once I am out there I will control the cards, asking for one or another. My cue flies through the air and as it hits my ears. I walk forward inot the light.
The birds I kept caged escape; the lines flow seamlessly from me.
