I hum a melody I can’t get out of my head.
“That’s pretty,” my best friend Jay says to me. “What is it?”
“It’s, uh, I’ll Never Love This Way Again,” unaware he could hear me, I twiddle my fingers.
We’re here at the drama lab and Jay is auditioning for a play. I’m only here for moral support.
I ask Jay if he’s nervous to which he quickly replies, “Far from. I’m excited. I got this.”
His charisma and eloquence made him a force onstage. That said, performance anxiety is a part of my genetic makeup. I already mumble when I speak on a regular basis. If he’s the shining star in our duo, I’m the dimmest star known to existence, which is in fact called the brown dwarf.
At 3pm, the director shut the theatre doors and announces in a bass-pitched voice, “Everyone, please have a seat, and welcome to the casting auditions for the final production of the year, John Lennon and Me.” I learn this was a rather serious play for a high school production about a Beatles-obsessed teenager with cystic fibrosis.
The director then reveals, “If you are here, you are auditioning, no exceptions. Otherwise, you must leave.”
I skip a beat. I was not only here for moral support, but Jay was my ride home. Unless you were in an afterschool club or played a sport, no students were allowed on campus after 3PM. Detention is not an option for me. But auditioning, I guess…is? I grip Jay’s arm, and he consoles me.
…
I remember the time my mom force-volunteered me to orate the opening prayer for her church service. Like Jay, she was a shining star, and the spotlight was her home. Yet, her shrinking violet of a daughter avoided that light like a black hole. I couldn’t this time, and my only solace was a piece of paper I was desperately clutching. My mom airily typed up this one-page prayer akin to a Miss America speech. Slinking to the podium, I moved the mic towards me. My eyes widened to stare into the hellacious eyes of God’s servants. I realized I was gazing down from a high distance above myself, watching a body that was no longer in control. My fear was in charge, and I was a lost astronaut floating further away. I was only jolted back to earth after the pastor tapped me on the shoulder. I scanned the room to find the audience with quizzical demeanors. I managed to look down at my script which I read off nervously as one entire run-on sentence. I offered thanks and praise to God, prayed for the church, prayed for healing to those who were sick, my eyes were glued to these words in front of me because I could not look up at those judging eyes again, and I’ll be damned to even glance at my mom’s direction, and I just wanted to read as fast as I could so I could leap off this podium and disappear, amen.
…
Jay’s audition is stellar. I’m up next. My plan is to just get on that stage, and just read the lines. Just read. As I walk up the stage and stand next to the lead character, the director hands me a piece of paper with my lines. I desperately clutch onto it.
“This is a dialogue scene. You may begin,” he instructs me.
I gawk into the sheet in my hands, “I really like your poster,” I mutter.
“Thanks,” the lead says, “He was the most talented person who ever lived. And he died so young.”
I read the footnote stating that my response needed to be said with incredulity and shock.
“Paul McCartney is dead?” My clear, atonal voice is the best I offer.
A week later, Jay and I are in homeroom. The voice on the overhead speaker begins today’s announcements.
“They’re going to announce who got cast this morning,” Jay eagerly tells me.
My mind is lightyears away, because I erased that traumatic experience from my memory bank.
The voice overhead booms.
“And now, we would like to announce the players for this year’s final drama lab production.”
Jay is visibly disappointed after hearing he didn’t get the role he wanted.
“And finally, the character of Julie Rowen will be played by…”
I step into a fourth dimension because my name is announced. The classroom erupts in applause, and I instantly look at Jay who is cheering me on with the masses. I guess my wide-eyed existential dread resembles gratitude to everyone.
At the first rehearsal, I am humming, and I discover that Julie Rowen is a spirited and chatty cheerleader. I’m contending with my archnemesis on paper. The guilt of quitting the play outweighed my stage fright by an atom, only an atom, so I’m stuck. But speaking before a group surpasses all my fears. Even death. It’s a self-poisoning of adrenaline. I become a cadaver, I’m rigid, I sweat, I shake, my breath is ragged, my heart is in my throat, and my voice is lost to the cosmic expanse. My fate inevitable.
It is the night of the play, and I am donned in a cheerleader costume with a tiny skirt. I have been disarmed of my face shield as my hair is tied up in a high bun. Humming is the only thing keeping me on earth. My first scene is my reunion with my best friend who’s living at Heart House, a residence for young people with chronic and terminal illnesses. I estimate I have 20 minutes until my scene, but I’m jolted by a tap on my shoulder from the stage manager who tells me I’m on in 20 seconds. I enter stage right, the spotlight forcing its way into my soul.
“Courtney?” I say to my co-star.
“Julie?”
We both scream maniacally and embrace. She introduces me to her roommate, Star, who is the lead character. Courtney then goes on to grill me if anyone at school knows where she’s been, and if anyone found out she would just about die.
“I would never, ever tell anyone,” I swear to her, “My mom knows though, because your mom told her, and you know my mom has the biggest mouth on the planet.”
I go on to tell her I will instruct my fake mother not to say a word. “Well Courtney, I got to go, If Lundgren, if Lundgren, if Lundgren….
I peer at the audience, and I see a black abyss perforated with dozens of starry eyes illuminating judgement on me. I’m at the end of my scene, and my last line is being sucked into a blackhole, along with a body that is no longer mine, as the fear has cast me out like a solitary space explorer floating blindly in the galaxy.
…
I remember the time my dad settled in one Saturday afternoon to set up our stereo and mic system for his weekly musical performance. A brown dwarf star like me, he was allergic to attention, and I inherited his low mumble. He liked to hum and sing, and he often did so in his own island universe, devoid of outside eyes and opinions. Since I was young, I’ve admired his song sessions from afar, hiding in the hallway, quietly singing along with him. His routine song list included hits from Matt Monro, The Everly Brothers and Dionne Warwick. Antsy for his song choice, I peeked from the hallway into the living room. He popped in the CD, and I was transported with joy. One of my favorites. Like he had known I was there along, for the first time, he grabbed the second microphone and pointed it to me without so much as a word or glance. I came out of hiding and timidly accepted the mic. He sang the first verse, and in unison we sang the chorus,
“I know I’ll never love this way again, so I keep holding on, before the good is gone…”
My eyes closed, it was blissful to live in these lyrics, to exist as a celestial songbird here in this Great Sky River of music. I almost overlooked this was the first time I was singing with someone else in the room, and with someone who understood.
…
I was still floating, but I could see. I step out of that blackhole and landed back on earth.
My songbird kicks in. “If Lundgrehhhhhn, realizes I’m gone, she’ll probably, like, give birth. Good thing I’m a fast runner!”
The stars in the black abyss shoot in every direction as I notably receive a few goodhearted laughs, which was unknowingly needed for an intense play. And then the show ends just as it had started. I had never known so much peace in this moment. Fellow classmates come up to me and congratulate me on a great show, telling me my scene was fun. Jay greeted me with a giant hug, and he said I absolutely crushed it.
“You should do improv!” he exclaims.
I shudder at the thought.
“You’ll kill ‘em at next week’s show!” he continues.
I look at him perplexed. The realization hits me like a meteor. I ruefully recall I’m locked in for 3 more shows. And I consider stepping back into the blackhole.