Muserology Cafe

Showtime (April 2011)

by Tara Joy, age 13, Washington

I am not really the actor type. Actors are loud and dramatic and confident. Most of all, actors love an audience, while the thought of dressing up and parading around in front of a bunch of people terrifies me. And that, if I get into the school play, is exactly what I'll be doing.

Oh no.

I guess the reason I wanted to try out is curiosity. I wanted to know why the seventh and eighth graders kept coming back. I wanted to know why anyone would sacrifice hours and hours of free time, going to practices and learning lines, for just three shows. I wanted to know what made it all worthwhile. That's why I'm here, waiting to try out for this year's middle school play, Excalibur. It's about King Arthur's life before he was actually king. The story starts when he's a baby and ends when he's twelve and has pulled the sword out of the stone. There are lots of fancy medieval costumes, dramatic music, and special effects. It should be fun.

"Tara Joy?"

It's my turn. I gulp and make myself open the music room door.

***** 

The cast list goes up that Saturday. During the drive to school, I convince myself that it's OK if I don't get a part. As soon as we get there, though, my feelings change. It seems like the whole middle school is standing outside the music room. What if I go up to the list, in front of all those people, and my name isn't on it? It would be the most humiliating moment of my life. But I eventually go up, because I look like a lunatic just standing outside the car.

My name is on the list. I am Bedevere, one of Arthur's friends--and a boy. I didn't see that coming. Well, boy or not, at least I got a part.

The first few days of practices are fun, but spending two hours almost every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday in the cold, dark hallway outside the music room soon grows old. I get used to keeping one eye on the door so I don't miss an entrance. As the day of the play creeps closer, rehearsals get more chaotic. The actors have to perfect their lines and blocking; there are sets to be built, costumes to be sewn, and scene changes to be learned. I'm starting to get worried. Surely there shouldn't be so much left to do?

Suddenly, it's Tech Week, the last week of rehearsals before the show. The countdown to opening night has begun. We practice in the actual theater with all the props and lights and music. The first time we run Act I, we're allowed to sit in the audience and watch when we aren't onstage. It's the first time I've seen the whole first act at once.

Thursday is dress rehearsal. If somebody misses an entrance or forgets a line, we have to improvise for them. We won't be able to pause the show for them during the actual play, so we can't now, either. The only difference between dress rehearsal and a show is the lack of makeup--and an audience. Friday is a day off. It rushes by alarmingly fast, and before I know it, it's Saturday.

The first show is at 1:00, but we have to be at the theater (which is starting to feel like a second home) at 11:30. I walk into the greenroom and am greeted by a scene of chaos. Everywhere I turn, I run into knights, ladies, or druids. I never noticed how cramped it gets back here when everyone's moving around. Suddenly, someone yells, "That's the druid's music! They're starting!"

All at once it's so quiet that when somebody standing next to me drops a pin, I really do hear it hit the floor. The curtains go up, and the druids begin to sing.

It's showtime.

***** 

The play is going smoothly, and I relax and start to enjoy myself. Every time the audience laughs or applauds, I get a warm feeling, and I soon find that instead of feeling relieved when I finish a scene, I feel sorry. During curtain call, I get the same feeling, multiplied. I go home and have just enough time to eat, change, and pace around restlessly before changing back into my costume and heading back for the 7:30 show.

The second performance goes well until intermission. But right before we're about to start the second act, Gawain, another of Arthur's friends, gets a nosebleed. Everyone panics. We eventually decide that it's OK--since he doesn't have any lines, and there are lots of people onstage, no one should notice he's missing. Still, I feel tense all through the scene.

The next day, we return for the final performance. This show is probably the best. By now, no one's nervous. We know our lines inside out, and everyone else's too, and all that's left to do is enjoy ourselves. So we do.

At curtain call, I suddenly realize that it's over now. There will never be another production of Excalibur exactly like this one. Nobody will ever say Bedevere's lines just the way I did. I guess that's why theater seems more special than a movie. You can watch your favorite movie over and over again, but onces a play is over, it's over, and all that's left are the memories. And I certainly made a lot of those.

Along with all the memories, I found the answer to my question. I now understand how weeks of hard work are worth a few hours onstage. I understand why the eighth graders who complain endlessly about hot dressing rooms and boring rehearsals are so sad that this is their last play here. I don't know what it is, but something makes all thoughts of itchy costumes and uncomfortable makeup disappear when you're onstage. And that something is more magical than a million enchanted swords.