I glance at the supersonicly-moving clock for what seems like the millionth time this morning. It is finally time. The time that means I have to get out of my seat and head to the stage. I freeze, surmising all the things that could go terribly wrong today.

During the past rehearsals, I had always kept the thought of this day in the back of my mind. Especially one part in particular; I have a solo song. Not the kind where someone sings a line, and then I sing a line, back and forth. The kind where I have to sing, by myself, for the whole song! I snap out of my daze and see that everyone else in the school play is rising and heading towards the door. My stomach churns, but I slowly join them at the door. Our teacher wishes us good luck, and then we are out the door. Can I really get through this day?

I traipse through the final tech rehearsal, into my costume, and the mic check, all throughout feeling uneasy with jitters. I have never done anything like this before. Everything goes by so rapidly, and I never get a chance to calm myself down. Before I know it, all the kids are filing into the gymnasium where the stage is located, sitting criss-cross applesauce with their classmates. The three teachers who are running the play lead everyone to the music room to have a final discussion, and then, the words I have been dreading pop out of one of the teacher’s mouths: “Everyone, it’s time to get in your places and start the show!”

As the teachers usher the cast down the hallway to the stage, I speculate on whether I have enough time to ask for someone else to play my role before it is too late and am out, singing and dancing in front of hundreds of pupils. Even though this morning’s show is mostly just for the younger students, and it seems silly to be nervous, I have my reasons.

First of all, later at night I have a second show in front of all the parents, and that is even more frightening. This morning’s show will prove if I can actually do a decent job for the show with the parents or not. Whether I have a chance. At last, I am standing stiffly on the stage with the curtain closed on everyone who is about to perform the opening song. Some other kids and I take turns peering through a small hole in the velvety curtain. Impatient and curious children are flashing eager glances toward the fabric wall. We are hushed and told to get in place. I take a deep breath. There is a snap and a pop, and then one of the teachers says a few quick words. Bright and cheery music starts illuminating my ears. My hands are violently shaking. Sudden movement from the curtain makes me jump, and the curtain floats towards the walls in what seems to be slow motion. I just need to get through tonight, I think to myself. I start to sing with the others.

I sing and dance on que, trying as vigorously as possible to keep the fear out of my eyes so no one can see. Time whooshes by a gazillion times faster than before I had started the show. Scene after scene flies by, with no time for me to review how I’ve done so far in the process. But the thought of that big solo I have coming up with the time between it and now swiftly crunching will not stop racking my brain.

Several(but not enough) minutes later, I am descending the stage stairs and walking towards the end of the gym floor, preparing for the song where only I will sing. People are staring at me, and I know for a fact that my face is as red as an apple. How have I gotten here? The confidence from earlier has been instantly drained. I remember how much I had wanted this, how much I had wanted to be on that stage a few months ago. I know all these thoughts are true, but I feel like it is physically impossible for me to sing my song, that I am not qualified for the job I have been given. I am terrified, and I know that I will mess up, only embarrassing myself. If I don’t sing my song though, I will always regret it, I know. I realize something; it is definitely too late to get cold feet now. I am going to have to try as hard as I can to make this a worthy song. As light flashes in my face and children gasp in amusement, I decide to be in the moment, to not worry about things I can’t control. So against all odds, I skip down the floor, letting my voice exert the notes.

Feet bounding, mouth caroling, I keep my eyes facing straight in front of me, for I don’t know if I would be able to handle it if I were to look right into the eyes of the crowd. I just keep singing and singing, somehow belting out the right notes. My heart is racing.

I hear some of the younger students gasp in joy, and that helps me relax a bit. The more they giggle or gasp, the more I feel better. It feels like there are huge clouds in my brain, fogging up any thoughts that don’t have to do with the song. I keep waiting for the moment where I stumble on my overly long costume or for my voice to make a weird noise, but nothing happens, and I just keep on marching, keeping my head held high. Before I know it, my song is over, and I am reunited with my friends and everyone else on the stage, chanting the Ending Theme. I can hear the snapping and feel the light against my eyes from photos being taken. The crowd made up of mostly children is elated, whooping and estactically jumping up to let out thunderous applause. The whole while, all that is on my mind is one conception; I have done it. I have done it, and I am proud of myself for it!

Later I went through the night performance. After that I was given many congratulations. That performance helped me be less shy in front of people and more comfortable on stage. But most of all, I learned that if there is something I want to do, I can’t let fear get in the way.

 

 

 

 

-Cassie W.