I won't bore you for the rest of the week. Olivia was still depressed about her parents' separation, but she had no news from either of them about it. In fact, she had no news at all from her father.
I didn't like that.
What's wrong with fathers? Mine is perfect. Mindy's is great. Marge's father was sick but is now a good man. Lyndon's father seemed ok. Billy's dad was often angry but was now dating a man, despite being straight. Which is ok, but weird if he doesn't admit being at least bisexual. But Edith's was in prison, and Olivia's was basically absent from her life in general.
Many of the people I knew didn't even have a father. None of them matter that much, but that girl that Olivia dated? Divorced parents, absent father. I did hear from the grapevine much later that when she moved away, her mother moved to the same town as her ex-husband. Maybe that got her closer to her father?
Mrs. Sanchez was increasingly stressed about the recital. I was mostly left alone to practice most of the time, but she would run back, check me, give notes, and run elsewhere.
The reality is that because of my lasers, I was stuck in a single place... and took part of the stage.
A girl named Joe, which is probably a nickname or a short version of her real name, realized that she could practice on the other side of the stage, so she did. It helped not being alone. Even if Victor was usually there, he was behind the stage.
Mindy came once, since she would miss the show. It was my suggestion. She applauded after my first practice, which shocked Joe, but I didn't care about her.
I do admit that if you took away my lasers and my obstacle, my dance routine would have sucked compared to Joe's.
She did real dancing; I gave a multimedia performance. But that's ok; it's my first recital. I've been dancing only about 6 weeks, for crying out loud. Give me a break. Come on.
I take a deep breath, and soon enough, it's time for the almost final repetition. It's the first time I get to see all the dance numbers.
Almost all of them are better than mine; not a lot are better than Joe. She seems like she is the pro, and she will finish the recital right after me.
Mrs. Sanchez promised I would be last, after Joe, but it changed. Did Joe complain? She seemed nice enough with me. Maybe her parents did.
I nailed my routine for the repetition. Mrs. Sanchez was thrilled. Not everyone did. A few got notes, and one got yelled at. Joe was not perfect; she was "beyond perfect," whatever that meant in Mrs. Sanchez's dictionary.
It wouldn't be just us. There were slam poets, a few singers, and a comedian, but he would also be the presenter. So it's not that he will do a full set, but rather small segments of humor between the shows.
Oh, most of the girls have relatively normal clothes. Not that they would wear them, but, like, one was wearing a dress, and her partner was wearing a tuxedo. I guess they were playing a straight couple, and one of the two girls was pretending to be the guy for the dance?
The weirdest part is that I saw the repetition, and I liked most of them, but I didn't then realize that this was my only chance!
Because that night, after sharing pizza (or, in my case, pretending to) with the group for the final adjustments and the sound check for the singers, we all got backstage for the show.
I was nervous. Very nervous.
I wasn't the only one.
One of the girls, not Joe, not one of the three I know, vomited her pizza backstage. One of the singers cried. No, not because of the vomiting.
There were guys too. A slam poet who was making us completely dizzy with him repeating his poem on a cycle. It sucked, to be honest.
The trio was first. When they came back, they appeared to be relieved. Emma drank half a bottle of water. Lindsey almost collapsed on the bench. Grace decided to talk to all of us.
"We can barely see the crowd; don't worry, guys. You practiced this; you know your stuff."
The best part, however, is that the slam poet guy was next, so we had a few minutes of quiet, and then he didn't return to us. Maybe he decided to join his parents, or perhaps he made paces in the corridor?
Speaking of which, a group of 6 girls and 2 guys had a dance routine, and they were in that corridor, practicing a few things.
We know because when the door was open, we could see them.
There was some yelling, but Grace just told us that it was fine. Last-minute stage fright affected everyone differently; some yelled, some cried, and, well, some vomited, she said, trying not to look at the girl who did.
I'll tell you one more way people react. After the show, they try to reassure everyone.
Victor decided to come see me.
"Julie? Can we talk in the corridor?" He said.
I went, but we had to go further away.
"Is there a problem?"
"No, just a little change."
"Oh, oh," I said.
"No, nothing serious. I just... I like your routine, the prison break, and stuff. But I felt there was something missing."
"Like what?"
"Your cell break."
"Sure, but it's not like I can just start in a cell. We don't have a cell."
"No, but I did a door... So you would start behind the door and just smash it."
"Smash it?"
"It's a cardboard poster. You can just tear it apart."
"Oh."
"I made cell bars so you can peek through them; people will see you, and the spotlight will be on the window. You break it, punch it, or whatever, and when you step out, your song will start."
"Oh, so it's just an entrance."
"Exactly."
Somehow, that reassured me. He even brought it a few minutes later, since it wasn't on the stage yet.
It would be held by tie wraps on a bar holding lights at the back of the stage, which he will install during the previous poem. I checked, and tearing it from the bars seemed like the best way to do it.
I thanked him.
"No, thank you. I got to really flex my creativity with you. The others, it's just, well, boring what they do. They string along different pieces of music with little coherence. How can I do a decor?"
"So I have the only one?"
"No, Jimmy has a poem on the loss of his dog, how we can be there for their whole lives, but they can't be there for ours, and how it was tragic. So I got a picture and drew his dog as a backdrop. And at the end, it pulled it down, and it was his yard with a cross on it with the name of his dog."
"Wow, you went all in."
"I try. I mean, pictures are taken, and it's filmed. I am building my portfolio."
"Right, so I should be careful with the door. We have to get you into college."
He smiles. "Thank you."
I returned to the backstage waiting area, which I realized is probably a sort of drama classroom. There are long, low wooden benches to sit on on the wall and a sort of cabinet of props. I know because one of the guys peeked in it, bored or nervous.
I asked myself, would I want to take a drama class? Maybe with a friend. But who would? If it's like dance, there are fees, and Olivia wouldn't join. If it's a regular class, it takes the space of another one, and Olivia wouldn't join out of fear of missing science credits. Marge would probably not join at all, and if Mindy is right, hanging with her would be social suicide.
Maybe, Lyndon, if I do become his girlfriend?
Suddenly, my mood changed. From being worried and looking all around, I became introspective. Yes, I had a headache from the stress. Yes, I had stomach cramps from the jittering. At least I wouldn't vomit since I ate nothing all day.
But thinking about Lyndon was calming my nerves.
No, I don't think it was sexual thoughts. I still didn't have any while awake. And I didn't even dream about the second our lips touched.
My thoughts were leading me elsewhere.
I wasn't thinking about the intimate part of a relationship. I was thinking about the, I don't know, friendship aspect of dating?
Like, the plan is to go rollerblading tomorrow. There is no non-landed club event. I have nothing with my family, so it's perfect.
I do not plan for this date to become romantic, so what is the difference between going with him as a friend versus on a date?
It's simple. The exclusivity.
Marge is my best friend, but I have others. Olivia, Edith in a way, and now Mindy. Marge had other friends. Hey, sometimes she comes to my house to see Edith, not me! And it's fine.
But if I have a boyfriend, I have a stable friend to hang out with. Like, if I want to see a movie, he will not wonder whom to hang out with. Then, I am his number one, and he is my number one.
And it's more than that.
Even without intimacy, we can have complicity.
I see it with Edith. Odds are that I will have sex before she does with Charlie, and I don't even have a boyfriend yet. In fact, if Charlie came out as asexual, it would come as no surprise to me at all. Spoiler: He isn't, but again, it's not my story to tell.
Still, Edith and Charlie, I see it, have this almost telepathic ability to communicate. It's like they know each other inside and out, and I want that.
Not with Charlie, obviously, but maybe my Charlie is Lyndon.
Normally, I am either practicing, studying, or playing video games. But now, all I can do is sit on this uncomfortable bench, tolerate my headache and my stomachache, and think.
Even Emma, Lindsay, and Grace eventually leave. Officially, it's because Emma needs to go to the restroom, but they don't come back.
As the room empties, I think about Lyndon. He is in the audience right now. He told me so. I would text him, but my cell phone was given to Mrs. Sanchez to give to my parents. I can't exactly carry it, but I would have texted Lyndon or perhaps played a game on it.
Instead, I am left thinking about Lyndon.
I got to know him. I worked with him in social studies; I told you about that, but also a little in Spanish, which I decided not to talk about.
He can be funny but also serious. Like Dad.
Shit, he is a lot like Dad. Am I trying to date a clone of my father? I know I heard that many girls do that, but Charlie isn't like Edith's bio-dad or my dad. And my dad is apparently not at all like my mom's father.
Soon, however, the last poet is called, and I tense up. Will I perform well despite my growing jitters? I am even shaking now, and my vision is blurry. That's some intense stage fright, but it is my first time.
"Julie, you're almost up," said the talent liaison guy. I don't remember his name; I don't even know if he told me his name.
I am left behind my cardboard door. Easily, I can see the poet going on with his lines. I can see the stagehands putting the cubes I will dance over. I can see Mrs. Sanchez on the other side of the stage, speaking with someone, but not whom. My vision isn't clear enough, and it's dark.
The poet ends. There is clapping.
The poet leaves the stage, and a single light illuminates the stage, empty.
I can hear a low-volume drum, and I see Mrs. Sanchez with a microphone.
"In a future where free speech and even free thinking are banned, an imprisoned free thinker is planning her escape to free citizens from the tyranny."
I am told behind me a count, from 10.
The light moves and almost blinds me as it shines in my face. I hear 3, 2, 1, so I grab the bars and pull them apart.
The poor cardboard rips apart and falls on the floor, revealing me in my costume. I hear some clapping.
My song starts with yelling the call for freedom as the fog machine starts and lasers light up. I hear a collective gasp in the audience.
"Everybody dreams, but the dreams are chained,
Everybody's told that their hope's insane,
Everybody hides from the watchful eyes,
When the tyrants write the truth as lies.
Everybody whispers under breath,
Afraid of light, afraid of death
But the fire grows where the brave ones stand,
And the word still slips through the trembling hand."
The air smelled like paint and sweat. The fog machine hissed behind me like a warning. The chorus starts as I go through every practiced movement, every decided flourish. I jump the obstacles, I move like the wind, and I dodge every laser.
The chorus starts, and with it, the fog machine doubles its output to add more mood.
"Everybody speaks though the walls are tall,
Everybody bleeds, but they can't stop all,
Everybody knows what the silence breaks,
That the mind is free, no chain it takes."
The singer's voice is perfect as I prepare for my ending. I didn't realize I was practicing not just a dance, but a protest.
"Everybody's tired of the thought police,
Of the smiling kings preaching hollow peace,
Everybody's hearts are loud with rage,
And the songs they sing fill an open page.
Everybody burns with a voice inside,
That no law or fear can turn or hide
And the dawn will come when the world awakes,
When the crowd won't bow and the chain line breaks."
And on the last word, I open my arms as if I broke my chains, fall on my knees, and the lasers, the light, and everything go to black. For a second, I can't tell if it's the lights or me fading.