curtain calls/curtain cries, part 3-b

Brother and husband look at me.

“Please. I don’t want some scene.”

“All right,” Brother sighs. My Beloved is still eerily quiet. I walk away, unconvinced and unnerved.

It’s 10:59. Showtime. Joey takes her seat, smiling and waving energetically at me. I barely raise my hand in return, unable to feign enough perkiness. Pretense is required here and, gah, I just hate pretense. But, paradoxically, I also hate my inability to muster the pretense needed to seem normal in little social scenes like this one. So I barely raise my hand, but berate myself for barely raising my hand.

The show finally gets under way. I stand off to the side, still sweating, still wondering if my Go-To Kid is gonna Go or Blow, still wondering if My Beloved and Brother will stop their plotting and stay away from Joey, and still wondering if our keyboard player is going to mess up the part I think she’s going to mess up.

It’s a kind of rhythmic dialog section with accompaniment. Frankly, at this moment, I don’t know why I wrote it. The keyboard player is “sure” she’s got it. I have my doubts, so much so that I’m about two seconds away from actually shoving her off her poofy bench and doing it myself. (See, I have demons. Just not the kind Joey thinks.) Well, here it comes.

Now, I’m very careful to say this rhythmic dialog only in my head because I don’t want to be one of THOSE kiddie play directors who moves her mouth, saying all the lines, singing all the songs, drawing attention to herself as some clammy, uptight crackpot who has no faith in her performers. I AM all those things, but I prefer to ACT as though I am NOT.

Annddd …… rats. Turns out I was right to have those doubts.

Ah, well, she covers it, sort of. My actors look petrified and lost for only a split second. No one cries, which is certainly good.

Honestly, I’m amazed. So far, so good. The audience is even laughing because they’re supposed to laugh, not because some disaster has befallen the show a la the movie “Parenthood,” where the little brother gets upset because he thinks his sister onstage is really being hurt, when of course, she’s not, but he’s only 3 and doesn’t know that, so he yells out, “You’re hurting my sister!!” then storms the stage, trying to save her, but mayhem ensues and the entire set falls over and the play is ruined and it’s hilarious.

But my play isn’t over yet.

And my favorite moment is about to occur: The Kid in “Day by Day.”

You remember him. He’s the one who sings:

“ooooOOOOHHHhhh dddDDDEEAARRRrrrr LllooOOORRDdddd, THREE THINGS I ppprrAAAaay!!!”

He positively wails up and down, like a siren. I can’t wait. I’m watching no one else but him right now. Sorry, drama queens, but The Kid has made this his moment.

AND ……

OH, LORD, HE’S JUST STARING AT THE FLOOR, LOOKING LIKE HE’S GONNA CRY OR WET HIS PANTS!

Seems The Kid is our first casualty of stage fright. He doesn’t wail or howl or bellow. I’m not sure he even sings the words and if he does, it’s more of a private, mournful croon to the carpet than his usual yowl to God and the entire WORLD.

All right. That kills it for me, folks. The show is ruined.

(And I am NOT being a drama queen!)

But, drat it all, I’m forced to grieve quickly because my Go-To Kid’s moment is fast approaching. I see his face has paled from its pre-show purple to a plumpy pink. His line is written on a piece of paper, taped to the back of a chair. All he has to do is glance at the paper and say the line. Hopefully, he won’t just stare at the paper. Hopefully, he’ll say it loudly enough. Oh, and hopefully he’ll say it slowly enough. So that’s “all” he has to do.

Hmm.

Hmm.

What was I thinking, throwing all that pressure at him, last minute!?! He’s gonna choke! I start chewing my fingernails and I don’t chew my fingernails. I wonder if my body will ever feel dry again. All I can do at this moment is watch and wait and pray the pink doesn’t turn to purple.

AND ……

THE GO-TO KID GOES!!! HE DOES IT! IT’S LOUD AND CLEAR AND PERFECT!

HOORAY FOR THE GO-TO KID!!!

My brain dances a little mental jig of joy at this. And, suddenly, somehow, from that moment on, magic happens. Theatre magic, which is a singular kind of magic. All my little drama queens jump off their presumed thrones and actually earn their glittering crowns. Even the Little Fart, costume-less, manages to stay upright the entire show. I stand back, awestruck at this looney alchemy, wondering how they did it, even though as director, I should know how the trick is done. But that’s the glory and mystery of theatre. You might know how the trick is done, but it’s never done the same way every time.

All thoughts of what might happen with Joey and Brother and My Beloved disappear as I watch my little drama queens take their triumphant royal bows to the echoing cheers of their families and friends.

They did it. They really did it.

And I’m bustin’, I tell ya. Just bustin’.

As the crowd gathers ’round for after-show refreshments, I’m swept up in a wave of hugs and flowers and congratulations. I feel as though I’ve just won Miss America — but without that dreadful swimsuit competition. Joey tries a few times to approach me, but I’m never alone and My Beloved skulks about, casting a long, surly shadow. Several minutes go by. Finally, she seems to decide she has something to say to me and pushes her way through those poor, sugar-starved kids crowding the cookie table. I can’t manuever away before she’s on me, gushy and hyper and wiggly. I just look at her and wonder if she’s been hitting the Krispy Kreme box. Numbly, I mutter some thanks to her. The moment seems about to stretch to the breaking point when I’m saved by a kid who scrambles up and squeezes my waist. Joey slinks off as I look down into the shining face of one of my little leading ladies. She hands me a large, purple-and-pink-striped paper heart that has these words and this punctuation written crookedly across it:

“Dear Mrs. Tracey,

Thank you so much for 2 weeks of fun!! I had a super time!! Thank you for being so encouraging to me!! I love drama camp!! I hope to do drama again!! Thank you for teaching me to be an actress!!

Love,

Lindsey”

She squeezes me again and my face is moist, this time with tears.

Ah, these little drama queens.

How they do get to you in the end.