the rise and fall of a teenage drama queen, part I

I got an e-mail today from my high school. The drama club moderator is looking for people to work on the fall and spring productions next year—paid positions, with the opportunity to mentor students, too.

I’m not exaggerating when I tell you that when I read that e-mail, I was wishing like hell I still lived in my hometown. Even though my high school drama days were ultimately bittersweet, I would love a chance to go back and be involved again. Here’s the story…

My love affair with theatre began when I was in second or third grade and my mama was the theatre critic for our local paper. She reviewed shows every week, it seemed, and took me to whatever performances she could—usually, the mid-week matinees. Those were my favorite days. She’d pick me up early from school and we’d drive to some regional theatre or another and I’d sit in the audience—watching "South Pacific," "Singin' in the Rain," "A Chorus Line"—absolutely awestruck.

I started doing local plays when I was nine years old (the story of my first audition is enough for a separate post) and they were fun, but I was living for high school. Drama club, I was sure, was where I’d make my name. It was the be all and end all, the pinnacle of a theatrical career (which it is, when you’re 14 and living in suburban Philadelphia).

So I began high school in the fall of 1991 full of vim and vigor. I was practically jumping out of my skin at the first official drama club meeting of the school year. When it was announced that the female version of “The Odd Couple” would be the fall production that year, I was over the moon. I auditioned for any and all of the roles and was shut out—with such a small cast, the parts went to the upper classmen.

I was bummed, but thanks to a little divine intervention (after reading some of the script, the principal decided the play was inappropriate for high schoolers), I snagged a small part in the fall production after all. The director scrapped Neil Simon for some truly cheesy (but Catholic school-approved) melodramas. A lame trade-off, sure, but hell—I got a speaking role as a freshman!

Thus began four totally fun, crazy, wonderful years of high school drama. I was in everything from “Godspell” (chorus) to “Barnum” (as P.T.’s wife Charity) to “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown” (Peppermint Patty—save the lesbian jokes, thanks). 

We even did a totally unauthorized, ripped off stage version of “Sister Act,” which we called “Nun of That.” (I was the assistant director, a position I took ridiculously seriously considering I was only 16. I wore a forest green blazer to pretty much every rehearsal and had my own director’s chair with my name on it. Surprisingly, I did have a wide circle of friends.)

Every year was a blast, but senior year was my favorite. “Our Town” was the fall production and I distinctly remember asking, at the drama club meeting at which the show was announced, if girls could audition for the role of Stage Manager. I was told yes, and I set my sights on that. Forget Emily. I wanted to be Paul Newman. (You know what I mean.) I worked and worked on my New England accent (“ay-yuh!”) and, busting through the gender barrier, snagged the part.

I can’t tell you how much I loved that show. Thornton Wilder’s words gave me goosebumps, even as they were coming out of my mouth. I felt entrusted with the most meaningful and important role on the planet, which is silly now but it’s just how I felt at seventeen.

The spring musical that year was “Bye Bye Birdie” and if I thought I was excited about “Our Town,” this news had me bouncing off the walls. It was, hands down, one of my favorite musicals of all time. I’d seen the national tour a few years earlier in Philadelphia, starring Tommy Tune and Ann Reinking (which, in a weird way, lead me to my professional writing career—but that’s also a story for another post).

I sang “An English Teacher” ‘til my voice was hoarse, gave it my all at the audition, and got one of my all-time dream roles: Who is Spanish. Which I am very much not. Thankfully, the director overlooked that—it’s amazing the cultural transformation that can take place with a scratchy black wig.

Speaking of the director, I should say here that she—we’ll call her Mrs. X—was my idol in high school. She directed all eight shows I was in those four years, and was moderator of the drama club. She was my parents’ age, but she and I became pals. With all my tireless enthusiasm and endless ideas and habit of volunteering to do anything and everything, I was almost instantly her right hand gal. We worked well together, I learned a lot from her, and I trusted her.

“Bye Bye Birdie” was fantastic. I loved playing Rosie (even at such a young age, the role of long-suffering girlfriend came naturally to me). I didn’t mind the scratchy black wig, and I had more stage time than I had in any previous show, which was pretty thrilling. I felt like things had gone exactly as I’d envisioned them: I was ending my high school career on a high note. (Even my dad got in on the act—he was the head set builder and, because we were short on boys to fill the male roles, he got to play a bartender with whom Rosie briefly interacted. My own father ad-libbed his line every performance, getting a huge laugh and upstaging his daughter. Again, a subject for a separate post.)

Unfortunately, at the end of the run of “Bye Bye Birdie” is when my theatrical career fell apart, at the hands of the one person I thought was completely behind me. I admit—embarrassing as it may be—that I still think of what happened that spring and it makes me mad and disillusioned all over again.

Tomorrow: the fall of the teenage drama queen...

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