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

Before I get on with my story, I should point out that, during my high school years, I wanted nothing more than to be a Broadway actress. While other kids were writing their boyfriend’s or girlfriend’s name on their eight-pocket folders, or scrawling Pearl Jam lyrics on their book covers, or blasting Nirvana in their cars, I was writing the names of my favorite musicals, I was scribbling “I Heart New York” on every page of my journal, and singing showtunes on my drive to school every morning.

I was writing then, too, I was editing the school paper and stringing for the local news, but my heart and soul were in theatre. Ask anyone who knew me then—I was one hundred percent focused and one hundred percent obsessed.

So. Back to the story.

Each spring there was a drama competition held at a large regional theatre the next county over—the same theatre my mother had taken me to many, many times when I was a kid and she was reviewing shows. High schools from all over the tri-state area would perform about 30 minutes of their most recent production—the best 30 minutes they had. It was a huge deal, there were prizes for several categories, and winning something at the drama festival felt like winning a Tony.

We’d won some awards here and there previously, but everyone believed “Bye, Bye Birdie” would really clean up. The competition was held about a month after the show closed (which was always nice—after the last curtain fell and the sets were dismantled, we had something else to look forward to) and it was with much anticipation and excitement that I went to the rehearsal at which Mrs. X would announce what scenes we’d be performing at the festival.

I discovered, at that rehearsal, that out of the 30 minutes we’d be on that stage at the regional theatre, I would be on stage for approximately four. Which I guess wouldn’t be so odd if I hadn’t been playing Rosie, the lead female character in “Birdie.” I would estimate that, during the actual show, I was on stage about 80 percent of the time. I had three solo songs, two duets, a big dance number with a dozen Shriners, and a whole slew of dialogue. So to find out that I would not be singing anything at the competition, muttering just a few lines, with less stage time than the freaking flats my dad had built—that hurt.

Mrs. X had totally, utterly, completely dissed me.

I was eighteen years old at the time, and I never made waves. I was the good kid, the helpful kid, the positive kid. So I kept my mouth shut at that rehearsal, but inside I went numb. Four years of hard work, of putting my all into everything I did for those shows, after working my way up from lowly chorus girl to lead role, this is how it ended? With a big, fat slap in the face? 

I don’t remember much about that rehearsal, but I do remember going home and laying on my bed. My mother asked me what was wrong—I don’t even think I was crying, I was just zombie-ish—and I told her. The next thing I remember was my dad getting home, my mom filling him in, and what followed went down in our family annals as a remarkable moment.

As I’ve mentioned, my father was very involved in many of my high school shows, but especially so with “Birdie.” It was a nice bonding experience for us (and god knows he loved his little cameo). He also got to see firsthand how dedicated I was, how hard I worked. Because of this, he considered Mrs. X’s drama competition decision an egregious display of ungratefulness.

He took off his jacket and his tie that evening, and then he dialed the phone.  

Never before in all my eighteen years had I felt as loved as I did then, listening to my dad rip into Mrs. X. I was still huddled on my bed, but as I listened the numbness went away. He didn’t lose his temper or scream or curse. That wasn’t (isn’t) his style. He simply gave her a piece of his mind, in a very firm and confident tone—not unlike the tone he used when he was disappointed in me. And he made it clear that he was very, very, very  disappointed in Mrs. X. “After everything Megan has done for you,” he said to her, “this is how you treat her?”

I’m not sure when the next drama competition rehearsal was, but at the very next one Mrs. X announced some changes to the scene selection. Suddenly “English Teacher” was in the lineup, as well as a few more Rosie scenes.

It was nice to know, but it didn’t make everything better. A relationship—a friendship—four years in the making had been unraveled just like that.

I tried my best to avoid any eye contact with Mrs. X, to avoid having to actually speak to her. I felt awkward, angry, embarrassed, humiliated. But out in the parking lot, she snagged me as I was getting into my car. She apologized (sort of) but I will never remember her explanation for why she did what she did.

“You know Stacie’s got the voice, Megan,” she said. “We can win awards with her and with Tom,” she said. [Names have been changed; Stacie and Tom played Kim and Albert, respectively, in “Birdie.”]  “And you’re good on stage,” she went on, “but your writing…I really think you should focus on your writing.”

While this does not immediately come across as a huge, heart-crushing insult, believe me—at the time, that’s exactly what it felt like. She was, essentially, telling me I was nowhere near good enough. We wouldn’t win any awards with me up there. And that’s what it was about, to Mrs. X. She wanted to win. And I was a loser.

The actual competition went well, though I can’t even tell you how many awards we won—maybe one or two? Nothing major. The one thing I can tell you for certain is that, during the critique period (when judges would climb onto the stage and give their comments and commendations about the performance) one judge said, “Where was Rosie? We wanted more of Rosie!” I happened to be sitting next to Mrs. X at the time (I’m sure that was an accident). We sat side by side in the ratty velvet-covered seats in the musty, darkened theatre, and when I heard the judge’s words my insides tingled. I’m pretty sure a smile spread slowly across my face. I might have even sneaked a glance at her out of the corner of my eye, though she had no reaction.

It was a good feeling but, despite that moment of vindication, I felt sad. It seemed that something had been taken away from me, something intangible but very much a part of who I was and what I knew. In its place was a fresh heaping pile of self-doubt. Welcome to high school, I know, but I have to be honest—I had no confidence when it came to algebra, dating or what to wear on dress down days. But when I was performing, I was free. I just did what I felt in my gut, and I had believed all along that it was more than good enough.

It hurt to discover how wrong I’d been.

Of course, it took me less than a semester at college to realize I didn’t want to be a drama major, that I was much more suited for journalism. But I wonder sometimes, even now, how that experience changed me. Was it just a coincidence that, over the next three years, I struggled constantly with self-esteem and self-doubt? That I gave up on myself for a long stretch of time, that I stopped trying? I don’t want to give Mrs. X that much credit, but—who knows?

Despite the bittersweet ending, I still look back on my high school theatre days with nothing but warm feelings. I had amazing friends, with whom I made such funny memories, I performed my little heart out—and I accomplished just about everything I had hoped to when I was sitting in that first drama club meeting my freshman year.

As the ol’ showtune goes, who could ask for anything more?

mb