“…water! We need water!” Lucia says dramatically. That’s my cue. Baylee and I scurry forward, on autopilot, and I open my mouth
I look awful.
I sound worse.
I stare at my reflection in one of the cracked bathroom mirrors. I managed to keep most of my makeup as it was, but the makeup girls insisted that I needed more blush so I’d “look good under the lights.” Well, right now all I look like is a sick clown.
My voice has settled into a deep croak, which randomly cracks when I speak more than four words. I’m glued to my water bottle; sipping every few minutes as if my life depends on it.
“Anyone here from the play? We need you backstage!” Chaya throws open the door. “Rena, hey, we’re giving out the mics now. It’s haaaappening!”
Backstage is bedlam: girls rushing around in trailing gowns and badly-fitting costumes, teachers trying to keep order, the sound technician looking frazzled. Baylee and I receive mics, which we have to return after Scene Three, and have replaced before Scene Seven.
This one’s in print. Some of our best stories live in the magazine — subscribe to get Mishpacha every week.
