The Moments Before

Tension. My entire body is a rubber band, pulled taut. I need to hold on to someone, anyone, or I am afraid I will snap. I grab the person next to me and I pity them, because I’m clutching their arm so hard I’m probably cutting off their circulation. I steady myself, despite the intoxicating mix of excitement and fear and adrenaline and a whole other jumble of emotions. I quietly go over my notes in the my head.

“The second E above middle C was always hard in that one song . . .”

“The dance steps in the middle of the eleven o’clock number are tricky . . .”

“Did I spend too little time on dialect training?”

The lights go down, and I feel the familiar lightheaded sensation and rush of acid from my stomach.

“This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, this isn’t happening.” The words repeat on an endless loop, swirling in my brain.

I vaguely hear a crewmember giving the welcome speech on the stage, telling about the play and how hard everyone has worked. I feel dizzy, and the edges of my vision start to go black. I release my vice-like hold on the poor person’s arm and grip the nearest object instead.

Just as it all threatens to overwhelm me I sense movement. Slowly, as if they want to drag out the moment, the curtains move aside, and I see the tableau of the first number laid out before me. I sit back in my seat and listen to the beginning song of my directorial debut.