"I Hope the Nickname Sticks"

"I Hope the Nickname Sticks”

I knew that I did not belong on the stage but there I was, on the far left side in the back row of fellow middle schoolers dancing their hearts out. I was dancing my heart into palpitations. It wasn’t because of the physical excursion. It was from the sheer terror of messing up and everyone seeing it. Thankfully, I was as inconspicuous as someone could be on a stage, almost sinking into the black draping curtain, constantly behind the sharp line of kids to my left and out of sync with all the other students. I knew it was only a matter of time before “Gabby, get in line” would be shouted. 

The other students had auditioned for this assignment, this production. I had not. My Mom was the director and had put my name on the list without my consent. When everyone saw my name on the cast list I was mildly harassed by those who auditioned but that wasn’t far beyond normal for me. Popularity is not a burden I typically bear. As soon as I could I protested, “Mom, why do I have to do this? You know that I have two left feet. You know that I don’t like being on the stage!” 

“How do you know that you don’t like it? You’ve never tried it.” 

“Yes, I have Mom. Remember church?”

“Church? Oh, that. That doesn’t count. You had what, two practices led by a teenager? Hun, you need to try it. I loved the stage at your age and still do. Your sisters did too. I guess it just runs in the family. Gabs, give it your best and maybe you will be surprised.” 

I had thought about lashing out but something stopped me. Maybe it was sympathy for Mom, who was going through her own rough patch. Maybe it was guilt that I felt for causing some of that same junk. Maybe it was the hope of actually being surprised, as Mom had said, or of finding out something about myself that I didn’t yet know, as much as I knew in my gut that the stage wasn’t for me. As I tried to pin down what stopped me and swap it for a sharp retort, I finally realized which elephant in the room was sitting on top of me. It was the absence of a person in Mom’s pep talk. Dad. She didn’t mention Dad. 

Dad wasn’t the stage type. It’s not that he didn’t like the theatre. He did like it. But since the “opposites attract” rule of thumb exists because it’s mostly true, he was the behind-the-scenes person or the audience member while mom and my sisters were in the spotlight. Whenever my sisters participated in pageants, Dad was unusually engaged with the process, especially compared to most other dads who were just hangers-on. Dad would go shopping with his “ladies” and help pick out the right color dresses for them. He would schedule and take Mom and my sisters to their hair and tanning appointments. He would help them train and diet, taking over grocery and cooking duties, when they needed to look their best. And he was always ready with a huge bouquet, and usually balloons, for his lovelies whether they won or lost. I guess Dad never had the opportunity to coach little league or take a son fishing, but I have to give him credit for the way he gave his all to his girls and Mom. When people would comment on his commitment to Emily, Savannah, and Mom he would tell them “All I want to do is make them shine.” At least I got to see him in action before we lost him years ago. During many of their pageants, Dad and I hung out together, since I was too young and he was too male to be in the dressing room. Even though I was young, I remember passing the time by walking around gyms, theaters, and all sorts of venues, somewhat bored, while he would talk to the men who worked with the tech. He would often help them set up equipment because there was usually not enough staff. I would help when I could, but mostly I was happy enough to watch him and treasure hunt under theatre chairs, which hold more trinkets than you think. And when we finally sat down, Dad would always listen intently to my show and tell of all the baubles I found. I wish he was still here.

All that went through my head, while nothing came out of my mouth. If Mom wasn’t busy trying to cook she might have thought I had a brain injury. 

Ultimately, I backed up my thought train and told myself that there just might be something to learn about myself, so I would comply and join the production. That was a month ago. Up until now, the only things that I had learned were that embarrassment makes me sweat, even from the soles of my feet, and those very same sweaty feet are useless with a brain that can’t remember the dance choreography. I may have gotten a little better from the very first practice, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Even my single spoken line was impossible to push out cleanly, while other kids wished for more lines and a solo dance section. It was clear to me, and probably everyone else, that I was not cut out for the stage. 

What hurt the most was knowing that I had tried and failed. I wanted to be like my big sisters. I wanted to be like my mom. They were all so graceful as dancers, and each uniquely talented beyond that; one in baton, one in piano, one in acting, and all in singing. But I hadn’t been given the short end of the stick when it came to the stage. I had gotten no stick at all. And now it felt like I had been beaten by that stick. It hurt. The thought of kids and teachers from other schools, and especially my school, watching the production and seeing me flail around in a big, round, green costume made those phantom wounds sting all the more. That costume reminded me of turtles and how they bury themselves in mud to hibernate during winter. I envy those turtles. They can retract from their problems and hide away for months while I have to dance and sing in front of hundreds. 

****

It was five minutes to curtain and all the kids from our school were seated while it looked like kids from every school in five counties still streamed into the building. I was already sweating profusely from fear. My green blob of a costume wasn’t helping the situation either. Somehow my feet were sweating the most. I swear that it felt like I was walking in a mud puddle. And we haven’t even started the show yet! Hesitantly, I allowed a tiny sliver of satisfaction to fly through my mind as I remembered the extra socks and shoes I packed in my book bag today. This morning, I had considered bringing sandals to let my feet air out after the show, but my feet smelled so bad after practices that I feared becoming a laughingstock in the classroom and the production, “stinking” in both. So clean socks and shoes will have to do. At least I did something right in planning. As I looked around at the other kids in their vegetable and fruit outfits, I noticed that most of them were nervous but none looked like they were going to puke. I already had puked about a half hour ago. Anxiously, I moved around the corn girl and the broccoli boy to peek out of the curtain. As I struggled to raise my arm to pull the curtain there was a loud “Pop”. 

The stage lights, large fluorescent bell-shaped ones overhead, went black, and we all quickly learned that the colored lights that point at the stage from the ceiling in front of the curtain were out too. 

There was a lot of commotion between us fruits and vegetables for about a minute until Mom came rushing in. 

"We’ve got a problem, kids. The lights are down, as you can see. We are trying to figure out what’s going on and how to fix them, but honestly…we are pretty sure some are busted. Just hold here until we can figure out what we are doing.” 

Mom had a frazzled look in her eyes. I could tell she wanted to scream words that middle schoolers shouldn’t hear. 

“If you can’t get the lights up will we cancel the show?”, said the watermelon boy. Like me, he was probably hoping that the universe had spared him from the stage. He wasn’t as hopelessly bad as me but he was chosen to be the watermelon more for his size than his gracefulness. 

Mom opened her mouth, held back a curse, and said “Danny, I don’t know. I guess so. We can’t operate without some sort of lights directed at this stage.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment. Some looked heartbroken. Others looked mad. I’m glad I was at the back because I suddenly feared that a smile may have shown on my face only moments ago, and now I was disappointed in myself for that quick feeling of relief. 

I heard, “Can’t somebody fix the lights” and then a quick “No, they’re busted dummy” right after. It still got me thinking. 

Slowly, I raised my green-sleeved arm, as high as I could, which wasn’t very far because of the costume. Somehow, Mom saw it. 

“Gabby, what is it?”

All eyes were on me now. 

“Umm, maybe I can help with the lights?”

“You can get the stage lights working? I doubt that, Hun.”

“Uh, no. But I can run the spotlight.” 

“The spotlight? Do you mean the big one at the back of the theatre? It won’t get wide enough to see everyone at the same time, will it?”

“No, but I can make it as wide as possible when we need it, and spotlight the soloist when we don’t.”

“You know the script well enough to do that, Gabs?”

“I have been to every practice, Mom. I realize that my feet don’t show that fact, but I have it all up here.” I was pointing at my head which was covered with more itchy green felt. 

That line got a laugh from some of the kids but Mom barely slowed down. “Don’t you want to be on stage and give your lines?”

I laughed. “Line. It’s not “lines”, Mom, it’s a single line. And, no, I don’t. I would much rather give everyone else a chance to dance and sing and tell all the children of the world about their fruit or vegetable than for me to stumble in the dark and tell them ‘limes are citrus and are full of vitamin D’.”

“It’s vitamin C,” said the lemon. More laughter from the produce pack.

“Whatever,” I said to the sourpuss, not mad but frustrated that I still couldn’t get that one line right. 

After a second Mom caught my eye again. “How do you know how to operate a spotlight?”

I pointed at the curtain. “Dad and I spent a lot of time out there while you, Em, and Vanna were back here. It’s been a while but I’ve done it before.”

“And you are sure you can operate it? You could always train an adult to do it then come back for your solo.”

In my mind I was already up with the spotlight, thinking about the first song in the script. “Mom…I want to do this, the spotlight I mean.” I took a deep breath and heard my Dad’s voice in my head. Tears started filling my eyes, but not sad ones. “I want to make you…everyone…all of you delicious people…shine.”

Mom smiled wide. “Okay. Get up there Gabs.”

I started taking off the deformed green globe before I got to the side of the stage. And within five minutes I was holding on to the large ancient spotlight. 

It didn’t take my mind but a couple of minutes to make the connection and some of the actors got it right away too. It’s probably the first time in history that a lime became the light. 

I hope the nickname sticks. I think Dad would have loved it. His Limelight.