Misfit Theater Company (Wattys Winner 2018)

2. My Name is Janie Myers

Mrs. Thomas decides to hold me from the rest of first period math since I've already missed nearly all of it and she has to walk me down to theater class for second period anyway. Mom shakes her hand and thanks her "for her help in this matter" before leaving.
Once we're alone, Mrs. Thomas smiles at me. "So, how much trouble will you be in later?" she asks.
"A ton," I mumble.
"I'm sorry. You will thank me, though, I swear."
I fake a smile and nod.
"You don't believe me, do you?"
I chuckle a little. "No."
"Theater will do you good. And if it doesn't... I'll buy you a pizza or something."
"I'm vegan."
"A salad then," she jokes.
I allow myself to fully smile now. "Well, I'm mostly vegan. I'll cheat for pizza." The bell for second period rings, so I stand from my seat.
"Hold on," Mrs. Thomas stops me. "We'll wait until the halls are cleared. I hate walking with all the kids out. Plus, that will give your new teacher Mrs. Permala some time to get class started before we introduce you to her." Her face lights up and she picks up her phone. "Which reminds me," she says, "I should let her know the schedule change was finalized."
She dials a three-digit extension and alerts my new teacher of my existence. As she does, I look around her office. There's a picture of her in a wedding dress and man beside her. Her husband, I guess. There are degrees from college hanging on her wall. She has a minor in theater? No wonder she wants me to join this class.
"Okay," Mrs. Thomas says. "She's ready for you, and the halls should be clearing out. Are you ready?"
I take a deep breath. "I guess."
She leads me out of the office and as the late bell for second period to begin sounds, we walk into the hallway. Just before we pass the sewing classroom, my best friend Gina—really, my only friend—catches sight of me. She shoots me a look of both betrayal and confusion. She's probably wondering why I am with the guidance counselor, passing the one class Gina and I thought we could be in together this quarter instead of going inside.
Because I don't know how to stick up for myself, Gina, I want to tell her, but instead, I turn my eyes down so I don't have to look at her in the eyes. It all only makes me fill with more acidic embarrassment than is already attacking my insides.
Mrs. Thomas and I continue the rest of the way to the fine arts wing in silence, with only the clicking of Mrs. Thomas's heels as sound. She's one of the younger teachers, at least young enough to still wear stilettos to work and have a sense of fashion, something I don't really care to have. Her dark grey pants fall around her blue heels, which match a satin shirt she wears beneath a woman's suit jacket. The first time I met her last year she wore a similar outfit, only with a black suit and hot pink accents, while she discussed my post-high school plans with me. I took a test that said I should be a nurse, but that's not going to happen. That's not even something I would want to do. Too much pressure, too much blood. The truth is, I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life, but I'm only sixteen. I have time to figure all the out. Right?
We pass the gym and a small foyer outside the back entrance to the school, the one we only really use for fire drills or for showing up to dances held in that gym. All indoor sports games take place in the nicer gym, the one completely renovated with blue and gold everywhere for school pride. Go Blue Devils or whatever, I don't really care. Sports are not my thing and haven't been since I twisted my ankle trying to block a soccer ball from coming into the net. The whole team, even the parents on the sidelines, boo-ed and yelled. I was eight.
Once we're through the foyer with old trophy cases and pictures of high school champs from the 80s, the school narrows into one, long, poorly lit hall: the fine arts wing. It is literally tucked away in the farthest possible corner of the school, where even the sports stuff is outdated, and I groan.
"What?" Mrs. Thomas asks.
Normally, I would pretend as though I hadn't said anything, but since Mrs. Thomas has already ruined my day, I say, "It's like you're taking me to the dungeon. Are you sure this isn't a punishment?"
"Yes," she says. "This place could really use some new paint, though."
I smile. "And new lights, new halls, new classrooms, new—"
"I get it, new everything."
We descend a small set of stairs and walk further down the paint-chipped, darkened hallway, which turns at the end into a literal corner where all the fine arts classes actually are. Art, dance, film, design, and finally at the end, theater.
"Here we are," Mrs. Thomas says as she leads me to the farthest classroom from the school's center. She pulls open the door and I feel the onset of a panic attack kicking in. My heart pounds at the prospect of starting a new class that I don't want to be in with new people who I probably won't connect with. But my panic turns to confusion when I see the class.
First of all, the room sinks even lower into the ground, as if the fine arts wing itself weren't remote enough. Auditorium seating fills the room's slope and at the bottom is a fully lit black stage. Mrs. Thomas whispers something to me about it being called a black box theater, whatever that means. But that's not what most surprises and confuses me. It's the students, my new classmates. They're all walking silently around the stage, some hunched over, some on their tiptoes, some on all fours. Some gracefully, some clumsily. Some pretend to eat things, some hiss, some growl, some attack others. But not one of them laughs or even slightly seems to realize they look like a bunch of weirdos.
"Alright, animals," a voice calls from one of the auditorium seats off to the side of the stage. The eccentric theater teacher reveals herself by stepping over the divider between the stage at the seats and into the spotlight. Even I, probably the least involved student in the school, know this woman, because she's so hard to miss. Mrs. Permala, or as some kids joke, Mrs. Perm-a-lot.
Her hair, first of all, is actually permed, cut short, and dyed a purple-ish red color. Her lips are hot pink, like always. She wears a multi-colored windbreaker jumpsuit straight out of the 80s--maybe everything on this side of the school is from the 80s--and a whole assortment of bracelets on both her wrists that clang and clack with every movement she makes, which happens a lot. She throws her arms into the air as she says, "It is time for the sun to set on the Serengeti. Go back to your homes and fall into slumber."
The students continue their animal gaits into corners of the stage and pretend to fall asleep. After a few moments of "sleep," Mrs. Permala lowers her arms--clang, clack--and says, "Scene."
Laughter erupts on stage and the students begin standing up, brushing the dirt and paint dust from their clothes, and they come to the center of the stage.
Mrs. Thomas makes a dash down the stairs.
"Excuse me, Mrs. Permala," she interrupts just as Mrs. Permala's bracelets were gearing up for another gesture. "Here is the new student we spoke about, Janie Myers. Sorry we're a little late, I wanted to wait out the stampedes."
"No worry at all," Mrs. Permala says. "We just finished our warm-up. Come on down, my new thespian."
"What?" I ask in shock. What did she just call me?
Mrs. Thomas chuckles. "It means actor, Janie," she whispers to me.
"Oh, well...," I start, "I am not really an actor."
Mrs. Permala smiles a sneaky grin. "We will change that soon enough, Ms. Myers. Head on down to the stage."
She places her hand on my back and guides me toward the stage. I look back over my shoulder to Mrs. Thomas, who smiles and waves at me like a proud parent dropping their kid off at daycare for the first time ever.
"Now, Janie," Mrs. Permala says as we get closer to the stage, "the first step to great theater is having confident, proud actors. Gather around, everyone," she sings to the class. "This is our new student. We will allow her the honor of properly introducing herself."
Everyone in the class circles around me. Some I recognize from other classes, some I don't. They're all in my grade, and I guess since they're in Theater 4, they've been taking theater since the first semester of our freshmen year. These are serious theater kids, and I feel like such a fraud, on top of already feeling exposed.
Mrs. Permala stares at me with expectation, but I have no idea what she wants me to do. Introduce myself, I guess?
Her eyes, lined in thick black eyeliner, stare straight into mine. "What is your name?"
"Janie Myers," I say, shrugging.
"No, no. Louder, prouder," Mrs. Permala says.
"Janie Myers."
"Louder," she orders. Ugh, this is torture.
"Janie Myers."
"Louder," she shouts.
"Janie Myers," I yell back at the top of my lungs.
To my surprise, the sound seems to clear away some of the anxiety from inside me. I can't help but smile, and Mrs. Permala joins me in grinning, as do some of the students on stage. I haven't even noticed that Mrs. Thomas has left until the door at the top of the theater shuts loudly behind her.
"Welcome to the theater, Janie Myers," Mrs. Permala says