Misfit Theater Company 2

12. Truths (Part Two)

When you're trying to put together a full, well-produced and well-acted Shakespearean play in only nine weeks, you don't waste any time. After all, we are already done one week now, and the last week of the quarter is really all about dress rehearsals and performances Emma tells me, so it's all hands on deck in Ensemble Theater Company.

"This second week," Mrs. Permala begins as soon as the bell rings and we are all seated, "is all for getting your lines down and making sure you understand your character's motivations. Those of you who have been cast in the play will begin character work, while our amazing, industrious stage crew thespians will begin construction of our sets under the supervision of our volunteer, my husband, retired Mr. Permala."

The seniors who already know him begin cheering as a man who looks like a retired lumberjack steps onto the stage beside his colorful wife. He wears a brown and mustard yellow colored flannel top that hugs his belly, which flops over his brown leather belt he's wearing to apparently keep his jeans up. His gray hair is longer than you'd think an older man's hair would be, but then again, so is his beard. They are such a funny pair: Mrs with her colorful sweater and bangles, with her permed hair, and with her hot pink lipstick; and Mr with his gruff outdoorsy look.

Mr. Permala waves and cracks a little grin as the cheering dies down. "Good to be back," he says. His voice makes him sound like he could probably make some extra cash as a Santa impersonator around the holidays, if only his hair were white instead of gray.

"Stage crew thespians, please follow Mr. Permala to the tech area," Mrs. Permala instructs. About half of the class gets up and hurries off stage with him.

The tech area is small, behind the back curtain of the stage, but it's enough space to build the sets needed for this theater space. Apparently when a more official group of stage crew members builds sets for the musical each year, they use the loading dock area beside the big stage. That's not what we need for this show, though.

Those of us still in our seats are the actors for this show, plus Patti who is sitting in the front row directly in front of Mrs. Permala. This is her last week before going to Hollywood, and I'm not sure if any of us are ready for it, especially her. Despite co-directing this week, a frown seems permanently stuck to her face.

Mrs. Permala passes out scripts while Patti comes around with a basket of highlighters for us to grab. Our task now is to highlight our lines.

Patti finally smiles when she comes to the row with me, Thatcher, and Moth all sitting in a line. "I set aside a pink highlight for you," she tells me, uncovering exactly that from the bottom of the basket where she's hidden it.

"What about me?" Moth asks. "What if I wanted pink?"

She smirks at him before saying, "I saved the only orange highlighter in the whole basket for you, Timothy. Unique, just like you."

"And me?" Thatcher asks.

"Oh... sorry, you can have a yellow one."

I laugh, like, right in his face, which has immediately opened with shock.

"Wow, Patti, I see," Thatcher says.

She laughs and walks away.

Mrs. Permala addresses all of us, "Now, I'd like you all to move to your own zones in the theater. On stage, in the seats, in the green room, wherever you'd like, the goal is to do this independently. You need to interact with your lines. You need to take them all in on your own as you highlight. You need to feel the rhythm of the conversations your character is engaging in. This work must be done in solitude. Get to work, my thespians."

"Psst," Moth whispers. "Let's sneak away together."

"You must do this alone, Mr. Boone," Mrs. Permala scolds him from the stage.

Thatcher and I laugh.

"How did she hear me? She's like a hawk," he whispers to us. Then, turning to Mrs. Permala, he says loudly, "You're a hawk, Mrs. P."

"A hawk who is reminding you to go work on your lines. We need you to be in top comedic shape, Mr. Boone."

The theater is quiet as people have already started working on their lines, so the three of us disperse after Thatcher gives me a quick peck on the cheek. How could I be scared to lose him when he treats me so well?

What will he think about my fear? Will he think I don't trust him or something? Will he be aggravated that I didn't believe him when he and I already talked about Paige briefly before? Maybe it's better that he doesn't know all of my truths.

Ugh, anxiety sucks.

I move up to the back right corner of the theater to work on my lines, and all of my anxiety about my truths is shoved aside by my anxiety about my lines. As I highlight, I realize how much of this script is becoming pink. And not always just here or there like in some of the scenes for Romeo and Juliet. It's like giant chunks of pink, up to the very end.

And I haven't even actually tried to read these lines yet. And even after I have, I've never had to memorize so much before.

Here's my new truth: I'm not going to be able to do this.