"Aren't you nervous?" A girl asked me as I sat quietly at my makeshift
dressing table.  I was diligently applying a shade of lipstick that, when I
had purchased it, had evoked a stern look of disapproval from my mother.

I looked at the girl's reflection in my mirror and replied, matter-of-factly,
"No."
The surprise on her mirrored visage bordered on disgust, and I turned to
face her.

“As long as I don’t start saying I’m nervous, I won’t be
nervous,� I told her.

“Really?� she questioned, still wearing that vaguely irritated
expression.  I realized that my attitude was not fitting in with those of the
other two dozen anxious few dozen members of my high school’s
Concert Choir.

“Well,â€� I responded, drawing in a deep breath before continuing.  â
€œThat’s the theory I’m sticking with.â€�

We both giggled, then I turned back to my mirror to resume my ritual of
primping, and the girl drifted away.  Truly, I was not nervous about my
impending performance, but I did have a gnawing feeling in my stomach.  
The feeling wasn’t anxiety, though; it was more like the feeling one
gets around noon on Thanksgiving Day, when all the tempting aromas of
baking and simmering delicacies are wafting throughout the house: dinner
is only an hour, but the anticipation of the marvelous meal is almost painful.

Tonight’s appetizer had already been served, though.  The opening
choral numbers had brought an uproarious reaction from the audience of
families, teachers and schoolmates.  My ears had savored that delicious
offering of applause, and now I was hungry to devour my own serving of
what I hoped would be a wonderful feast.

Tonight’s audience was my favorite kind: large and anonymous.  I
knew that my parents and brother and sister were there, and my friends
had mad made their front-row presences known to me after the opening
choral number with their unmistakable style of cheering.  Still, the majority
of the crowd was merely a faceless blur to me from the stage.  The bright
lights of the stage and the darkness of the auditorium beyond it created a
strange world for the performers—a colorful and brilliant fantasy world
that existed only as far as the border of the orchestra pit.  We lived out our
performances on a tiny island with black velvet curtain-skies and stars of
many colors that illuminated our universe with color and warmth.

Without even knowing that I had drifted into daydreaming, I suddenly
snapped back to the reality of my surroundings.  The air in the room was
heavy with a tension that even the intermittent singing and laughter of two
dozen teenage girls couldn’t lift.

Amid the chaos and the clutter of the detention-room-turned-dressing-
room, some of my fellow songstresses were seated at desks that had been
transformed into dressing tables.  Lighted make-up mirrors were set up
anywhere an extension cord could reach, and curling irons, brushes, hair
spray cans and cosmetic cases were scattered liberally on every available
surface.  Before each mirror, at least one girl was applying a forbidden
shade of lipstick or copious amounts of vivid blue or green eyeshadow.  
Other girls added billows of AquaNet to their hair and to the hazy, fragrant
atmosphere of the room. A few giggly girls donned costumes in the furthest
corner of the room—some modestly ducking behind improvised screen-
partitions, others audaciously stripping or re-garbing in plain view.

I drifted into a momentary daydream, where I was in the middle of a frantic,
fantastic, musical aviary—the nervous warbling, tittering and darting
about and the brilliant plumage of sequined costumes and colorful dresses
created an animated and wonderful scene.

Back again in my fantasy-like reality, I abandoned my station and my
coveted mirror to check the program that was taped to the door.  Someone
immediately took my place to begin her own preening.  Lines had been
drawn through the names of those who had already performed on the
program, and the last line drawn was only one act before my name and the
song that I was to perform: “I’m Not Doneâ€�.  I inhaled deeply
and held my breath a moment as the reality of the situation impacted on
my up-till-now calm disposition: I was next.

I stepped over to face the one full-length mirror that had been propped
against a wall near the door.  I made a final abbreviated survey of myself
before leaving the bustle of the noisy room.  As I closed the door behind
me, the cool stillness of the darkened, empty hallway coated me with a
blanket of panic.  The sound of my footsteps on the tile floor was a
welcome disruption of the terrible calm of the corridor, and it was
punctuated by the suddenly audible beating of my heart.  In a useless
attempt to ignore the echoing thump-thump-clicking of my heart and my
feet, I absently fluttered through a few vocal scales as I made my way to
the backstage entrance.

I contrast the hollow quiet of the hallway, the stage was a musical carnival
of lights and sound and energy.  From my shadowed vantagepoint of the
stage-right wing, I watched my predecessor perform and heard the
audience cheer as he finished and exited the stage at the other side.  The
sound of my name being announced above the applause startled me, but
my feet automatically dragged me onto the stage before I had time to think
about what I was doing.  As I abandoned my hiding place and crossed the
suddenly-huge stage, I became aware only of the spinet piano that
awaited me at centerstage.

The clapping ceased as I arrived at my destination and seated myself.  I
fidgeted a little in my seat and reached my right foot forward to rest on the
sustain pedal.  The roar of the silence prompted my fingers to begin
playing automatically the introductory chords, during which I forgot—
remembered—forgot [deep breath]…REMEMBERED the words to the
song I’d penned only weeks before.

As I played and sang, I strained to see my friends who I knew were in the
front row, but the glare of the white spotlight, trained on me, gave me the
dream-like notion that everything beyond the stage had somehow
disappeared.  I had somehow been transported to another world of which I
was the only inhabitant.

My senses seemed to have been altered to detect only the music that I
produced.  I could sense the dusky fragrance of the piano strings’
vibrations.  I could feel the warmth of the melody.  I was blinded by the
whiteness of the single Moonbeam that illuminated my song.   I savored
the words as the flowed out into my tiny universe and beyond to the
invisible audience.

And time stood still in the mystical musical sphere until the final notes
cascaded from my lips and fingertips.

As the last arpeggio floated from the piano, I pulled in my breath.  For a
long moment, there was only the silence and the stillness and the
brightness of the x-raying spotlight punching through space, isolating me
from reality.  Then, as if a curtain had suddenly been lifted I heard the
audience begin to applaud all at once.

My imagined world dissolved as I stood and walked toward the edge of the
stage until I was not longer blinded by the spotlight, and the audience
became real to me again.  A silvery-hot ecstasy swelled in my chest and I
was again transported to another place, but this new place was made up
only of smiles and applause and the intermingled joy of the audience and
myself.  I swam in the thick, sweet, warm pool of cheers and approval; I
bathed in the admiration and appreciation that the audience lavished on
me.

I scanned the audience, taking in all the smiling faces of the standing
figures.  Standing!  For me!  I could not find my family, but I was certain
that my mother was mopping tears away while Dad remained stoic—
although his shirt buttons were probably popping.  I imagined my siblings
were clapping despite their stunned expressions—sure, they knew I could
sing, but who would have expected all this?

My friends again assured me of their presence by shouting my nickname
as they added their applause to the rest of the ovation.  I shot them an
embarrassed look, but it had not effect on them.

I have no concept of how long I stood there in the lights, soaking up the
praise and love.  A moment or a lifetime--it was all the same.  I bowed a
final time then headed for the wings of the stage, where I quickly found the
exit.

In the hallway, I collapsed against a cool concrete wall. My heart and my
mind were racing, and I was contemplating an impulse to run down the
hallway and outside into the rainy autumn night.  I wasn’t sure if I was
going to scream, laugh or cry.  Suddenly, the stage door opened, and the
stage manager grabbed my arm.

“C’mon,â€� he said.  â€œYou gotta go back out!â€�

I allowed him to drag me back inside, where the din of cheering suddenly
wrapped around me and yanked me onto the stage.  The volume rose as I
stepped from behind the curtain into the wonderful glow of that perfect
world.  I smiled broadly, blinking at joyful tears, and took a final bow.

When I entered the hallway again, I was immediately encircled by me
peers from the choir.  They congratulated me and several among them
said the words that unlocked the wheels of a forbidden dream: “You
should do this for a living!�

I cannot recall ever receiving such an ovation again in my musical career,
but every audience’s praise has been colored and complemented by
the magical brilliance of that night—that single euphoric moment that will
always remind me why I follow my heart and chase my dreams.
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"Showtime"
an essay by Lindseye Greye
(written about a true, life-changing event)
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LINDSEYE GREYE
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