Misfit Theater Company (Wattys Winner 2018)

6. Blocking

           

This morning I was actually excited to get out of bed, out of my house, and to the school. I put on my white t-shirt with the watercolor design on the front and my pink sweat pants in anticipation for sitting on the stage floor. During my first period math class, all I could do was watch the clock, both in anticipation for second period theater class and out of boredom from class. Who cares about the quadratic equation anyway? I'll never use it as an adult, I kept thinking.

Then the bell rang. I hurried to close my binder and shove it into my backpack, and then I made the hike down to the fine arts wing. Still old, still dark, still ignored, but now there was something else about the hall. There's a certain thrill in being one of the only students still walking this far from the center of the school, like I'm part of an elite group of explorers or something.

But now I've arrived and I'm walking into the theater, past the control booth, and down the dimly lit staircase toward the stage. The students--who I still haven't talked to at all--chat and stretch on the stage. I drop my backpack on one of the chairs along the aisle like I see others have done and walk shyly to the stage.

"Janie," someone calls from the group of students, and I look up to see Patti smiling and waving at me like a maniac, wide-eyed with a toothy grin.

I sneak past the groups of students toward Patti when I feel someone tap my shoulder. I stop and turn toward whoever wanted my attention and see Layla Monroe, the popular girl, standing there. She flashes a quick, insincere smile over her glossed pink lips. Her face looks like one drawn by Disney artists, including big doe eyes and blushed cheeks, and her light brown hair hangs past her shoulders in perfectly straight strands that seem to glow in the stage lights. No wonder she's so popular, I think, she's beautiful. More beautiful than I'll ever be.

"You're new in class, right?" she asks.

The late bell rings over the theater. "Yeah?"

Mrs. Permala comes down from the booth. "Alright, my thespians. Let's begin our warm-up for the day."

"We'll talk later," Layla says, then sort of nudges me away.

I stumble away to join Patti, Moth, and Thatcher at the back of the stage.

"What did she want?" Patti whispers as she and the boys separate to places on the stage where they can stretch out their arms without touching anyone else. The three of them as well as the rest of the class move their outstretched arms around their bodies to check to make sure they are safe from touching.

I shrug as a response and find a place on the other side of Thatcher where his abnormally long arms won't touch me. I'm nearly off the stage over here.

I can't really see what Mrs. Permala is doing at the front of the stage, but I hear her voice call out over everyone and follow her directions. "Touch your left hand to your right foot. Good, great. Excellent, my thespians, now release. Now touch your right hand to your left foot. Excellent. You're all wonderful. Now release. Stretch out your arms, and let's row the boat forward."

I have no idea what this means, so I look over at Thatcher to see what he's doing. He moves his outstretched arms in forward circles, and he turns to catch me looking at him. He smiles and rolls his eyes as if to admit how silly he must look. I smile back. Don't forget to ask him about his profile picture, I remind myself.

"Now row the boat backward," Mrs. Permala calls out.

We move our arms in circles the opposite way now. Thatcher leans over--I can tell, even before I look over at him again, because our fingers hit each other--and he whispers, "The warm-up is always the same, you'll catch on soon."