Standing on stage, my heart pounds so hard it just might jump out of my chest. I can think only one thing: “Keep breathing, keep breathing…” The microphone in my hand is clutched so tightly my knuckles are white.
For weeks, Lauren and I have been scouring over the sheet music to I Still Believe from Miss Saigon. Working with her voice teacher, we’ve received guidance on rhythm, melody, dynamics, and stage presence. We are both into our respective parts, almost feeling as if we are the characters. I am ready… I think.
A few feet away, Lauren stands. In the spotlight, microphone in hand, she sings her solo part with all the dramatics her 16 year-old body can muster. In just a few more measures, my part will begin. I begin to wonder why I agreed to this. I don’t dare look out at the audience, as the hundreds of people might just make me faint.
Lauren finishes her part, the spotlight comes up on my side of the stage, and I look up from my clenched hands, trying to act as dramatic as possible. Luckily, the spotlight is so bright I cannot see more than three feet in front of me. I take one more deep breath and begin to sing my very first solo.
The first few notes are shaky as I try to convince my voice it’s okay to be heard. Knots begin to untie in my stomach and I release some tension from my shoulders. My voice becomes stronger with each passing phrase and I almost forget about the hundreds of people in front of me.
Lauren comes in for our duet, and we both sing with all we’ve got. We crescendo through the climax of the song, and hold out our last note with every ounce of energy we have left. The applause rings in our ears and the curtain drops as we race to each other and bounce up and down, squealing in high school girl delight.
What a rush.
(Thanks for the memory, Lauren!)
AWESOME. I felt like I was on stage with you.
This is wonderful! I was so much braver knowing that you were standing up there with me! We were awesome, if I do say so myself.