Elementary

The room to the right of the stage was small. It had bookshelves with ancient papers I would never read, a file cabinet, which had a color green you would only paint something if you only intended to hide it, and props in a box and strung across the floor. Crammed into this room, which would later double as the Inn Jesus would not be born in, were my fellow actors and I. There were shepherds, an innkeeper, Joseph and Mary and not to be left out, churchified versions of Sherlock homes and Dr. Watson.

During practices Dr, Watson, Tony, sometimes called me Doorlock and everything I did felt awkward. I could not have been further from the Robert Downy Jr. portrayal of the famous detective. I was cool like the shepherds seemed to be or as controlled as the underage couple. My voice was shifting and I bumped things when I moved. I could remember the lines, but just speaking in front of a crowd made me blush. I was the only one who wanted this part, but now, listing to the shifting crowd in their seats, I couldn't remember why.

Then it was time, we spilled onto the stage and I pretended to unravel the mystery of the Messiah while I paused for laughs. On the floor were the simple spotlights my dad made, which made it hard to see the audience. This, plus never looking directly in the direction of the parents and guests, made it easier to keep moving forward. On the stage, sing a song, do some lines, off the stage, repeat.

Then our timing collided with my least favorite part of the play, my solo. I am not a singer. I was not a singer. I was too dumb to know it then, but I cringe today thinking about that song. It was supposed to be the centerpiece of the play, E-L-E-M-E-N-T-A-R-Y, a song in which I explain to Dr. Watson about the fulfillment of prophecy, how this child to be born was the one. Each letter of the word spelled of the chorus was higher that the one proceeding it. So, by the time I got to each concluding Y, my voice cracked. I hated it. I couldn't stop, which would have been worse, but the end wouldn't get there quick enough. I imagined the joy on the faces of my fellow actors at my discomfort, I expected my brother to jab me about it later.

The song did end, my face red with embarrassment, and I wanted to run from stage. The audience shrouded in the dark clapped. The actors stayed on cue and one even said good job. It was a lie, but I knew what she meant. My brother may have razzed me about it, but I don't remember it, meaning if he did it was when I deserved it.