“What’s your name?” “Oh, sorry, uh, Sarafina Madden.” I always feel funny announcing my name. Especially the first and last. The syllables slip off my tongue meaninglessly, even though that is “who I am” so to speak. The girl scrambled to find my form amidst the many that fanned across the table. I could tell when she did because I spotted the letters “CT”—the line where I mentioned that I’d be missing two weeks of rehearsal because of job training in Connecticut. That logistical detail about my life comforted me now that I was here.
“You’re good.” She waved me through. Something about her outfit brought me solace. An oversized navy sweatshirt, black leggings: evidence that she wouldn’t be participating in the next three hours of evaluation. And a reminder that the majority of the world wasn’t either. It was Sunday. The normal thing would be to cozy up in front of hours of Sunday football or allow my leisurely morning coffee to extend through the afternoon. I looked for a place to put my bag. The left side of the room, near the bathroom, felt like a good home base. Little girls pranced around the space. Some huddled in little pods, others stood on their own staring down at papers that read the lyrics of “Do You Want to Build a Snowman?” in their mother’s handwriting.
Once I put my bag down, there was nothing else for me to do. For some reason I felt no pressure to pretend to be busy myself. So I stood. In a pretty awkward, socially unaware way. Just shifting weight between my feet. It was then that I started regretting the lack of caffeine in my bloodstream. I had limited myself to one cup because I was worried I’d be too jittery. But now I just felt out of it. Sick almost. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror that took up the whole wall. I tried to rub the tiredness out of my eyes. I guess I was trying to look a little busy then.
In between rubbing, I noticed a sign that read “Theatre” above the mirror. Was that the UK spelling? My actor cousin always spelled it that way over text. Maybe it was just the proper spelling. I could feel the graininess in my throat. Going out to bars on Friday was dumb. I knew it would mess with my vocal cords. That had been the running joke of the night. You wanna go home because you’re auditioning for Frozen? It was pretty hilarious. And the night actually ended up being a decent time, so maybe it was worth it.
Exploiting our conditioned response to the “duh, duh, duh-duh-duh” clap sequence from elementary school, the music director gathered our attention. It was time for us to dance. Herding us through the long, narrow corridor to the stage, they crammed the 80 or so of us onto that stage. I could barely see to the front. Between moves, I bobbed left and right to try to get a better look at the choreographer as she quickly ran through the four eight-counts. After a while, I gave up and settled on the guy in front of me. He looked seasoned. I fumbled through the “Cotton Eye Joe”-esque dance moves. A few embarrassing mess ups and I figured out a strategy: focus on the transitions between moves. The worst is when you forget where to go next, flailing clumsily and then quickly speeding up to get back on track, exposing both your cognitive and artistic inadequacy. I was relieved when she threw a cartwheel into the number. That was something I could do.
Waiting for my group to get called, I peered out from stage left. One girl wore a little red sports bra and black flared leggings. Her small, toned, limber-looking body combined with her confident saunter onto the stage promised a performance. And that she gave. Swinging her hips, she twirled herself around, smiling radiantly. Her half-up, half-down ponytail sat perkily on the top of her head. The ridges of her abs contracted seductively. I gazed between her and the choreographer, curious as to whether the choreographer wouldn’t be able to help but become entranced by her, or instead take note of her as exceptional and focus her efforts on ranking the different shades of mediocre among the rest. It seemed like the latter. Maybe they don’t want perfect dancers. It’s kind of distracting. That was my cope. It was hard not to chuckle when one girl kept muttering positive mantras as we all witnessed the immense talent showcasing itself onstage: “we’re all rockstars!” Honestly, it helped.
My turn came. Center stage front row. I attempted to improvise as the song wound up. Willing my stiff body to loosen up, to move like red sports bra girl. The abyss of the theater in front of me made it feel like no one else was there. It had been so long since I had looked out to that blackish, reddish, cavern punctuated by yellow lights that pool across your vision as you squint. Adrenaline wasn’t kicking in like it should’ve. I felt happy when I struck that final jump, or, in my case, more like a small hop.
Back in what they called the “green” room, I rummaged through my bag for my green Gatorade water bottle—the classic squirt one that you’d find on any sideline. I wasn’t dressed the “theater girl” part, sporting a head-to-toe Lululemon outfit, wielding this as my water vessel. I don’t even know how this water bottle ended up in our house. We’re not an athletic family like that. I kept squirting water into my mouth, attempting, hopelessly, to lubricate my inflamed vocal cords. “Want one?” a tall girl, with a friendly looking face extended an open bag of Sour Patch Kids. “Ah, no, I’m good. Trying not to clog my throat.”
Another girl chimed in, turning to me and then her: “Actually, they really help. When I saw you with these, I knew you knew. The sourness floods your mouth with saliva. It’s really great.” So the three of us hovered around the bag, popping the gooey figures into our mouths. After two rounds of reaching in, I realized what a dick I was being, only grabbing the reds and blues. Not good candy-sharing etiquette. I grabbed my last handful without looking. Sour Patch bearer and I ended up chatting for a while. She was auditioning for Olaf. We reassured one another, shared our frustration over the wait time and took solace in our shared amateur theater background.
“Sa-sa-sar, I’m sorry, Safrina?” My turn. Honestly, I feel like my name isn’t too hard to pronounce phonetically. To those who haven’t encountered it before, I’m sure it’s daunting at first glance. But usually, in their tone of voice, I sense that people experience a kind of pleasant surprise and slight pride at the ease they feel pronouncing it for the first time. I sheepishly took ownership of the name and filed down the hallway with my fellow auditioners. At that point, it was hard to think about much. The nerves finally set in physically. The sensations overwhelm any inner monologue—last efforts to recite the lyrics, reminders that this doesn’t matter. I tried to make small talk with the girl next to me, hoping it would calm me down, but hearing the hoarseness in my voice panicked me. The gushing of blood quickened as the girl ahead of me ducked into the theater. It was like that feeling when the person ahead of you steps up onto the diving board. Feels like there’s no turning back. Her lilting voice began—singing the exact excerpt I had selected. A commanding, rich, crisp belt. Hitting all the notes with seeming ease.
The girl with the oversized sweatshirt from earlier held the door open for me. “Good luck.”