When I was in 8th grade, I tried out for the school play, which was a big deal. 8th graders were the lepers of our school, because we were tacked onto the high school building. One of our middle schools in town had closed down, something about arsenic or lead or crumbling walls or something like that, and where before 7th and 8th graders had their own buildings, that changed. 7th graders had a building. 8th graders had portable trailers in the backyard of the town’s high schools, and a reputation as a nuisance to the cooler, older, smarter, wiser 9th-12th graders. We were integrated into a lot of the high school extracurriculars, drama being one of them, so I was so nervous to try out.

I was nervous but tried out anyways. I got the part of Anne Frank. I saw my name on the cast list outside the main office the day after the auditions. I squealed and ran to find my friends, and we all squealed some more.

Then, rehearsals started. I tried. Kind of. I tried to project my voice and strut my stuff. Gavin Morris, another 8th grader who lived life with a chip on his shoulder, yelled from stage left, “Just be loud and mildly obnoxious. You’re good at that in the halls and on the bus. Come on.” But my words came out as whispers and my knees would not stop shaking. The director, a teacher from the high school on the other side of town, who already looked annoyed that she had to travel to “the other school” for these rehearsals, looked at me and frowned. She wanted to get this done, go home, eat a TV dinner, and watch an episode of Law and Order and I was clearly wasting her time. I somehow made it through, but when I got home that night, I did some serious soul searching. And by soul searching, I mean I just called my best friend Brooke and told her I was quitting the play.

To be fair, it wasn’t like it was The Diary of Anne Frank or anything. I can’t even remember the title of it. The Anne Frank was a bit part because the main character had a dream sequence where he encountered a series of iconic historical characters. All I really had were 4 or 5 lines. But I froze up, second guessed, and chickened out. Which was fine. I felt free. No more 1-2 rehearsals a week! More time to watch sitcoms and read my mom’s back issues of People magazine! Screw theatre! Who needs to be a part of the entertainment industry! It’s all a bunch of namby-pamby stuck up drama snobs! I’m unshackled! Ok, did I already mention that I had 4 lines? Just wanted to be sure. Me thinks I may have been getting a little bit of a diva complex before my acting career even got off the ground.

Opening night came and went. I didn’t see it but the general buzz was that everyone did a good job. A few days later, mom brought home a copy of our town’s weekly newspaper, The County Press. Look whose picture was in the paltry entertainment section! My understudy. An action shot of her speaking one of the four lines was the one captured moment that the photographer and journalist had decided would capture the essence of the play and should therefore be included in the write up. I whined for what could have been. I mourned the loss of my 15 minutes of fame. I hosted a pity party, table of one. Darn you Kelly Ross, you did what I couldn’t. I wanted to be mad at her but it wasn’t even her fault, which was so annoying. She was laidback and accepting and not a drama snob at all. We sat right next to each other in history call and made up songs about our teacher who always fell asleep during our presentations. But, I wanted to be mad at someone, and her face was right there in the paper, staring back at me so conveniently. I needed to vent to someone, needed someone to commiserate with me and tell me my anger was justified.

Why I thought my sensible, wise grandfather was the best person to call, I have no idea. He always spoke truth and wisdom, but sometimes the wisest words aren’t the ones you want to hear, especially when standing on the precipice of outrage over a photo op that should have been you.

“And now her picture is in the paper grandpa! It’s so unfair.”

“Well Christina,” he started. He never shortened our names. If it’s what your parents named you, it’s what I’m going to call you. Nicknames were one of his many quirky pet peeves. I thought what would follow would be words of comfort.

“I worked in journalism for a long time, and the way I remember it...no one ever got their picture in the paper for giving up.”