Personal Narrative: Surviving Lunch
My ears ring as the old school bus screeches to a halt. We hop off and a dry, winter gust smacks my face. Instantly, my stuffy nose runs. I grasp the cold metal handle of the school door, open it, and slam a piece of wood underneath to keep it ajar. After we become accustomed to the cold shock, Mrs. Cimenski, our director, orders us to haul the heavy wooden tables and a set of four lockers toward our designated area backstage. We struggle through multiple doors and long curtains until we reach our destination. The first aid kit mends our minor cuts and bruises created in the process. Gathering our senses, we collect the makeup and costumes and begin a brisk walk to the classroom assigned to us. The first performance is in an hour and a half,
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We approach the woman and she politely greets us revealing to us her true identity, the boss, who is the person in charge of relaying the rules to us. She informs us of the disqualifications, and the time limit of thirty five minutes our performance, Surviving Lunch, must be performed in. A total of ten minutes to set up and prepare for our first scene is the last bit of info she provides us with. In her hand she holds a timer, and as soon as the lady presses the button, Cimenski goes berserk. Like a military officer she spits out orders at us to prepare the first scene. Rushing, we haul the tables and lockers into their correct positions, and complete the task with plenty of time to spare. The lady wishes us luck and exits the stage. My mind goes blank, while we flush to the sides of the staging area hiding from the impatient audience. The lights shut off and blackness abruptly surrounds me. In an effort to adjust, my eyes blink rapidly. The black stage with black curtains. Black rubber flooring. Black backdrops. Dizziness floods my brain, and I struggle to not black out. Gradually light comes up, and the first line bellows throughout the large auditorium. Peeking out from my hiding spot, I see silhouettes of statues. In the far back, the light crew stands ready, their fingers on the controls. Glancing back at Mrs. Cimenski for reassurance, I notice a sickly green tint take over her face. I quickly look away fearing that the effects might be
We approach the woman and she politely greets us revealing to us her true identity, the boss, who is the person in charge of relaying the rules to us. She informs us of the disqualifications, and the time limit of thirty five minutes our performance, Surviving Lunch, must be performed in. A total of ten minutes to set up and prepare for our first scene is the last bit of info she provides us with. In her hand she holds a timer, and as soon as the lady presses the button, Cimenski goes berserk. Like a military officer she spits out orders at us to prepare the first scene. Rushing, we haul the tables and lockers into their correct positions, and complete the task with plenty of time to spare. The lady wishes us luck and exits the stage. My mind goes blank, while we flush to the sides of the staging area hiding from the impatient audience. The lights shut off and blackness abruptly surrounds me. In an effort to adjust, my eyes blink rapidly. The black stage with black curtains. Black rubber flooring. Black backdrops. Dizziness floods my brain, and I struggle to not black out. Gradually light comes up, and the first line bellows throughout the large auditorium. Peeking out from my hiding spot, I see silhouettes of statues. In the far back, the light crew stands ready, their fingers on the controls. Glancing back at Mrs. Cimenski for reassurance, I notice a sickly green tint take over her face. I quickly look away fearing that the effects might be