languish on my desk while I worked on this stupid unnamed play and in the end I decided -- oh, crap -- door opening again, very sick looking kid this time (honestly not sure if it's a boy or a girl).
"Agatha Stockdale."
Crap.
There they sit. Four total strangers who hold my life in their hands. My eyes are watering and I can hardly see them, which is a good thing, but I'm also twice the size of anyone else they've seen this morning, and standing there in front of them like some sort of animal being inspected, I'm suddenly hit by the futility of trying to be a fat actress. Sure there's an occasional Roseanne or Rosie who gets to play the cynic or the best girlfriend, but who wants to plunk down $100 for a Broadway ticket to see some fat chick? Not me, that's for sure. And yet here I am, fat Aggie, foolishly auditioning for one of the best acting schools in the country just so I can get my heart broken. Again.
"When you're ready you can begin with your classical piece," says a voice.
When I'm ready! I'll never be ready. So I swallow hard, stare at a smudge on the wall just above the firing squad, picture a field in France, and begin.
This day is called the feast of Crispin.
He who outlives this day and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named...
The good news is that as I put myself on that field in France, rousing a tiny band of Englishmen to go into battle against a great French army, the room fades away. Mr. Parkinson taught me this. He worked this monologue with me every day after school for a month until I could completely disappear into it. And now instead of the faces of my executioners, I see the faces of Bedford and Exeter, of Warwick and Talbot, of Salisbury and Gloucester. I see them gradually come to believe that we can win, that against all odds we can bring glorious victory to England, and to me -- King Harry.
That's right. You see, Parkinson's idea was that I play the role of Henry V, who, in case you didn't know, was a guy. So even though I disappear into the speech, even though I think I do a pretty good job under the circumstances, there is still a tiny part of my brain that is not in France, that is not Harry -- a tiny part of my brain is still in that room inside that fat girl and looking at that firing squad and thinking this was such a bad idea. They're going to think I don't even know the boys' parts from the girls'.
And as I finish the last few lines, the rest of my brain returns from France to join me in that room.
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
And now every fiber of my being is shouting at me Bad idea! Bad idea! And I can only imagine that the silence from the table is stunned incomprehension. "What on Earth do we say to the crazy fat girl?"
" Henry the Fifth, " says a voice.
Crap, crap, crap. You're supposed to say the name of the play and the character before you do the monologue. Now I really am an idiot.
"Yes," I say, in a voice that is almost below the level of human hearing.
"And your contemporary piece?" says the voice.
Crappity, crap, crap, crappers. I can't tell them the name of my contemporary play. It doesn't have a name. I haven't named it yet. You see, I spent so much time working on Aggie's big monologue that I knew it backwards and forwards by the time I was done, so I figured what could be more contemporary than a monologue that was written this week? But I haven't named the freakin' play yet, and now I have to give it a name right now.
I try to conjure up the list I had on the back of an envelope on my desk at Dad's. Drama Queen, Fat Blog, Fat -- something else. I can't remember. All I can remember is that a lot of them had "Fat" in the title.
Then suddenly I think about the fact that I have to sing sixteen measures of a song a capella after I finish my monologue, and after the disaster that was
"Agatha Stockdale."
Crap.
There they sit. Four total strangers who hold my life in their hands. My eyes are watering and I can hardly see them, which is a good thing, but I'm also twice the size of anyone else they've seen this morning, and standing there in front of them like some sort of animal being inspected, I'm suddenly hit by the futility of trying to be a fat actress. Sure there's an occasional Roseanne or Rosie who gets to play the cynic or the best girlfriend, but who wants to plunk down $100 for a Broadway ticket to see some fat chick? Not me, that's for sure. And yet here I am, fat Aggie, foolishly auditioning for one of the best acting schools in the country just so I can get my heart broken. Again.
"When you're ready you can begin with your classical piece," says a voice.
When I'm ready! I'll never be ready. So I swallow hard, stare at a smudge on the wall just above the firing squad, picture a field in France, and begin.
This day is called the feast of Crispin.
He who outlives this day and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named...
The good news is that as I put myself on that field in France, rousing a tiny band of Englishmen to go into battle against a great French army, the room fades away. Mr. Parkinson taught me this. He worked this monologue with me every day after school for a month until I could completely disappear into it. And now instead of the faces of my executioners, I see the faces of Bedford and Exeter, of Warwick and Talbot, of Salisbury and Gloucester. I see them gradually come to believe that we can win, that against all odds we can bring glorious victory to England, and to me -- King Harry.
That's right. You see, Parkinson's idea was that I play the role of Henry V, who, in case you didn't know, was a guy. So even though I disappear into the speech, even though I think I do a pretty good job under the circumstances, there is still a tiny part of my brain that is not in France, that is not Harry -- a tiny part of my brain is still in that room inside that fat girl and looking at that firing squad and thinking this was such a bad idea. They're going to think I don't even know the boys' parts from the girls'.
And as I finish the last few lines, the rest of my brain returns from France to join me in that room.
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
And now every fiber of my being is shouting at me Bad idea! Bad idea! And I can only imagine that the silence from the table is stunned incomprehension. "What on Earth do we say to the crazy fat girl?"
" Henry the Fifth, " says a voice.
Crap, crap, crap. You're supposed to say the name of the play and the character before you do the monologue. Now I really am an idiot.
"Yes," I say, in a voice that is almost below the level of human hearing.
"And your contemporary piece?" says the voice.
Crappity, crap, crap, crappers. I can't tell them the name of my contemporary play. It doesn't have a name. I haven't named it yet. You see, I spent so much time working on Aggie's big monologue that I knew it backwards and forwards by the time I was done, so I figured what could be more contemporary than a monologue that was written this week? But I haven't named the freakin' play yet, and now I have to give it a name right now.
I try to conjure up the list I had on the back of an envelope on my desk at Dad's. Drama Queen, Fat Blog, Fat -- something else. I can't remember. All I can remember is that a lot of them had "Fat" in the title.
Then suddenly I think about the fact that I have to sing sixteen measures of a song a capella after I finish my monologue, and after the disaster that was
Similar Books
