“Peter, if you come for me—just once a year—I’ll do your spring cleaning. Will you come?”
The big moment is finished. Peter Pan, which the thespians of FHC have been working on since December, finished its final performance last Saturday. And I am ecstatic.
As much as I love the support from each and every audience member, one of the things I look forward to most during the theater season is being done. I love performing. I love flying—and most of all, I love the wonderful friends I’ve found within the theater community. But devoting every day after school since January has been a lot, and I’m proud of my work.
Not only is the end of the musical a break, but it’s also the dawn of a new day—a refresh, conveniently placed just before spring break. Since some of my relatives come to see the show, my mom feels the inclination to start spring cleaning (which I conveniently get to skip). It seems that every countertop is decorated with a bouquet of flowers given by my friends and family, filling my house and my heart with spring.
I finally have time to do my mountain of laundry and run my sheets through the wash. I’m able to stop wearing layers upon layers of cakey stage makeup that has, on top of my minimal sleep and mounting levels of stress, caused my face to swell up in angry, red splotches.
I can take a breath of fresh air.
Don’t get me wrong, I miss my castmates. I feel the looming separation in the room before the closing show, and I’m a bit jealous of how some of them get to continue their theater season through the improv team. But I’m happy it’s over; I’m happy with the end.
But night after night, the memorabilia adds up. Folding the Peter Pan t-shirt with the signatures of some of my closest friends adds up to the barrage of “i miss u” texts I get from the very same; this adds up to how I had to part ways with my once pencil-ridden script.
All I need is one little trinket to send me over the edge. One loose piece of mic tape attached to my clothes refreshes the feeling of my voice carried through the theater, singing a beautiful lullaby with my friends. One persistent speck of pixie dust that still hasn’t come out of my hair reminds me of how I felt staring into the abyss of the audience, dreaming of a land where you can never, ever grow old.
One little acorn button, now pinned to my corkboard, symbolizes my hope that the seniors return.
I hope they do. I hope they come back to recognize the place, the community, and the world that they introduced me to, that they are now leaving.
Never grow up. Or, at least, remember to visit for spring cleaning time.
“You won’t forget to come for me, Peter—please, please don’t forget!”
