I hadn’t really expected to get the part.

I mean, after all, I’d never received a part in the past worth remembering.

Being the perfectionist I am, the audition’s flaws seem amplified even now. I sang the solo I performed in the school play just that May: “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes.” The chords flowed from my lips and wobbled and collapsed on the floor in a heap resembling something of a song. 

Maybe I sang better than I realized. But in the moment, all I could see were the director’s impassive expressions as I fumbled and wallowed in my own anxiety. I only focused on the slight tremor in my voice, and the sweat snaking its way down my back. 

But a day or two later, I read the email containing the cast list. 

I had auditioned for two parts: Mary Poppins and…

I’m Winifred Banks? I wonder, gaping as my eyes glue to my name on the list. I’m Winifred Banks? One of the main characters of Mary Poppins? 

How had I done it? I don’t know. It seemed ludicrous when I thought about all the other members of the summer camp: a bunch of die-hard theatre kids who knew the lyrics to almost every Broadway musical. I could barely even name the title of any Broadway musical.

But there it was. Jadyn Yaskin would be playing Winifred Banks.

Fast forward to a balmy summer morning within the theatre with every actor and actress sprawled in uncomfortable chairs against the wall. We are going through each song, most of them group numbers. Our voices clash together like banging pots and pans. The directors’ endless patience with us is astounding.

Flipping through the pages of the script, our fingers finally stumble upon a little solo performed by the one and only — surprise, surprise — Winifred Banks. Me. 

Their eyes ease to my chair in the front row. Their gazes burn holes through my skull and liquefy my brain to mush. 

Something — my own fear — wads up into a lump and lodges itself in my throat. Great. So much for singing like an angel.

And then I’m singing. I don’t quite hit the high notes nor the lower ones, and my voice cuts out as if it's fracturing. Those eyes burn and sear my skull as my voice limps around the theatre like it's missing a leg.

Then it’s over. The music comes to a standstill. Maybe there are only a few seconds between my solo and the next song, but the silence feels endless. 

The days trudge on like an old locomotor train. We practice our lines and receive scoldings for not using an English accent properly.

“Say it like this, not like that,'' one of the directors demands and then pronounces a word with the vowels overly exaggerated. “It’s ‘cooooow’ not ‘cow.’” 

I’m constantly reminded of that one line from Harry Potter: “‘It’s LeviOsa, not LevioSA!’”

I believe my accent is satisfactory. Yet, I’m often taken aside with the boy portraying Mr. Banks to work on how we pronounce our woooords and to practice our soooongs. 

Somehow it’s even more awkward to sing in front of two people than a whole room of them in the stuffy little space they call a dressing room. I practice my solo and the lines in songs I have to myself. I improve each day but not without a ton of nitpicking on every little detail. 

“You’re singing too softly. Let it out!”

“Breathe deeper, then you’ll hit the note.”

“I. Told. You. To. Sing. LOUDER.”

And then I nod after each critique, do it over again, and get a “You’re almost there. Try again.” 

After camp concludes for the day, I go home and retreat to my bedroom to practice my lines and perform my solo parts. I sit on the bed I was too lazy to make, open up the script, and run through my lines in a hushed voice. When I sing, I shut myself in the safety of my closet and belt out the lyrics where prying ears can’t reach me. 

Funny. I start to realize I can do everything perfectly when no one else is around to hear me…

Which leads me to realize something else, too. 

The only thing holding me back from doing my best is myself. I’m the reason my voice is a thrashing butterfly in my throat whenever I step up in front of an audience.

And with that thought, I’m once again standing center stage during an afternoon rehearsal in the theatre, preparing to perform my solo.

I inhale, words forming on my lips.

And then I exhale. The chords tumble out of me like a rushing river, filling the room and waltzing around me. 

I’m singing loudly.

I’m hitting the notes.

And my voice doesn’t tremble one bit.

***

The dressing room smells like sweat and the perfume to mask the odor as we don our costumes and makeup. Chatter fills the air, and someone’s playing Broadway songs on their phone. 

I feel that familiar tension in my chest—a hand that wraps around my lungs and heart, squeezing doubtful thoughts into my brain.

I can’t do this.

Yes, you can.

I can’t.

You’ve been doing this for the past several nights. You can.

That’s right. We had been performing for a few nights now in front of an audience. And each performance had gone well.

Yes, even I had done satisfactorily in my solo.

But fear tries to blind me. It tries to shove a sheet of what-ifs over my head.

Fear. The monster that lurks in my tapping toes and clammy palms.

But I’ve faced fear now. Countless times. I face it on purpose. I face it in the school spelling bee, student council elections, or auditions for the main role in a musical. I’ve decided if my only excuse not to do something is because of fear, that excuse is automatically meaningless.

And singing in front of a bunch of strangers isn’t the scariest thing I’ve done. But it’s taught me that if I hurtle over my fears and plunge in and take the risk…

I can do anything.

We linger backstage, peering through the gaps between the billowing curtains separating us from the audience. I can see my parents and my brother. Others can see their families, too. 

“Is everyone ready?” one of the directors scream-whispers to the scurrying cast and crew as we all assemble to our designated entrance points.

Fear opens its mouth. I clamp it down.

And I step out onto that stage.