Joy, oh joy. Chava has exactly five lines to say in the entire play, and three of them are variations of, “Oy, Mama, what will be?”

I

am Chava.

Which is not good news, being that I didn’t even try out for play.

My suspicions are confirmed at the first rehearsal. Miss Muller hands me a script as I walk in, and I skim through it twice before I find my character’s name.

Joy, oh joy. Chava has exactly five lines to say in the entire play, and three of them are variations of, “Oy, Mama, what will be?”

Which I can’t even act well if I wanted to, because it’s the cliché of clichés and so not authentic. I can’t get myself into a character this way.

Oh, and the five lines are spread over four scenes. So I’m going to be stuck at endless practices watching overdramatic characters throw themselves into each other's arms crying or laughing, and I don’t even have anyone to laugh along with.

Tammy’s in the play, too. She’s the father, one of the major parts. There’s only one scene that we appear in together, together with about half the cast. So aside from the very first practice, we don’t really overlap at all.

With the fact that she’s been pretending I don’t exist, it’s probably better that way.

“You’re Chava? I think we’re sisters,” someone says. I turn; it’s an eager-faced redhead who looks far too cheerful for me. But I’m not stupid, this is my chance to make a play friend, and be done with sitting on the side like a loser.