The letter. That reminds me of the letter I mailed Ima yesterday — and the newspaper again. I wonder when she’ll get the letter. I wonder if she’ll write back.

I wonder if she’s okay, if they all are.

Ashira, stop. They’re fine, they’re all fine. Everyone says so.

I try to distract myself from my own gloomy thoughts by watching what’s going on behind the overdramatic actresses on stage. Is it props? Scenery? They look busy. And, like, happy. No one is sitting around like a third wheel. Maybe I should’ve gone for something backstage, although come to think of it, no one actually offered me a choice. Was there some sort of sign up for scenery and props? Or were girls just chosen? I have no idea.

“Girls, slow down, this needs to be more realistic. Mama, you’re shocked that Masha had a letter. Mirel, you’re panting from running. Don’t start panting halfway through the conversation.”

My eyes glaze over. I stand up, stretch, wander over to the back door of the auditorium, trying to seem casual.

Not that anyone seems to notice me at all.

I glance back; my classmates are deep in conversation, huddled together. Several girls are on-stage; some of the younger actresses are sitting on the floor, scripts open, laughing and trading snacks.

Maybe I’ll find somewhere quiet to sit backstage till my final scene is called. One more, and I can make my escape.

“The letter? What letter?” Shifra’s voice floats back to me, tense and sharp. Better, much better, I think. Miss Muller evidently thinks the same, because the scene moves on, and I turn the corner just as the scenery girls march toward me. They must all be from Year 11, I realize, because I don’t know any of them.

“We’ll just go over the trees, it’ll be fine,” one girl is saying. She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself.

“It’s not the trees, it’s the whole thing,” another girl retorts. “It looks ridiculous, like a kindergarten wall. We need to start again.”

“Hello, we are not starting again. That took us, what, 20 hours?” a petite blonde interjects.

Curious, I step out onto the stage to see the scenery. It’s laid out along the back of the stage, while Miss Muller and the actresses are standing frontstage to practice. The backdrop is the shtetl, I guess, with a farm-like scene on one side and some marketplace stalls on the other. A path meanders up to the sky between them. Yikes, they have the perspective all wrong.

“…try it and see,” a voice says, and I see the blonde scenery girl pushing the curtain back and stepping back onto the stage.

“It’s not worth it,” insists the girl who wanted to start over, tossing her sleek, dark ponytail over her shoulder. “Just look at it. It’s pathetic, no offense to any of us.”

“It probably looks better from a distance,” offers another girl.

Dark Ponytail snorts. “Lol. Wishful thinking. I mean, let’s ask her.” She motions at me. “You… what’s your name? New girl in Year 10, right? Honestly, what does this look like to you?”

I’m caught off guard, and slightly annoyed at the cavalier address. “Uh, a painting of a shtetl?” I say, matching her tone.

“No, seriously.” The blonde comes over, and now all four of them are surrounding me, slightly pleading. “Like, does it look like a scene that comes together, or is it totally wrong?”

“Totally wrong,” mutters Dark Ponytail.

“Even if it is, we might not be able to start over,” a girl with frizzy brown hair (I guess she’s the peacemaker) reminds them. “First, we don’t have time. Second, who says it’ll come out any better?”

“I just wish I knew where this one went wrong,” says Dark Ponytail forlornly. Suddenly, I feel sorry for her.

“It’s a perspective thing,” I say. “The path… it needs to curve with the shape of the hills, so it doesn’t look like some sort of chute coming down from the sky. And the market scene, and the farm, they need depth. Now they’re very one-dimensional, so it looks flat.”

The Year 11 girls are quiet for a long minute.

Then Dark Ponytail whistles. “Whoa, you know your stuff.”

“Did you study art?” another one asks me.

I shrug. “Not really, my mother paints and stuff. She did a mural for one of our walls at home. I helped her.”

“Hello, can you join scenery? Please please please? We need you.”

I shrug even as my heart lifts almost out of my chest. A way out of all those awkward practices, sitting on the side doing nothing? A thousand times yes.

Also, painting is fun.

“Chava? Where’s Chava? Ashira Newman, are you here?” Miss Muller calls into the mic, sounding frustrated.

“Oh, yikes, that’s me, I’m in this scene,” I say, scrambling for my script.

“Come back right after, okay?” Dark Ponytail calls after me.

There goes escaping practice and going home right after this scene.

On the other hand, production has just gotten a whole lot more bearable.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 969)