Madison Fleming

Show Time

My legs are shaking as if they are made of jell-o. I refuse to screw this up in front of everyone; I refuse to be remembered that way. Blue squares tilt from side to side and yellow tassels fling around. The rickety supposed-to-be-white chairs are barely stable but manage to hold them all up, just so they can stare. The room looks as though it’s breathing, moving, growing with anticipation. I’ve never seen so many people in here before.

Papers and programs flail in every which direction as their owners attempt to stay cool. A sauna is what it feels like. Floral print dresses and Hawaiian print dress shirts cling to proud parents, while the gowns cling to those of us who’ve been waiting for this day all our lives. Dull murmurs are shared between my peers. Teachers who I’ve been looking up to for the past four years stare up at me with glittering eyes; preparing to see the last thing I’ll do in this shabby old building.

Flashes catch my attention. Red dots in the crowd jump off of video cameras. Legs cross and uncross, young children squirm while they resist the temptation to prance through the halls. Cell phones flip up and down, undoubtedly those who wish they’d thought to bring a camera. Pale yellow light seeks its way through the narrow windows near the ceiling. Were those windows always there? Amazing what you’ll notice in just a few short moments. Show time.