“You want to do the musical?”
The words flew at me as three of my classmates whipped their heads to face me. Last year’s musical, “Matilda,” had just ended and that, alongside my hyperfixation on “Six: The Musical” sparked a side quest I wanted to complete: I wanted to do musical theater at least once in my life.
It wasn’t until my friends and classmates encouraged me to sign up for the audition of “The Addams Family” when I allowed myself to imagine being in the production. Following a shaky vocal and a terrifying dance audition, I opened the Canvas course to the cast list. Hands shaking, I clicked on the attachment. As I gazed over the list, time stopped as my eyes became glassy, rapidly blinked and then focused.
At the top of the right column, I saw my name. I was going to be in “The Addams Family.”
On the first day of rehearsal, when we learned the dance to “Full Disclosure” — the song that ends the first act about telling the full truth — I walked into the auditorium with no idea what I had signed to spend my next four months doing. What began as spending entire rehearsals learning choreography became sitting in the choir room reminding myself how to sing — a skill I hadn’t practiced since elementary school. Throughout the first phase of rehearsals, I coasted. I knew people in theater, but they had their own friend groups with years of memories woven between them.
Before the first rehearsal of the second semester, I decided I had enough — I was no longer going to allow myself to sit around; I needed to put myself out there. As rehearsals ended deeper into the night, I bonded to the show.
At the time, I was so nervous it was like throwing myself off the stage into the pit. What began as small quips turned into longer conversations. A simple “see you in an hour” became getting in someone’s car and going to In-N-Out for lunch. Sitting in silence during breaks became walking over to the nearest group and comparing schedules.
Months later, we made it to “tech week,” and I was content. I had no idea what was waiting for me just around the corner. With the entire cast’s phones in a bucket that sat in the director’s office, there was nothing to do but fill the time and silence with conversation. Meal times filled the annex with laughter about the night before, stress about classes and almost 50 gray students chatting away.
By the final dress rehearsal, I was part of a completely different cast. I had formed close bonds with people of all grades and looked forward to spending the daily seven-and-a-half hours with each member of the cast and crew. I found a group of people who allowed me to embrace a side of me I didn’t know existed. The conversations in our dressing room were no longer just filling the silence, but instead, became learning about each of our lives outside of the auditorium and what mattered to all of us in this show.
One hundred days after my audition, the time had come: it was opening night. Walking into the dressing room 30 minutes early that day was just one of the compulsions of my nerves, accompanied by my entire body shaking as I forced myself to eat. But, as my friends started speaking, all my worries melted away. From that moment up until the penultimate show, I felt nothing but joy. I was doing something I loved with unexpected friends, and I wouldn’t dare replace those moments.
Throughout the week, I anticipated exhaustion following the weekend of shows and preemptively desired sleep. Any plan or desire I thought I had quickly rolled away alongside the tears streaming down my face as the head director shared her speech for “magic circle” — a tradition before every show where people share their thoughts and give shoutouts. While I had no intention of crying, it was my first experience with the department — the moment I heard my name, a layer of liquid glass formed around my eyes, the same way they did when I saw the cast list months ago.
Waking up on Feb. 2 was unreal. I somehow had to do the show only one more time, knowing I would likely never see some of these people on this level again. As I walked into the green room to get painted gray one last time, I ran into a friend I would have never expected to make. Throughout the show, we were put on the same side for many numbers, which blossomed into a bond filled with laughter, bickering and endless cleaning of choreography. That was the moment the unreal became real: the show was coming to a close, and I wouldn’t see these people as often.
As my schedule returns to having my evenings free, I want to give “The Addams Family” one last “Full Disclosure.” This has been the experience of a lifetime, and whether it be the friendships I’ve formed or the memories I’ve made, I will always hold it near and dear to my heart, like a true Addams: with hauntingly unforgettable and eternal love.
