Role of Cyrano

Harriet

Honestly, dragging myself to school today was the last thing I wanted to do. Seriously, if I could’ve stayed in bed this morning, bundled up in my comfy blanket, with just my thoughts for company, I would have done it in a heartbeat. But of course, that wasn’t in the cards.

My mom decided it was time to play the role of the alarm clock from hell. 

She knocked on my door like a tax collector demanding payment, urging me to get up and face the world. So, here I stood at the entrance of this dreaded institution we call school, side by side with Zoe, who somehow always manages to radiate positivity even on the crummiest days.

 I felt like I might throw up; the anxiety was crawling up my ribs, threatening to escape.

“Come on, H! You’ll be just fine,” Zoe chirped, casually looping her arm through mine, as if she could physically anchor me to the ground. 

I shot her a skeptical glance. Zoe was the type of person who saw sunshine in even the cloudiest of skies. She was basically a walking, talking ray of optimism.

 If I was the dark smoke that curled up into the air, Zoe was the vibrant fire, burning bright and inviting. 

And there she was, giving me the pep talk of a lifetime, convinced I could pull off this whole 'leading the drama club' gig with style. 

"Your name’s already on the cast list, H. You might as well own it," she said, her voice filled with that stubborn determination. "Show that queen bee, Chloe, that she doesn’t control your air supply or have any hold over you."

Yeah, that all sounds great in theory. But the reality? I was on the verge of passing out right then and there.

Sure, I was a part of the drama club, but that didn't mean I was ready to take on the role of Cyrano. Leading the entire production, standing in front of a crowd, with eyes glued to me? That was a whole different ballgame. 

The truth was, I wasn’t really cut out for this spotlight life. I didn't see myself as the girl that people paid attention to with admiration or excitement; I was more like the girl who often found herself the punchline of a joke. 

The idea of stepping into the limelight sent shivers down my spine, completely freezing me in my tracks.  And yet, here I was, standing at the gates of my own personal nightmare with little more than Zoe's optimism to keep me going.

Drama practice was taking place in that old, slightly decrepit auditorium—the kind of place that had seen better days and carried this distinctive scent, a mix of mothballs and those long-forgotten dreams that once floated through the air like wisps of nostalgia. 

The dusty wooden seats creaked as we shuffled in, and the dimly lit stage had this faint, flickering ambiance, thanks to the stubbornly half-busted stage lights overhead. It was like a scene straight out of a low-budget indie film—charming, but definitely not what anyone would call glamorous. 

And to top it all off, the script pages we’d printed were stapled together so haphazardly that you might think we were doing a craft project rather than rehearsing for a performance.

“Alright, everyone!” Mr. Ruiz declared, his voice echoing slightly in the musty space as he settled into a creaky chair at the front row. “Let’s not waste any time; we’ve got a lot to cover today. Harriet, you’re first up—let’s kick things off with Scene One.”

Oh man, I thought, my heart sinking. God help me.

With a hesitant gulp, I stood up. 

I took a deep breath and slowly made my way to center stage, feeling the weight of every eye in the room boring into me like a thousand little lasers. 

And then came that moment. You know the one—the second when you’re about to dive headfirst into something, and your brain suddenly goes blank. 

I opened my mouth, ready to channel the character, but all that came out was a terrifying emptiness.

Silence enveloped the room—it wasn’t just quiet; it felt nuclear, like I could hear the ticking of a clock somewhere in the rafters and the soft thrum of my heartbeat pounding in my ears. 

I blinked, racked my brain for the lines that had danced through my head countless times during late-night cramming sessions, but all I managed was a spectacular fumble as I glanced down at my crumpled script—my lifeline that suddenly felt like a burden.

“I—uh—I speak to thee—no, that’s not right—” I stammered, desperately trying to piece together a coherent thought.

A giggle erupted from the back row, breaking the spell of silence like a bubble popping. Then came a little snort from someone offstage, and I could practically feel the eye rolls from my peers. 

Someone even had the audacity to fake-cough “tragic,” as if I needed any more reminders of how royally I was screwing this up.

My cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and I wanted to just melt into the floorboards and disappear. If only I could channel some of that dramatic flair and confidence.

Zoe was in the front row, her face etched with encouragement as she mouthed “breathe,” hands pressed together like she was doing some kind of silent prayer on my behalf. 

I appreciated her support, I really did, but in that moment, it felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders. 

So, I tried. I gave it my all, desperately clawing for that rhythm that would whisk me away from my own insecurities and allow me to transform into someone else, just like the drama classes promised. 

I envisioned myself as the star of the show, the character with depth and complexity, but no matter how hard I struggled, the truth remained stark: I wasn’t Cyrano, not even close.

I was Harriet Avery.

The fatty. The joke.

And right now? I was dying on stage.

Mr. Ruiz let the scene drag out long enough to feel like a century, then finally clapped once and said, “Okay, that’s enough for today. Let’s reset tomorrow.”

People practically stampeded out.

Nobody made eye contact with me.

Even Zoe gave me a sympathetic wince before mouthing, I’ll wait outside, and stepping out into the hallway to give me a second to recover.

I just stood there, feeling like the world had turned into a spotlight shining down on me, all alone and completely humiliated. 

The only thing breaking my fall from grace was the crumpled script that dangled limply in my clammy hand.

With a heavy sigh, I bent down to pick up my bag from the floor, my movements awakward, almost as if I was trying to buy myself some time to gather my thoughts and regain my dignity.

“Hey.”

The voice came from behind me, breaking the awkward silence that filled the air.

It was low and calm, like a soothing balm, contrasting sharply with the chaos in my head. I straightened up, taking my time to get my bearings, and turned around.

There stood Nick Marsh, leaning casually against the side of the stage, as if he had been there observing me the entire time. 

He looked all too relaxed, with his hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows and that ever-present hockey duffel tossed over one shoulder. 

His hair was a complete mess, the kind that conveyed he’d run a hand through it multiple times in frustration—probably after a tough practice or game.

I felt my heart skip a beat. “What... are you doing here?” I asked, trying to mask the surprise in my voice.

He shrugged, still not budging an inch. “Coach made me wait for Ruiz to sign off on the auditorium for our fundraiser event. Guess I just arrived way earlier than expected.”

I scoffed internally. Bullshit. I could practically feel his eyes boring into me, studying my every move, and it just made my skin crawl. 

“Look, I’m really not in the mood for this,” I said, attempting to fortify myself for whatever he had in store.

“For what?” he replied, a note of curiosity lacing his tone.

“To be laughed at. To have my embarrassing moment recorded and turned into some goddamn TikTok trend that’ll haunt me forever.” My voice grew louder, the frustration bubbling over before I could even rein it back in.

His eyebrows raised slightly, a hint of surprise flashing across his face. “You actually think that’s why I’m here?”

“Isn’t it?” I shot back, my words harsher than I intended, escaping my lips before I had a chance to temper them.

He blinked, his gaze lingering on me for just a second longer than what felt comfortable. 

There was a moment of silence where I could practically hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

Then, with smooth grace, he pushed himself off the wall and started walking toward the stage, a slight confidence in his stride that sent my stomach tumbling over itself. 

What was he about to do?

I stepped back instinctively.

But he didn’t get close.

He just stopped at the edge of the curtain and tilted his head slightly, like I was a math problem he couldn’t solve.

“You looked nervous,” he said simply.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Up there,” he nodded toward the stage. “You looked like you wanted to puke. I’ve seen it before. First line syndrome.”

“Are you seriously giving me acting tips?”

“I’m giving you breathing tips. Big difference.”

He said it so casually, like he hadn’t just witnessed my worst public failure to date.

I crossed my arms. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he said too quickly.

Then he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Look, I’m not gonna pretend I know you. Or what’s going on with this whole play thing. But... I don’t know. Maybe don’t give up yet.”

“Are you mocking me?” My voice came out small.

He shook his head. “No. Actually... I thought you were brave as hell for showing up.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Nobody had ever called me brave before. Pathetic, fat, weird? Sure. But brave?

I lowered my arms slightly. “You don’t even know me.”

“Maybe not. But I was curious.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

He offered a half-shrug, like even he wasn’t sure. “You read something once. In AP Lit. Junior year. Poem about the moon. It stuck.”

My brain glitched. “You remember that?”

He nodded once. “More than I remember anything Dylan’s ever said.”

I didn’t have a comeback for that.

He was already heading toward the exit.

But just before he reached the door, he turned back.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You should be too.”

Then he was gone.

And for the second time today, I stood there with my heart racing for all the wrong reasons.