She slowed as she approached the roaring crowd. There had to be at least a million people pushing and shoving their way towards two small white papers on the double doors. I clung to that girl as if my life depended on it. I, although heavy at times, jumped on her shoulders to get a better view of the results. We both suspected the outcome. I knew her well. She told me all her hopes, dreams, and fears. We had been through a lot together these past few days.

Where are my manners. My name is Anticipation. I love watching people suffer the pains of excitement. I live in a world where I can almost get what I want, but not quite. My life is a little child’s, wishing for that cookie on the top shelf, and having the tips of your fingers graze the edge of the container. Every time you touch it, you accidently push it farther away. That is my story.

I met her a few months before, when she began singing a beautiful song. She obviously loved it, seeing how she sang it nearly every single day. Looking back, however, the song’s lyrics had no meaning, but it was the tune where she held its worth. The words cascaded off her lips, leaving a maroon tail wherever she paced. It was loud with soft words, and it framed her voice perfectly. It was a weeks later, however, when people actually heard her sing it.

On that particular day, she was constantly humming it to herself. She was basically begging me to stay with her, almost as if she needed me there to comfort her. This girl meandered about, shuffling from one class to another, watching the clock freeze every time she looked at it. I noticed it too. Finally, at the end of the day, she got her turn. She wanted this part. Oh how she wanted it! But she was too young. Nobody gave lead roles to freshman girls. She did not have a chance, and she knew it.

But that didn’t stop her from trying. In fact, she did more than try for herself; she tried to help other kids trying as well. One child, she and I were good friends as well, could not get the melody of her song right. This girljoined her outside where they could practice alone. For at least ten minutes, they practiced against the bricks. Brown and crimson. The colors of the bricks. That is the only way to describe this moment. Their hands pounded these cauldrons of color as they marked the rhythm. This note here, that one one step down, back up, and back down. These bricks were small, but they were strong and powerful. The girl finally got it.

I faded here and there as this girl began to calm her nerves. “So what,” she began to think, “if I don’t get this part. I was in the last play, and I’ll be in this one, too. Who cares if I’m in the ensemble again.” But she did care. She despised the ensemble. They were worthless. Whenever she even mentioned that dreaded word, I came back in full force. I got a crystal clear view, though, when she began to trudge down the long, depressing hall towards her destiny like a lamb to the slaughter.

She wasn’t alone. Oh no, she was never alone. She had the company of the piano and four other brave souls. However, that didn’t help her. All she could notice was the pale grey of the room. It was everywhere. Above her, below her, behind her, in front of her, everywhere. If you’ve ever looked at the sky after a snow, not when it is still cloudy, but that morning before the sun comes up, that was the color of the room. Those mornings are hard. You can never tell if it will continue to snow or if it will clear up to be a beautiful, cold, heartless day. All of that was trapped inside that chamber.

But she did it. She sang. She failed. The pianist kept an odd tempo, one the girl wasn’t familiar with. She tried to read her lines, but she stumbled. I’m sorry, dear girl, if I tripped you up. I just had to get a better idea of what you had to read. Had I not been there, maybe you would have gotten the part.

I’m getting ahead of myself. However, to spare you the blandness of the next week, I’ll tell you everything I saw in one word: me.

It was after school. The teacher had already tricked them twice into thinking that she would post the results sooner. But she didn’t. And I got to get a brief glimpse of the results before I was discarded. The color crowding the crowd could only be described as an emerald green. So full of potential, bright in the sunlight, nearly black in the dark. Becky was in the dark. But she had a light of her own. She waited. She waited. And she nearly died on the inside. But I kept her going. I wouldn’t let her give up. And she finally made her way to the front of the line. Her finger scrolled down that crisp snow page. Her fingers stained the paper with words and names as she scanned the names. She passed her goal. She knew she wouldn’t get it. But as she continued down the list, she was not in the ensemble, but was casted one step above them. Twice.

She was free. I left.