Chapter Three: The Stage Is Home
By his second year of high school, the drama club was no longer just an after-school activity for James—it was his sanctuary. The cramped auditorium, with its dusty curtains and rattling stage lights, felt more like home than his bedroom ever did.
"Williams, you're in again?" Mrs. Crawford, the drama teacher, raised an eyebrow as she handed out scripts for the fall production.
James grinned, black hair falling into his green eyes. "If you'll keep casting me, I'll keep showing up."
She smirked. "One day you'll get sick of memorizing all this dialogue."
"Not a chance," James said, already flipping through the pages like treasure.
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Every Role Counts
Freshman year, James had taken whatever scraps were given—two lines here, a background part there. But sophomore year was different. He volunteered for everything. Lead roles, supporting roles, even helping build sets when the crew was short-handed.
During rehearsals, he was the first to arrive and the last to leave. He practiced until his throat was raw, until his gestures felt natural, until Mrs. Crawford finally said, "All right, James, take five before you collapse."
The other students began to notice.
"You're crazy, man," said Derek, a junior who usually played the male leads. "Don't you ever get tired?"
James smirked. "Not when I'm on stage."
"Guess that makes you the teacher's pet," Derek teased, but there was no malice in his voice—more respect than rivalry.
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A Taste of Applause
That winter, the drama club performed Our Town. James had won the role of George Gibbs—not the lead, but big enough to give him more stage time than ever before.
On opening night, as the stage lights blazed against his skin and the first line rolled off his tongue, he felt it: the audience leaning in, listening. Every word mattered. Every gesture held weight.
When the curtain fell, the applause filled the auditorium, rolling over him like a tide. James stood frozen for a second, chest pounding. In his first life, he had dreamed of this sound but never reached it. Now, it was real.
Backstage, Mrs. Crawford clapped him on the shoulder. "You've got the spark, Williams. Don't waste it."
James smiled faintly, his voice steady though his heart raced. "I don't plan to."
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Support at Home
At dinner a week later, his parents couldn't stop talking about the play.
"You were wonderful, Jamie," Helen said, beaming. "So natural. I could hardly believe that it was you up there."
Michael cleared his throat, half-smiling. "Just don't forget to balance your studies. Acting's a tough business, son."
"I know," James said between bites. He didn't argue. Out loud, he played the obedient son. Inside, though, he thought: You don't understand. This isn't just a hobby. This is the reason I'm here.
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Fire in His Eyes
By spring, James was performing in nearly every school production, big or small. His black hair was always a mess, his notebooks filled with scripts and stage directions. Some classmates joked that he lived in the auditorium.
One evening, after rehearsal, he caught his reflection in the darkened window. Green eyes stared back at him, fierce, alive.
"This is just the beginning." He muttered.
And for James Williams, it truly was.