Chapter Five: The Spotlight in High School
The fall semester rolled in quickly, and with it came James's first full year at his new Los Angeles high school. By now, the strange stares at his black hair and piercing green eyes had faded—he was no longer "the new kid from Chicago." He was just James.
And in the drama club, he was becoming something more.
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The drama program in Los Angeles was different—larger casts, bigger sets, and a faculty director who treated every performance like it belonged on Broadway.
"Remember, this isn't just a school play," Mr. Holloway, the director, would bark during rehearsals. "This is training. Discipline. If you can't take it seriously, you don't belong here."
James thrived under the pressure. By junior year, he wasn't playing background characters anymore—he was stepping into real roles. In A Midsummer Night's Dream, his Puck earned laughs from the audience with mischievous energy. Later, in The Crucible, he took on John Proctor, delivering lines with raw conviction that left even the teachers stunned.
After one rehearsal, Lisa, the drama club president, approached him with a grin. "You're making the rest of us look bad, Chicago."
James smirked. "It's not my fault if I can't turn it off."
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For the first time in years, James wasn't alone. The drama club became his family.
There was Lisa, sharp-witted and ambitious, who could out-debate anyone in the room. Eric, a tall junior with a booming voice, who dreamed of Broadway but had the heart of a comedian. And Maya, soft-spoken but brilliant at improv, who could twist any scene into something memorable.
During lunch, they gathered around the theater steps, scripts and sandwiches in hand.
"So what's with the notebook?" Maya asked one afternoon, pointing at the leather-bound journal James carried everywhere.
James hesitated. "Just ideas. Lines, scenes, whatever comes to mind."
"Future Oscar-winning monologues?" Eric teased, nearly choking on his soda.
"Something like that," James replied with a grin.
They laughed, but the truth was, it wasn't a joke. The notebook was his lifeline—filled with fragments of stories that hadn't been written yet.
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Performances brought him recognition in school. Teachers stopped calling him "quiet" and started praising his dedication. Classmates who once dismissed him as odd now nodded in respect when he passed in the hallway.
After the spring play, a girl from his English class approached shyly. "Hey, James… you were really good up there. Like, scary good."
James blinked, caught off guard, then gave a small smile. "Thanks. Guess I just… love it too much to fake it."
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Acting wasn't the only thing he worked at. Every morning, James still jogged through the neighborhood, sweat soaking through his shirt as the sun climbed. At home, he added push-ups, sit-ups, and light dumbbell routines his father had bought him at a garage sale. Slowly, the lanky frame of a boy was shaping into the lean muscle of a young man.
Eric noticed during rehearsal one day, clapping him on the back. "Damn, Williams, you getting ripped or something?"
James smirked. "Trying to. Figure it won't hurt my chances later."
"Hollywood bod in the making," Lisa quipped, rolling her eyes. "Don't let it go to your head."
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By senior year, James wasn't just another actor in the club. He was helping underclassmen with their lines, running warm-ups, even suggesting stage directions. Mr. Holloway noticed.
"You've got instincts, Williams," the director said after one rehearsal. "Not just as an actor, but as someone who understands the whole picture. Don't lose that."
James nodded, heart racing. The whole picture. Yes—that was what he wanted. To not only stand on stage, but one day shape stories themselves.
But that dream was still a secret. For now, he had a stage, a circle of friends, and a fire that burned brighter each time the curtain rose.