Chapter Two: Childhood in Hollywood's Shadow
The first day of high school smelled of floor wax and chalk dust. Hallways buzzed with chatter, slamming lockers, and the squeak of sneakers on polished linoleum.
James adjusted the strap of his backpack, black hair falling into his green eyes. His mother had tried to tame it that morning with a comb, but as usual, it had a mind of its own.
At his side, Helen crouched to straighten his collar. "You'll be fine, Jamie. Just… don't get lost in daydreams during class, okay?"
James gave her a crooked grin. "I'll try. No promises."
She sighed, kissed his cheek, and left him at the entrance.
---
English Class
"Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?"
The teacher's monotone dragged across the room, half the class snickering under their breath. James, sitting near the middle, mouthed the lines quietly—not as Shakespeare, but as though he were on stage, filled with yearning. His lips formed the words with subtle intensity.
The boy next to him, Mark, noticed. "Dude, are you seriously acting this out?"
James shrugged. "It's supposed to be acted, not mumbled. Shakespeare didn't write greeting cards."
A couple of kids laughed, not unkindly, but the teacher's eyes narrowed. "Mr. Williams, care to enlighten us with your… enthusiasm?"
James swallowed, then stood and delivered Juliet's lines in a clear, earnest tone. The class went silent for a moment. Even the teacher raised her brows before muttering, "Well… at least someone's awake."
James sat down, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. He didn't mind the stares. For a moment, he had felt alive.
---
A week later, he spotted the flyer from drama club: "Auditions for Fall Play – All Students Welcome."
He tugged the sheet from the board, heart pounding. At home, he showed it to his father.
Michael adjusted his glasses. "Drama club, huh? Well, I guess it beats detention. Just don't forget your studies."
"I won't," James said, though his grin betrayed him.
---
The audition room was hot, crowded with students whispering lines to themselves. James's palms sweated as he waited. When his turn came, he stepped into the harsh light at center stage.
The drama teacher, Mrs. Crawford, glanced at her clipboard. "James Williams, freshman. All right, let's hear you."
He read the lines, his voice steady despite his racing heart. He let the pauses linger where they should, emphasized the emotion where it mattered. It wasn't perfect, but when he finished, Mrs. Crawford looked up with the faintest smile.
"Not bad, Mr. Williams. Not bad at all."
He didn't get the lead, but when opening night came, he stood on stage in a small role, his two lines delivered with conviction. In the front row, Helen clutched Michael's hand, whispering, "That's our boy."
Backstage afterward, another freshman actor slapped him on the back. "Dude, you nailed it. Didn't even sound nervous."
James grinned. "I was terrified."
---
Friday evenings became sacred. At the video store down the block, the clerk eyed James with amusement as he stacked VHS tapes on the counter.
"Back again, kid? That's three weekends in a row you've rented Taxi Driver. You writing a thesis or something?"
James only shrugged, hugging the tapes to his chest. "Just… studying."
At home, he sat cross-legged on the carpet, notebook open, rewinding scenes over and over. He jotted down words like timing, pause, silence more powerful than words. Sometimes, when the house was quiet, he stood in front of the mirror and performed the monologues himself.
Helen once caught him.
"Jamie?" she asked softly from the doorway.
He froze, cheeks flushing. "I… was just practicing."
She smiled faintly. "Then practice loud. Don't be ashamed of what you love."
---
But, not everyone understood. At lunch, a group of boys jeered as he flipped through a script he was scribbling.
"Hey, Spielberg, writing the next Star Wars?" one mocked.
James met their smirks with a calm stare. "Maybe I am."
They laughed, but something in his tone unsettled them. He wasn't joking.
That night, he sat in the empty school auditorium after rehearsal, the stage lights off, the room filled with shadows. He walked to center stage and whispered into the silence:
"This time, I won't waste it. This time, I'll fight for it. Acting, writing—whatever it takes. I'll make them see me."
The words echoed back softly, like the promise of another life still unfolding.