Lines
By Catherine Daly
I
don't even remember the name of the play.
I switched parts between a camp phys ed instructor
the director envisioned as German --
oh, yes, I do, Krazy Kamp. I was in Hillbilly Hijinx, too --
to support a reading of "camp" which was not funny,
but saved our PE teacher from ridicule --
she's now the school guidance counselor.
People mistook me for part of her large brood
of children, something obviously not the case
once I opened my mouth.
I could never remember my school issue gym outfit.
It had a high polyester content.
My low PE grade nearly wrecked my GPA. --
and a stereotypical rich bitch who is too good for camp,
a part I felt I was born to, although, since I only settled into the
part
a week before the play, when I remembered the lines
I delivered them with a very poor German accent.
Tim Fyke, the prettiest boy in school at that time,
also a last minute substitution, was my
character's love interest.
We sat on a park bench
with no idea what to say.
I looked into Tim's blue eyes, blank as my own,
gone up, lineless, on the St. James stage,
in front of a gymful of bored kids.