The theatre kids at school called me worthless, not knowing I used to be on Broadway

The Secret and the Showdown

The theater kids at my school called me worthless, having no idea I used to be on Broadway. The mean theater kids at my school had no idea I used to be on Broadway.

After three years of performing eight shows a week, all I wanted was to be a normal 15-year-old at my new school, where nobody knew I’d originated the role of Sophie in the musical everyone was obsessed with.

But then I walked into the auditorium and saw the popular theater kids clustered together wearing matching drama club hoodies. The queen bee Madison looked me up and down while I signed my name on the audition sheet, her face scrunching up.

She whispered loud enough for everyone to hear that community theater rejects always thought they could waltz into their program just because mommy said they were special.

Her minions Britney and Jade giggled while Madison asked if I’d gotten my audition outfit from Walmart’s clearance rack, pointing at my plain jeans and sweater that apparently screamed amateur hour to anyone with real theater experience.

When I said I was auditioning for Sophie, Madison actually laughed so hard she had to grab Britney’s shoulder for support.

She explained to everyone that Sophie required years of professional training to hit those notes, not whatever karaoke bar preparation I’d obviously had.

Jade pulled up the Broadway cast recording on her phone and played the famous Act 2 solo that I’d performed over a thousand times, asking if I even knew this was originally sung by someone who’d trained at Juilliard since age seven.

I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood because that someone was literally me and I’d actually been training since age five.

Madison demanded I show them my audition song right there in the lobby since we all knew I wouldn’t make it past the first cut anyway.

When I started the opening verse, she immediately stopped me and demonstrated the correct breathing technique, while the others nodded like she was teaching a master class.

She grabbed my diaphragm and pushed hard, saying I needed to feel the expansion if I ever wanted to produce real sound instead of the squeaky whisper I was apparently producing.

Britney commented that my vowel shapes were completely wrong and physically manipulated my jaw while telling me to watch her mouth form the proper positions.

During the actual audition signups, Madison erased my name from the Sophie list and rewrote it under ensemble, explaining that even that was generous considering I moved like I’d never taken a dance class.

She made me do a pirouette right there to prove I could at least spin without falling over, then shook her head sadly when I completed three perfect turns, saying my technique was shopping mall dance studio at best.

Jade videoed the whole thing on her phone while providing commentary about how my arms looked like wet noodles and my spot was non-existent.

The sabotage started when I went to change into my audition dress in the bathroom. Madison followed me in and accidentally spilled her entire iced coffee down my front while gasping that she was so sorry.

But maybe it was a sign from the theater gods that I should reconsider.

While I was cleaning myself off, Britney took my sheet music from my bag and crumpled each page into a ball before smoothing them out again, making them barely readable.

She sweetly offered to let me borrow her marked-up copy, but every note was intentionally written wrong.

When they called my name, Madison announced to the full auditorium that they were about to witness what happened when Disney Channel made kids think they had talent.

She started a slow clap when I walked on stage, getting others to join in mockingly while shouting that I should save everyone time and just mouth the words since we all knew I couldn’t actually sing.

Jade yelled from the back that her 9-year-old sister had played Sophie in their basement, and even she had better stage presence than whatever this was supposed to be.

I started singing, and Madison stood up in the front row, turning to address everyone behind her while I performed. She provided running commentary about every single thing I was doing wrong.

From my posture to my projection to the way I was butchering the composer’s intentions with my interpretation.

When I hit the high note perfectly, she actually said, “Autotune must be getting really advanced these days,” loud enough for the whole auditorium to hear. Then I started the emotional monologue in the middle of the audition piece.

Madison climbed onto the stage and stood right behind me, mimicking every gesture while making exaggerated faces to the audience.

She pretended to cry dramatically when I delivered the pivotal line about losing everything, then whispered in my ear that the only thing lost here was everyone’s time.

Britney shouted that she’d seen better acting in prescription drug commercials, while Jade suggested I try the school’s remedial public speaking class first.

Madison grabbed the spotlight and redirected it so it was shining directly in my eyes, saying real performers could work through any distraction.

She walked around me in circles while critiquing my blocking, my choices, even the way I was breathing between lines.

Then she delivered the line that made my blood run cold.

Sophie deserves someone who understands her journey. Not some nobody who probably watched a bootleg once and thinks she can channel Broadway excellence when she clearly belongs in the ensemble of a middle school production if we’re being generous.

That’s when I heard a gasp from the director’s table, and Mrs. Mitchell stood up with her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with recognition as she stared at me and whispered my actual stage name.

The name hung in the air for maybe two seconds before everyone in the auditorium turned to look at Mrs. Mitchell, then swiveled their heads back to stare at me, standing there in my coffee stained clothes.

Madison’s mouth was still open from her last insult, but no sound came out now, her face frozen like someone had pressed pause on her whole body.

Mrs. Mitchell pushed her chair back so hard it scraped against the floor and started walking toward the stage with quick steps, her heels clicking on the auditorium floor.