Bring Me the Letter

I had eleven lines in the school play. Eleven. I said them to the mirror, to the bus window, and to my little brother until he hated me.

Then the lights hit my face and line four was gone.

The boy playing the guard waited. The audience waited. Somewhere in row three, someone coughed. It was horrible.

So I said the only thing in my head. “Bring me the letter.”

There is no letter in the play. The guard looked at me. I looked at him. Then he took a paper cup out of his pocket, walked over, and put it in my hand like it was made of gold.

“Your letter, my queen,” he said.

The audience laughed. Not the bad laugh. The good one. I held up the cup, said some big slow words about the king, and then my real line came back to me.

After the show, our teacher was waiting by the door. I hoped she hadn’t seen it. “The letter,” she said. “Keep it in. Tomorrow night too.”

So now there is a letter in the school play. It’s a paper cup, and it’s mine.