Mentor

“When I was planning this event,” the middle school principal began, “I knew that we should focus on Stan Percival’s dedication to the children.  Even though he had none of his own, he loved his students as if they were his own; they were his inspiration.  I urged everyone to honor Stan for his love of the kids; I didn’t think it could possibly be stressed enough.  So when a young lady who was one of Stan’s students contacted me and asked to say a few words this evening, I could think of nothing more appropriate.  I’m pleased to introduce Lisa Anderson, of the eighth grade class of 1991.”

Lisa approached the podium, looking out over the crowd that rustled, shifted and coughed, politely waiting for her to speak.  It was odd to see the auditorium from this perspective; several years had gone by since the first time she stood here, probably in this same spot, and lifted her voice.

But there had been no podium then, no microphones, and no crowd.  The auditorium had been empty, in fact, and her footsteps on the polished boards had echoed crazily, washing like waves over the sea of brown upholstered chairs that stretched out in front of her.  Well, maybe not completely empty.  The murmur of the other students, waiting in the hall, crept into the room.  Mr. P was sitting in the back of the auditorium, all the way in Row T, leaning his elbows on the chair in front of him.

“Ok, Lisa, ready when you are!” he called.

Lisa could almost feel her face go white as fear punched her in the stomach.  But she girded up her courage and spat out the audition piece as quickly as she could.  As soon as he said, “Thank you, next,” she fled, letting the stage door slam behind her.  Another failure for Lisa, she thought, executed with perfect stupidity.

A week later she was leaving school after spending an hour or so in the library and passed the bulletin board on the third floor, outside Mr. P’s classroom. She noticed a list entitled “1991 Play Cast List” tacked to it.  As much as she tried to urge herself to keep walking, Lisa stopped to glance over it.  What’s one moment of morbid curiosity? she thought.

She was shocked to see her name on the list next to the name of one of the main characters.  It seemed as though she had suddenly been petrified, and was rooted in that spot.  Tears began to well up in her eyes; she’d actually made it?  How could this happen?

A couple of months before, Lisa’s parents had gotten fed up with what they called “her constant moping” and, despite her vehement protests, had sent her to a psychologist.  Dr. Stein was a tall, slim lady of middle age, her dark hair sparkling with a light smattering of gray.  Lisa sat in a comfortable chair in her office and stared at her shoes for several sessions, answering the doctor’s questions in monosyllables whenever possible.  Finally Dr. Stein said to her parents, “There’s really no point in her coming to see me if she doesn’t want to talk.  My best advice is to get her involved in something that will help her gain poise and confidence; that might snap her out of her melancholy.”  Then, without even discussing it with Lisa first, her parents had decided that she would try out for the play.  And now there she was, staring at the cast list that said she’d made it.  What on earth was she going to do now?

Just then, Mr. P came out of his classroom and shut the door; seeing her, he donned his characteristic grin and said, “Hello there, Lisa!  Congratulations on making the cast!”  He stopped short, noticing the tears running down her face.  He put his briefcase down and came over to where she stood.  “Lisa!  What’s wrong?”

Lisa had no idea what to say.  She couldn’t just tell him she didn’t want the part, or any part at all for that matter.  Mr. P was probably the coolest teacher in school, and she didn't want him to think she was rude.  Wiping her face with her sleeve, she managed to choke out, “I’ve never been in a play before…”

A look of relief spread across Mr. P’s face.  “Oh, is that all?” he asked, taking a tissue from his pocket.  “Well, that’s easily helped.  Where are you off to now?”

“I was going to go call for a ride home.”  She accepted the tissue and blotted her eyes.

“Well, ask your ride to come in about an hour, and then come with me down to the auditorium.  I’ll give you a crash course in acting right now.  How’s that sound?”

Lisa knew that Mr. P was friendly with just about every student at school.  He’d known her name since she got here, even though she’d never been in his class.  He was just a really great guy, and was always trying to get her to smile when he saw her in the hallway.  If he helps me, she thought, maybe I could do this.  “Sure,” she answered, “I guess that would be ok.”

They walked down to the auditorium, and Mr. P unlocked the huge wooden doors.  “Oh, while I’m thinking of it,” he said, pulling a red-bound paperback from his briefcase, “here’s your script, Lisa.”  He handed her the thick booklet; she stared at it in disbelief.

Once inside, Mr. P directed Lisa to go stand on stage while he remained in the back row, as he had at auditions.  When Lisa had reached the center of the stage and turned to face him, he called out, “Ok, Lisa; now talk for me!”

Lisa felt utterly ridiculous and stood there for a moment before answering, “What should I say?”

“Anything you want!” he replied.  “Just make sure you project; do you hear how I can make my voice fill the whole room?”  She nodded.  “Ok then, just try to do that.  Recite a poem or something.”

Lisa tried to fight back her nerves enough to think straight.  The first thing that came to her mind was a poem by John Clare; she’d read it a few weeks ago and had liked it so much that it stuck in her memory with very little effort on her part.  Taking a deep breath, she began: “I am – yet what I am…”

 Mr. P stood up and waved his arms to get her attention.  “Lisa, the most important thing about speaking on stage is projecting!  Don’t raise your voice, push it out.”  Lisa nodded, blushing, and tried to remember why she was doing this.  He seemed to sense her embarrassment even from that distance, and continued, “Don’t worry, now.  You’re just a beginner, it’s going take some practice to get it just right.”

 “Ok,” she said softly, her downcast eyes studying the scuffs on the stage floor.

“And lift your chin up, Lisa - let the audience see your face!”

Lisa swallowed hard, glued her eyes to the clock on the auditorium’s back wall, and after one more deep breath, began again.

 The words slipped from her lips, making her heart ache even more than the first time she’d read them; but she refused to let her voice shake.  She was trying so hard, she didn’t even notice when Mr. P slipped out of his chair and began to make his way up to the apron of the stage.  As she spoke the last words of the poem, she let go of her control; the pain in the words she’d spoken got the best of her, and her lips began to tremble.

“Lisa?”  The nearness of his voice surprised her; she looked down at him, startled.  He continued, “That poem is so … sad.  What made you pick it?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, looking at her feet again, embarrassed that she must have disturbed him with her depressing taste in poetry.  “It just popped into my head; I like it.”

“But such a dark sort of poem for a young lady to like!  Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t know,” she stammered again.  She couldn’t think of a better answer.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just studied the expression on her face.  Then he motioned for her to sit down, and when she did, he clambered up beside her.  It was a considerable feat, because he was rather stout; he floundered and she smiled a little, wondering if he hadn’t done it on purpose to make her smile.  Slowly he began to talk to her, and as he patted her hand she found herself telling him all about how the other kids teased her, how she disliked herself for a million reasons, about her parents and what Dr. Stein had said.  When she was finished, he gave her hand a squeeze.  “Would you still like to do the play?” he asked.

Silently, she thought it over; silently, she nodded.  If nothing else, she was interested by what had just happened.  It was the first time an adult had treated her like a peer.

 “Well then,” he said, puffing to his feet, “we should work together like this more often.  You need to build up your confidence.  Do you think you could stay after and meet with me a couple of afternoons, just until full cast rehearsals start?”

She took the hand he offered her, and stood up beside him.  “I guess so,” she replied.

“Ok then!” he said, smiling once again.  “Now let’s work on that stage presence!  First, you have to stand with your feet firm – no pacing, now – and with your shoulders straight…”

He was as good as his word.  Every afternoon for the following two weeks, he met her in the auditorium.  At first she brought her script, thinking they would work on scenes where she had lines; but he would hand her xeroxed monologues, soliloquies, or poems to recite, and they would spend about an hour working on her delivery.  The third afternoon, she asked him whether they shouldn’t be working on her lines; he gently took the script away from her and, placing it back in his briefcase, snapped the lid shut.  “We’ll work on that when you’re ready,” he told her.  “Besides, the other kids haven’t started working on the script yet; you shouldn’t worry about it, either.”

Together they would discuss the themes and meanings behind the pieces he gave her, and then she would deliver them as he sat in the back of the auditorium, listening.  When she had finished, he would come up to the stage, give her a few pointers, and then ask her to recite again.  Over and over they did this, until she no longer needed to look at her copy and until he was grinning at her from before the footlights.  “You have incredible talent, Lisa.  You’ve improved so much!” he praised her.

On the last Friday afternoon before full cast rehearsals began, Lisa entered the auditorium to unexpected music.  Mr. P was sitting at the piano in the pit area, striking rich and joyful-sounding chords.  When he saw Lisa come through the door, he grinned at her, “Lisa!  Today is the day you’ve worked so hard for.”  He produced her script from his briefcase once again, and handed it to her with a flourish.  “You’ve done such a great job, I think you’ve earned this back.”  His eyes twinkled merrily and they both laughed.  He then began to play and sing “For she’s a jolly good fellow,” in his deep rolling voice.

Elated at his praise and feeling intoxicated with a new feeling of self-pride, Lisa joined Mr. P. on the piano bench.  “I didn’t know you liked music,” she said, amazed at how his fingers slid deftly over the keys.

“Oh yeah – I love nothing better,” he replied.  “It’s in my soul.  And it’s in yours too, if I remember right.  Wasn’t it you that was playing on this piano before the first interest session?”

“Yeah.”  Lisa blushed; she had mostly been trying to impress the other kids by playing “Fur Elise,” trying to show them that she was good at something too.  She didn’t think that anyone had even noticed.

“You sounded pretty good.  I bet you can sing too … and I feel like singing right now.  How about it?”

His grin was so confident and contagious she couldn’t help agreeing.  “Sure.”

Striking a few chords as an introduction, he began to sing, “He’s got the whole world in his hands…”

Meanwhile, Lisa felt her stomach knot, and she clamped her lips shut.  After a few bars, he noticed she wasn’t singing with him; he looked at her and asked, “What’s the matter, Lisa?  Don’t you know this song?”

Lisa cleared her throat and looked away.

He stopped playing and turned towards her.  “Lisa?  What is it?”

At first she shook her head, but he finally caught her eyes with his caring glance, and she whispered, “I just don’t believe in God, that’s all.”

“Don’t believe in God?” he repeated.  “You’re mighty young to make a big decision like that.  Some grown people aren’t even so sure what they think about God.  Can you tell me why you think that way?”

“Because,” Lisa said, a bit of anger creeping into her voice.  She’d had this discussion with her mother a few times too many.  “He’s supposed to be all good and loving and all that – but He lets all sorts of bad things happen.  He lets people be nasty to each other, and good people get hurt, and bad people get away with all kinds of stuff.”

“He lets you be so sad,” Mr. P ventured.

Lisa was shocked; she’d thought that before herself, but had never dared to say it out loud.  She looked at him, astonished.  His face was creased with something that strongly resembled concern– but it was real concern, not the kind that Dr. Stein had worn when she tried to patiently explain to Lisa that life isn’t always fair.  She didn’t know what to say; tears welled up her eyes.

Mr. P put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.  “Lisa, I’m really sorry you feel that way.  I’m really sorry you’re sad, too; a nice, smart, sweet girl like you doesn’t deserve to be sad.  That’s why I really want you in the drama club.  I want you to realize that you’re talented and that you can do just about anything if you try.”  He was quiet for a moment, then gave her a quick squeeze and moved back to the keyboard.  “Which gives me an idea…”  He started playing again, a different song.  Looking over at her, he asked, “Do you know this one?”

Sniffling, she listened, then nodded.  “Yeah, I think so.”

 His grin came back, as strong as ever.  “Let’s sing then!”  And he began to sing again, his lovely deep voice booming out, “Give my regards to Broadway; remember me to Herald Square …”

 Lisa smiled again in spite of herself; just being around him was a pick-me-up.  She took a breath and joined in, “Tell all the gang at Forty-Second Street that I will soon be there…”

 After their two weeks of one-on-one coaching, full cast rehearsals began.  At first Lisa was uncomfortable and nervous; she’d gotten used to having a only her supportive coach as an audience.  But he never deserted her; a pat on the back as they worked on blocking, a nod or smile of praise when she did well on her delivery, or a full rolling laugh when she recited one of her funny lines with proper pizzazz let her know that he was always paying attention.

Months later Lisa ran through the empty halls, her face flushed under her pancake makeup and her shoes clicking on the tile floor.  Her arms were overflowing with her jacket and the bouquets of flowers that her parents and grandparents had given her at curtain call, but she somehow managed to swing open the heavy auditorium door without dropping anything.   Mr. P was still there, even though the audience had already filed out and gone home; she dropped her things in a heap before launching herself at him and giving him an ecstatic hug.  He squeezed her tight.  “You were wonderful, Lisa.  You stole the show.”

All thanks to you, she thought; but the lump in her throat kept her from saying it out loud.

She graduated from the junior high in June, and delivered her valedictorian’s speech without fear.  In the following years she played large parts in high school musicals, made a crowd of new friends, and smiled a lot more. And after an extensive discussion with her mother, she started going to church again.  During the few free moments in her busy schedule, she kept telling herself she should go back to the junior high sometime, to tell Mr. P about all her successes and to let him know how much he’d done for her.  But remembering how he’d smiled at her from before the footlights, she somehow she suspected that he knew.  She never had to say a word, because he already knew.

A secret terminal illness had taken him away before she could do so, and she’d cried bitter tears for her carelessness.  But when she’d heard that the junior high auditorium was to be dedicated to his memory, she’d wasted no time in contacting the principal and asking if she could speak at the ceremony.  She hadn’t told Mr. P himself how special he was; but she wouldn’t pass up another chance to speak her gratitude.

 Standing on that stage again felt so funny, without his face in the back row.  But his presence still filled the auditorium, and she once again found herself smiling in spite of herself.  She wondered how broadly he would smile if he could see her now, quietly self-assured and anything but helpless.  Adjusting the microphone, she lifted her chin and began the speech she’d prepared: a short but meaningful eulogy for a man who’d opened his heart to her, and helped her to find her own worth.

 “Crossing paths with Mr. Percival – “Mr. P” as all we students called him – was the best thing that ever happened to me…”