Chapter 30 : Theatre Festival (3)

A dress rehearsal was just as important as the actual performance.

The different atmosphere, the elevated stage, the presence of an audience… these subtle environmental shifts could trigger mistakes and affect the performance itself.

Dressed in our costumes, we began.

We had rehearsed the blocking, the lines, the gestures countless times. Our bodies knew what to do, where to breathe, where to turn, just like singing a familiar song at karaoke.

But the performance felt…off. Everyone seemed to be overacting, their nerves getting the better of them. Forced voices, awkward gestures… we were all acutely aware of our own shortcomings. And the instructor, of course, noticed them too.

After the final line, we looked at each other, our expressions grim. None of us were satisfied with our performance.

The instructor called us over.

“Everyone, gather around.”

We assembled before her.

“Raise your hand if you’re satisfied with your performance.”

No one raised their hand. Our performance had been far worse than any of our rehearsals.

‘Except… him.’

One oblivious idiot had his hand raised.
Han Dojun said calmly,

“I think I did well.”
“Really? Come here.”

The instructor called him over and flicked his forehead. Hard. It was so satisfying to watch that I almost cheered.

Dojun, his forehead now sporting a bright red mark, looked indignant.

“Ow! Why did you do that? I wasn’t wrong!”
“You did well, but you were being smug.”

She shooed him away and turned to the rest of us.

“Are you nervous?”

Silence. Admitting to nerves before a performance was an excuse, so no one wanted to speak up.

Kang Haerin, sensing our hesitation, chuckled.

“Look at you, all trying to act tough. I’m nervous too, you know. And I have more experience.”
“We’re nervous!”

Emboldened by her admission, we all confessed our anxieties. She nodded, as if she had expected this.

“Most of the first-years, and even some of the second-years, have never performed in front of an audience before. It’s natural to be nervous. And it’s okay to make mistakes.”

Except for a few second-years who had played minor roles last year, this was everyone’s first time facing an audience. Haerin understood the fear of the unknown.

“I know what you’re all thinking. ‘What if I mess up? What if I forget my lines? What if I look stupid?’ Focus on your performance. Worrying won’t help.”

Pep talks were useless. Fledgling actors, taking their first flight, didn’t need advice; they needed experience and confidence. And in this situation, all she could offer was a baseless reassurance.

She forced a smile.

“Just believe in yourselves. Your hard work will pay off.”

I smiled at her words.
First experiences were unforgettable.

Your first meal, your first trip, your first love… these memories, both big and small, became imprinted on you.

You could plate lead in gold, but it would never be true gold. Just as new experiences could layer over old memories, they couldn’t change the core of who you were.

Excitement warred with anxiety within me.
This performance could be a beautiful memory, or a terrifying nightmare.

It was all about potential.
None of us knew what the future held. So, I decided to trust the instructor’s words and believe that everything would be alright.

[The next performance is ‘The Wish-Granting Moon Rabbit,’ presented by Hyesung Industrial High School.]

The announcement echoed through the hall.
Hyelin, who had peeked into the audience, returned with a pale face.

“I… I think I’m going to… throw up.”
“Want to go to the restroom? We still have time.”
“I’m… I’m okay…”

I smiled gently.

“Why are you so nervous?”
“Th… There are… so many… people…”
“That’s a good thing. It means more people will see our play.”
“Aren’t… aren’t you… nervous?”
“Of course, I am.”

My heart was pounding, my legs shaking. These unruly body parts refused to cooperate.

I forced myself to appear calm. Emotions were contagious. If I showed my anxiety, Hyelin would only become more nervous.

Just then, Joohyuk’s voice cut through the tension.

“Everyone, focus. It’s showtime.”

He walked onto the stage with Baek Junsu, his demeanor calm and collected. I smiled, watching him.

He was a true leader. His back, as he walked onto the stage, looked broader, more reassuring than usual.

Kang Joohyuk and Baek Junsu took the stage, signaling the start of the play.
The stage, transformed into a small, close-knit village, and the two men in their rumpled suits created a convincing atmosphere.

Joohyuk, humming a tune, walked to the center of the stage, frowned, and pointed at the sky.

“Ah, the sun’s already set. My wife’s going to give me an earful.”

Junsu playfully slapped him on the shoulder.

“Kim, you still fear your wife? You’re completely under her thumb.”

They continued their banter, their portrayal of drunken villagers so convincing they could have stepped straight out of a bar.

“L… Lottery? Maybe the Moon Rabbit can cure my baldness too?”
“Who knows? Let’s go to the well and find out.”

Hyelin entered the stage and bumped into the two men.

“Sorry, miss, we’re a bit drunk.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“Wait a minute… I’ve seen you somewhere before…”

Junsu rubbed his chin, pretending to think. Hyelin crossed her arms and giggled.

A celebrity, even a minor one, was still a celebrity. She maintained her composure.

“Hmm, heehee… Do you recognize me? Want an autograph?”
“Ah, I know! You look like… Lee’s daughter from the tofu shop!”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, miss. I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

The two men continued their drunken stroll through the village, encountering other characters.

The characters’ inner thoughts echoed through the speakers.

[A celebrity? Sorry, I’ve never heard of you.]
[You good-for-nothing, bring home the bacon!]
[Baldy’s dreaming of stardom? Hilarious!]
[Kim, I’m sorry, but you’re the only one I can ask.]
[…]

Each character, burdened by their own worries, looked out at the audience and said,

“Maybe I should make a wish to the Moon Rabbit.”

The lights dimmed, and the actors exited the stage. Joohyuk called out to me as the stage crew changed the set.

“Be careful. There’s a slippery spot on stage. Junsu almost fell earlier.”

So, Junsu’s stumble had been a genuine accident, not part of the act. Joohyuk had saved the scene with a quick, “Hey, easy there, don’t drink so much,” making it seem like it was part of the play.

Everyone seemed to have relaxed after the initial nervousness, and the play progressed smoothly. Before I knew it, we were at Act 3.

The scene where the Moon Rabbit, disguised as Jinsol’s deceased girlfriend, Yerin, spends time with him.

I smirked, clasped my hands behind my back, tilted my head, and looked at Dojun.

“It’s… nice to walk with you again, like this.”
“Change of heart? You never liked walking…”
“Ah… th… that’s true… but p… people change!”

The Moon Rabbit nervously looked around, trying to change the subject. Dojun frowned, seemingly dissatisfied with my performance. I glared at him from an angle the audience couldn’t see, and he continued the scene.

“Yes, people change. We should thank the Moon Rabbit for bringing us together like this.”

Our scene ended, and it was time for my scene with Hyelin.

The aspiring celebrity, now friendly with the Moon Rabbit (still in human form), complained about the unintended consequences of her wish. The Moon Rabbit, seeing her distress, felt a pang of guilt.

“I wanted to be famous, but… not like this.”
“…Is that so?”
“I didn’t wish for everyone to love me. These people… they’d love me even if I… you know… did something embarrassing in public.”

The Moon Rabbit, avoiding eye contact, asked cautiously,
“Then… what kind of… admiration did you want?”
“Well…”

Hyelin cleared her throat and pointed at her own throat.

“I wanted them to love my singing…”

She extended her arms gracefully.

“…my acting…”

And then, she started to dance.

Eek!

Thud!

A scream and a loud thud echoed through the theater.
Hyelin had slipped and fallen.

I rushed towards her, my eyes meeting hers. The confidence that had shone in her eyes moments before was replaced by fear. She whispered,

“Oh…”

The play stopped.