Bird's Play

         [Disclaimer: A coworker told me a story about his child being in a school event, and the scene he painted for me stuck with me for several days after he told me. I couldn't get it out of my brain, how precious the moment sounded. So I wrote. Like I do.] 

          I knew I’d probably be the only single father at the play, or at least the only parent without a date, but I honestly didn’t care.

Bird had three speaking lines, and I wasn’t about to miss that for the world.

She was so proud of those lines. We had been rehearsing and rehearsing them for weeks, ever since she found out about her class’ play. I had taught her what inflections were, how to put different emotions into each word, every trick I knew. We had spent hours pouring over those three lines, making sure we had tried to say them every way possible, making sure we had picked the best way, and, most importantly, making sure that Bird knew the words forwards and backwards, and that she would not get stage fright and forget them.

I thought she would be nervous. My beautiful Bird was a chatterbox around me, to the point where sometimes I wanted her to be still and quiet. But when you put her around others, especially adults, she pretends she doesn’t know how to speak.

But I was wrong.

She could barely contain her excitement.

            The whole way to school that morning she was bouncing in her seat, looking out the window, periodically looking over at me with a huge grin on her little face.

“Do you want to recite your lines again?” I had asked in the car. “Make sure you got it?”

“No, Da,” she had said seriously, looking me right in the eyes. “I know them. I know.”

“Okay, Birdie,” I had said, reaching over to take her tiny hand in mine.

“One hand for driving, one hand for me!” she sang out, swinging my hand up and down.

When I had pulled up at her school, she had grabbed her backpack, leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, then whispered her three lines to me in my ear.

“See?” She had giggled proudly. “I know.”

I sat down three rows from the front on the end. I wanted to be able to see her perfectly when she said her three lines.

“Robbie Fontana, my my my.”

I stiffened and cringed.

Shannon Diansallo had been trying to rope me in for months, ever since I went to a parent teacher conference awhile back and she had discovered that, in her own words, divorce had done my looks no harm.

“If anything, you look more dashing than ever,” she had purred, stroking my arm with a single finger.

“Just my emotions that were damaged and destroyed,” I had said mock-friendly, taking a step back and excusing myself with mutterings of being late.

She had been on my prowl ever since.

“Hi Sandon,” I said, plastering on a ridiculous smile.

“Ahahaha,” she laughed, placing one hand on her chest like I was causing her a hysterical heart attack, the other hand slapping me lightly across my own chest. “You kidster. Calling me wrong names on purpose. So funny.”

I had hoped she would be so insulted that I misspoke her name that she would leave me alone. Apparently my plan backfired.

“So listen, do you like casserole?” She twirled a piece of her hair around her finger as she spoke. “Because I was thinking a little casserole, a little candlelight, this weekend perhaps?”

“You can cook?”

She let the strand of hair go and blinked at me. “Well, um, no,” she stuttered, clearly not prepared for my question. “But my nanny makes these amazing casseroles. I’m sure she’d make an extra one tomorrow for us.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle a little. At least she was honest.

“Better get to your seat, play’s about to start,” I said in reply, sitting down and reading over the program.

“Right,” she said, straightening, obviously annoyed from not getting the correct replies out of me. “Well, if you have a free night and need some company,” she began again, putting her hand on my shoulder, “You call me.”

“Will do!” I said cheerfully, not looking up from my program as she finally walked away.

I just wanted Bird.

The lights flickered off and on a few times, and I began bouncing in my chair. I was already so proud of Bird, and she hadn’t even come on stage yet.

We all clapped as Bird’s principle stepped up to give a few words, but I honestly couldn’t tell you a word he said; I was too impatient and eager for Bird’s three lines to even listen.

Finally he finished talking, and I heard the pitter-patter of feet as Bird and her classmates lined up in the back, ready to make their entrance as the opening song played. I turned around in my chair to get a better look.

She was so gorgeous, her hair and makeup all done by Janey.

I swallowed as she got closer.

She looked like her mother.

She caught my eye, and a huge grin crossed her face.

She was suddenly Bird again.

The line walking past was closer to the other aisle, but I knew if I stretched out my hand as they passed, Bird could stretch out hers as well as touch my fingertips.

As she got close, I stretched out my hand, hoping to give her a silent high five.

Instead, she immediately broke line when she saw my hand outstretched, ran over to me, taking my open hand in hers, and kissed the inside of my palm.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

She looked up at me, her little hands still enveloping mine, a look of radiant love in her eyes.

“I’m gonna make you proud, Da,” she quietly said, then scurried back into line at the sound of her teacher’s loud, frantic whisper.

I swallowed the tears down, holding my program shakily in my hands.

I’m not even sure what the play was actually about. Something about a boy getting lost in the woods and a family of deer, and there was a hunter at some point maybe, or maybe a dinosaur shows up, I really don’t know.

All I know is that when it came time for Bird’s big scene, the one where she has the three lines, I was on the edge of my seat.

“You! Girl! Stop there!” the boy called out, pointing his stick at Bird.

“It’s only a friend, I’m only here to help,” Bird said sweetly, so naturally and wonderfully.

“A friend, huh? What do I need a friend for?”

“Why, everyone needs friends! Don’t you know that?”

She was perfect. Oscar worthy, the way she drew the audience in.

“Do you have friends?” the boy asked.

Bird’s face broke into a smile. Not an actor’s smile, a real, genuine smile. “Of course, silly boy. My friends are all here.”

A group of kids came out onto the stage with her and began singing a song as she took the boy’s hand and walked off the stage.

I have no idea what that scene had to do with the rest of the play. But that scene was the most beautiful moment of any movie or play or television show, and always will be.