By: Megan Cramer
She perched in the blue-lit wings, heart beating like a full blown drum line inside of her chest. Her muscles taut and ready to pounce, she leaned forward in her chair. Her generic, second-rate costume resembled a younger sibling’s lame attempt to dress like her older sister and it scratched her skin, causing her to adjust her shirt every few seconds. She listened intently as her target pushed through each line, strained through each moment, somehow keeping on track. Vacillating between hope and dread, the understudy was forever doomed to be ready and not needed, or needed and not ready.