Free In Broken Places by Michèle Phoenix

appetizer in the feast of fear of our introductory weeks in Germany. I’d started to invent -phobe words to accurately describe my emotions. I was now a card-carrying languageophobe, bratwurstophobe, and bigspendingophobe. That last one sounded a bit contrived, even to my own ears, but after buying a car, a toaster, a pink bicycle, and enough pastries to gorge an army, I was feeling broke enough to warrant my longest -phobe word yet.
    And, standing at the front of the auditorium, another one came to my mind, perhaps the most pertinent of them all. I was officially becoming an I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing-ophobe.This audition session marked my leap into the chaos and mystery of drama, which was scaring my hair gray. I was relieved to see some of my English students among the prospective actors, but I doubted that our tenuous connection would do much to mask my stunning ineptitude. Months ago, the school’s personnel director had assured me that my limited experience would be sufficient for the task. By limited , I was sure he’d meant nonexistent , as participating in a junior-high speech contest twenty years ago held little relevance to directing a serious high school play. And Bev had done nothing to soothe my nerves in recent days by raving about the productions of previous years, the extraordinary talent of the students, and the high expectations of the entire community.
    I cleared my throat, gave the assembled students my patented don’t-waste-my-time stare, and stifled the urge to yell, “I’m clueless!” at their expectant faces. Instead, I thanked them for their punctuality and explained to them the challenges of a play like Shadowlands . I’d discarded dozens of comedies, musicals, and dramas in my search for something that felt just right. When I’d first read Shadowlands and been enthralled by its scope and depth, I’d declared myself deluded and gone on to something else. How were teenagers supposed to bring such human vulnerability and complexity to life? No—this wasn’t the one . But all the scripts I’d subsequently read about murders and mayhem and monsters and madness had paled in comparison to the story of C. S. Lewis, a famed English writer whose work I’d always admired and whose life somehow touched mine. And here we all were, all thirty-eight students and me, gathered three months later to embark on a voyage of nerve-knotting importance.
    The auditorium was a semicircular carpeted space with a wooden ceiling that sloped from the stage to the highest point above the balcony. The stage wasn’t much to look at. A raisedplatform devoid of curtains or wings, with a bare, white wall behind it, it was as conducive to acting as the stomach flu is to cooking. Turning the room into a theater would be a challenge indeed, but that was a concern best left for a much later date. A wall of windows on each side of the auditorium extended from floor to rafters and, as the evening darkened outside, reflected the tense body language of the students assembled for tryouts.
    Most of the prospective actors had come well prepared. They’d read the play packets I’d placed in the library and had memorized the scenes we’d be using for auditions. Only one of them truly stood out as the session progressed—both in stature and in talent. His name was Seth. He stood six foot six and had a voice like molten chocolate. But it was his countenance and spirit that caught my attention. Though he was young and enthusiastic, his carriage spoke of strain. His face revealed a melancholy intelligence and a sort of world-weary passion I’d seldom seen in one so young. He took to the stage in long, loping strides and addressed the gathered students in a tortured monologue so authentic that I briefly forgot he was speaking from a script. It was in the silence that followed his last words that I wondered for the first time if the burden of this play might bloom into a blessing.
    But I quickly dismissed the notion as a