The theater has already been filled to bursting, and the audience spills over the seats, lining the aisles and filling the pit. I sit on the floor, raincoat, still damp, covering my crossed legs. It's strange to see the stage from this angle, face to floor, watching feet dancing, skimming, jumping, falling.
As the girls dance, the music pulses, and there's a certain sound I hadn't noticed before, a rainstick sound, a shhhhhuffle of soft sound, a cleansing quietness of hush and rhythm. And then it stops. The piece ends, there's a break as they metamorphose for the next in the darkened wings. The audience bubbles back to life for just a moment, and the pit becomes restless as the onlookers shift positions and spark pins and needles in sleeping limbs.
Two boys sit close to the stage, kindergarteners tops, holding onto the edge of the apron with small fingers and resting chins. Between the dances, they bobble up and down, squealing and pushing with a general disregard for the rest. As the show goes on, they get louder, squirming in their own skin.
There's a faster song, and the rainstick comes back, perfectly. It's then I realize that the sound is coming from the smaller boy in front, running his hands along the vents on the front edge of the stage. He's mesmerized by the dancers, and contributes with a faultless rhythm. I don't think he even knows what he's doing, or that anyone else notices it.
