Cyril sidled round the side and waited outside the hollow-boarded door, kicked in by any number of teenagers over the years.

And he waited. For about two minutes. In that time he mentally reordered the playlist on his iPod; then he refigured one song in his head with a rap beat he’d heard on the bus somewhere deep beneath the engine...some extraneous rhythmical stone-like noise which meant a lot to him; the dark music vanished, however, when he saw the warm golden sight of Abigail walking down the path towards him. In an instance, sex wiped all traces of previous tracks from his mind.
Before Cyril and Abigail had had time to consummate any of these feelings, the drama teacher arrived with the key to the door. He could never remember her name, but he never needed to. She opened up the door and his world to the smell and sensations of the drama club. That was all he needed from her.

Inside, Cyril trod the familiar path down the corridor, into the drama studio. Everything looked and smelt exactly the same as it had for the last three years, which was what he liked about it. Turning right, he went straight through the side door into the dingy room where props from previous productions were either stored or forgotten – he could never decide which. Immediately he found the grass skirt which was always there. He put it on. There was also a jousting pole. Cyril picked it up and prodded it at the flimsy ceiling panels. As he knew it, would a panel fell back on itself. Cyril put his hand up inside the ceiling and brought down the musical snowman which sang Rudolph the red-nosed reindoor over and over again. He switched it on. Immediately the music began to play, so Cyril put the toy on the floor and kicked it. It still continued to play Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer. Then it was time to check his playlist again.

Cyril asked himself why he came to drama as he didn’t actually do anything very much, but the question didn’t last long in his mind. It was loads of fun and it was his chance to get just a little closer proximity to a few hot girls who were just unattainable in the classroom. It brought out his romantic side – the whole atmosphere of the drama class – every week it was a different girl that took his fancy, and by the end of the class he had somehow made his feelings known. He managed it in different ways – sometimes while supposed to be doing a mime, he would tell her she was hot. Other times he would pass her a little note, or lots of notes, which he thought was a good way of keeping the momentum going. Other times he would just lock her in the toilet and explain his feelings. He was amazed by his audacity, and knew that only in drama would he be able to show this side of his personality.

Cyril had recently been through a quiet phase at drama. Not exactly quiet more silent, just not saying anything. He wasn’t sure exactly why he had failed to find anything to say in the drama class, but the teacher hadn’t seemed to mind. She asked him to improvise being a bank manager eating his breakfast but he just couldn’t do it. He had thought she might have got bad-tempered, like his Mum if he didn’t do as he was told, but strangely she didn’t. Sometimes he thought she was on the edge of blowing up, but it never actually happened.
So although he had a lot to say, it wasn’t very often that anything actually came out in the improvisations and roleplays which the teacher, constantly encouraged from them. Somehow he was shut down. Other people – particularly Abigail, had lots of things to say, and were good at playing different characters. It was like they could effortlessly move from being one person to another and knew exactly what to say. Cyril had a lot more to say off-stage than on-stage.
Or had he? Cyril went back out into the drama studio, wearing his grass skirt. By now the others had arrived. Jimmy, Luke, Christa...nobody bothered about the skirt, they just accepted that Cyril was Cyril.
“Right. ” This was how the teacher started every drama class. She usually said it about six times before anyone moved away from the sides of the walls and showed any recognition that she was there. Then she flapped her arms about a lot and encouraged them to warm-up. He could barely hear what she had to say. Cyril stood there in his grass skirt and found that his body was unable to respond to any instructions. Instead he had an irresistible urge to jump on top of Jimmy. Jimmy was suddenly covered in grass skirt. They only stopped when Maria said their names six times. This was followed by uncontrollable twitching of his right cheek which caused jim and Luke to collapse laughing. Cyril felt a bit bad about wrecking the warm-up exercise, but as he did it every week, it almost felt like his duty.
Again, she didn’t blow up and send him out. Only occasionally she would ask him to leave the room, or sit down, if he was making life completely impossible for her. Today, as usual, she ignored him and carried on.
“Move around the room in slow motion”, She instructed them. Christa, Abigail Jenny and Mel, the girls did as they were told – “now fast forward,....slowly.....as if you’re underwater...now in outer space.....now as if you’re in an art gallery...now through snow....now like your favourite animal........now skate, skip, tap-dance..” Cyril was only able to move around the room in the same way.

Why am I here?....he found himself, saying to himself. Why am I here? I’m not acting. I’m just being myself. Or am I? He went out into the back room again, picked up the jousting stick and came back into the studio. He only just overcame an irresistible urge to poke Luke’s bum with it when the teacher screamed his name. He put the jousting stick back in the back room.
Somewhere inside him the voice came again. What am I doing here?

Miming – he was good at miming. If he actually stopped talking and thought only with this body, he was away. Cyril effortless glided from one mimed situation to another. The aim of the exercise was to join in with your partner’s activity and then to transform it into something else – purely through movement. After about five minutes he found himself absorbed. He even stopped talking for a while. For a few minutes he was focused on the experience of miming life.

Abigail was watching him...he knew she was watching him. He could sense it, and He wondered if this week would be the week when she actually responded to him. She was his favourite, and every week he asked her out, and every week she said no. Last week she told him to piss off as he tried to speak to her under the toilet door. This week, though there was like some kinetic energy holding them together. Perhaps it was the miming, as he always enjoyed it, but he felt there was a connection that went beyond words, that was almost leaping and dancing around the room. Any minute, they would bounce into each other and that would be it.

But before he had time to develop any of these plans, Cyril found himself, creating a story – a story through movement. After mime, Maria had asked them to devise a solo piece based on three frozen body images – any three, linked together by movement. The movement between the three images would be the thread pulling the story along. And here he was performing it. Performing it on his own, in front of everybody else, which surprised even Cyril, as he didn’t normally like to do things on his own.

He was holding his hands in front of him like a Buddhist praying. His first movement and everybody was watching him. He knew his character...an Eastern man of mystery going about his daily business. Second movement – a different character, with hands at prayer, but at just a slightly lower level, his friend, also going about his daily business. And a third character – sitting down cross-legged with his hands at prayer. He moved between the three characters as their identities emerged and slowly a story unfolded.

The three characters were indecisive – they didn’t know what they wanted....and it took a little time for them to sort out the best plan for their day – whether to go to the market, whether to buy meat, and which were the best vegetables to go with them, potatoes or beans or tomatoes. Character three loved tomatoes – tomatoes were the answer to total happiness in his opinion. Character two liked beans best...character one, potatoes. And so the debate continued.

“Potatoes. Only potatoes will rid us of this violent urges and and our need to kill each other!, acted Cyril
“Beans. Beans and more beans. Beans are the protein of life. Without beans we would not be our individual selves,”
“Tomatoes. Only tomatoes. Om....”

And so it went on, Cyril moving between characters, changing his level constantly. He didn’t look at Abigail....Nobody else in the room spoke. Not Jimmy, Luke or any of the girls. Everyone watched. The question was, Cyril thought, was where would it lead....he was tempted to just carry on playing out the veg debate ad finitum.....he would have liked that. But a quick look at Abigail, changed his mind. He had to end the story. He was sure it was what she wanted. He would have to get his characters out of this situation.
It was simple. They all decided to set up their own market stall and trade in fruit and veg, in so doing solve all their spiritual dilemmas and achieve perfect karma and happiness. It was a simple story but Cyril brought it to an end and played its protagonists convincingly.

And then it stopped and Cyril fell back into himself. He stood and he said nothing. He was back to being himself. His hand instinctively moved down towards his pocket where his iPod was snugly held. And just for a moment, a thought struck him: Oh, that’s who I am. I am an Eastern man of mystery, going about my daily business. I know what I’m doing here. He looked at Abigail and he knew.

Everyone applauded wildly.

At the end of the class, Cyril put the snowman back in its hiding place and left the warm hub of the drama class. Abigail had already gone. It was a dark and just starting to feel cold as Cyril stepped lightly back out into the road that would take him home.