There are times in life when your own age comes as a shock to you; where you suddenly realise just how big the gap between your brain and your body is getting. I'm not quite certain what age my brain stopped at - I'm still trying to work that out - but I'm pretty sure that it was around 12 or 13; just at the age when all of my insecurities were firmed up, my base personality formulated, my knowledge of men about as good as it would ever be, and my fashion sense about as diabolical. No matter what happened or will happen to my body from that point on - from the slow climb into attractive teenager, before hurtling downhill towards singleton, spinster and old lady (inevitably) - my brain will always be 13. More importantly, my brain will always be looking out of my eyes (because that's where the brain looks out from, obviously), and saying to my face "just a minute, what the hell is going on here?" Because - since the age of 13 - I have not looked 13, and - sadly - never will again. I had peachy skin at that age.
This, however, becomes tricky when you're working closely with a 13 year old every week. Especially a 13 year old who - I suspect - is going to reach about 19 or 20 in the brain before she stops developing, and will thus outstrip me by a long way.
"Are you okay?" I asked her during our dress rehearsal this week. She clearly wasn't okay: she was shaking from head to foot.
"I'm scared," she said, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "About Sunday."
"God, me too," I answered before I had a chance to register what I was saying. "Terrified. There's going to be so many people. What if I trip on something? What if you trip on something? What if we both just stand there and stare at each other?"
My student's eyes widened in terror, and I suddenly realised that she actually was 13 and was allowed to voice her irrational concerns; I was the 28 year old teacher with a 13 year old brain, and I had a responsibility - and possibly contractual obligation - not to.
"Only kidding," I said, even though I wasn't in the slightest: I'm genuinely bricking it. "It'll be great. And I know all the lines, in case you forget any. So I can help you out."
This time I was kidding, because I most certainly do not.
"Thankyou," she said, and I spent the rest of the lesson subtly trying to remember her lines instead of just my own (13 year olds are pretty selfish, you know: even the 28 year old ones).
It's going to be strange, up on stage, with a child, feeling exactly the way I felt when I was 13 except 15 years older. It's going to be strange, coming face to face with the kid in me while being simultaneously forced into confronting the adult (they're making me responsible for the props and everything). And I'm kind of looking forward to it. It'll be a nice challenge, seeing just which one wins out this time. And - obviously - whether there's a yellow brick road I can find and fall over.
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