Last night Olivia had her first drama class.
She was unusually trepidacious when I dropped her off, brimming with worries. She confided some of them aloud. I kissed her and wished her well. "Trust me," I said.
She was busting when I picked her up. Grinning and laughing, she gave me a high-velocity, wildly ebullient run-down on the class, her new friends, their plans for the season, and a play-by-play of her first attempts at improv. The joy was pouring off her.
The girl was in raptures.
At the end of class she said they had to make an alliteration with their name and then act it out.
"For instance," she chattered, "Kaitlyn did 'I'm Kangaroo Kaitlyn' and then she acted like a kangaroo."
I looked at her, waiting for it.
She smiled. "Mine was a little different."
"What did you do?"
She beamed and raised her hand dramatically in the air, "I'm Obviously-in-love-with-acting Olivia," and then she swooned for the audience.
That's my girl.