Mike Kinney is back, against the advice of several therapists and two stage managers, with another visionary production that defies logic, gravity, and the fire code. Known for concocting theatrical concepts so bold they frequently require quantum computing to light properly, Mike has once again led his cast and crew into the artistic abyss with only a 3-ring binder full of half-sketched ideas and a dream. Tech week, as always, has been a spiritual journey for him—marked by spontaneous choreography changes (which the choreographer humors, but it always goes back to the original), lighting plot tantrums, and at least one incident involving fog machines and tears (his own). Though he stands at a commanding 5'4" (on a good day, in platforms), Mike towers in our hearts and in his ability to inspire loyalty, laughter, and mild panic attacks. Students lovingly refer to him as “Napoleon of the Stage” or “The Theatrical Hobbit,” but they would follow him into battle—and frequently do when he insists on changing the opening number's blocking the night before opening. Mike’s past directorial credits include: Cats: But It’s Underwater and Everyone’s a Jellyfish; Macbeth: One-Man Show, But the Man Is a Puppet Made of Tinsel; The Crucible: Set in Space with Laser Witches; Annie: The Dystopian Cyberpunk Remix; Les Misérables on Hoverboards; Waiting for Godot...But He Shows Up and He’s Angry; And the critically baffling Oklahoma! But It’s Just the Dream Ballet on a Loop for 2 Hours; We love him. We fear him. We have absolutely no idea what he’s doing—but it’s probably brilliant. Probably.

Twelve years ago, Symantha innocently volunteered to help pass out programs. Forty-five minutes later, she was choreographing the entire Wizard of Oz with nothing but a cast list, a half-empty Coke, and a deep sense of theatrical duty. She hasn’t left since—though she’s tried. We just keep assigning her new musicals before she can find the exit. Sam is the sole interpreter of Mike Kinney’s deranged artistic visions, a master of translating abstract mutterings like “what if the tree had feelings?” into stunning choreographic sequences. She and Mike frequently hold full production meetings with zero spoken words, relying instead on eyebrow semaphore, exaggerated breathing, and the occasional hauntingly specific stare. They will then turn to the cast and say, “You get it, right?” and are genuinely baffled when no one does. During tech week, Symantha is the only thing standing between the show and an actual fire. She is the voice of reason, the calm eye of the storm, and the person most likely to be found holding a clipboard, three rolls of spike tape, and a small bag of emergency chocolate while whispering “just smile and point your toes through the breakdown.” Her choreographic notes are legendary and include gems like: “More anguish in your jazz square.” “Your arms need to scream ‘existential dread,’ not ‘community center recital.’” “Pretend your legs are possessed by disco demons.” Symantha is a miracle, a menace, and the duct tape holding this entire operation together. We adore her. We fear her. We are just trying to live up to the expectations of her withering glance.

Brandon wandered into rehearsal one fateful afternoon holding a roll of gaffer tape, looking for someone who needed help or possibly just directions. Instead, he was instantly adopted as everyone’s third favorite father figure (right after Cinderella’s dad and that one kid’s actual dad who brought donuts and high-fives). He hasn’t left since. We’re not sure he can. Armed with a clipboard (usually blank), a deep understanding of character arcs, and the kind of spiritual patience that only comes from assembling IKEA furniture without instructions, Brandon has become the unofficial fixer of all things broken—props, spirits, and occasionally the soundboard. He gives pep talks that start as one-liners and spiral into full-blown TED Talks with accidental emotional breakthroughs. He offers side-hugs like a human weighted blanket and can locate a lost costume piece using only instinct and dad sonar. Though he often *looks* like he’s confused, don’t be fooled—Brandon *completely* understands every single pop culture and TikTok reference thrown around rehearsal. He’s just storing them for later, when the moment is right and the cast least expects a perfectly timed quote delivered with Oscar-worthy gravitas. A true jack of all trades, Brandon’s resume includes: - Emotional support human - Gaffer tape sorcerer - Prop whisperer - Licensed in Drama™ - Fluent in Panic-to-Calm translations - And holder of the sacred backstage granola bars He is the keeper of calm, the bringer of donuts (sometimes), and the silent cheerleader in the wings who will absolutely tear up during your big number but blame it on dust. To the cast: he is proud of you. So proud it makes his clipboard tremble slightly. So proud he can barely contain the dad thumbs-up. So proud he’d fight a dragon with a hot glue gun if it meant giving you one more spotlight moment. Now go break a leg—but *not* a prop. Please. For the love of jazz hands, we just fixed that one.

Ashleigh Pfeifer is somehow back for her 28th production at Eastern High School as Stage Manager and Head of Props, which means she runs on caffeine, panic, and the unshakable belief that hot glue can fix literally anything. Missing goblet? Hot glue. Broken sword? Spray paint. Existential crisis five minutes before places? …Still working on that one. Ash has spent the last 28 shows perfecting the art of sprinting silently, whisper-yelling “PLACES,” and materializing emergency props out of thin air (and a suspiciously large tackle box). If it looks sturdy on stage, there’s a 90% chance it’s being held together by spray paint, hot glue, and sheer determination. She would like to thank the cast for (usually) putting props back where they belong, the crew for surviving tech week, and the invention of industrial-strength glue sticks. If anything breaks tonight… no it didn’t. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Kevin has been building sets in this theater since the late 20th century. No one knows exactly when he arrived. He followed some people in one day. He never left. Over the past 13 years, he has collaborated with the same director, though “collaborated” implies communication. They have exchanged exactly six words since 2014, all of them monosyllabic. Kevin doesn’t need direction. He builds what must be built. He lives, possibly legally, in the scene shop. There is a hammock made of gaff tape and sorrow. His thermos is bottomless. He eats only granola bars and prophecy. His work boots are always on, but you never hear him coming. Students report hearing a gentle thrum of a table saw at 2:47 a.m., and by morning—a staircase appears where none was before. Kevin does not paint. He will not paint. He cannot be near paint. Once, a freshman offered him a roller and he vanished for three days. When he returned, the catwalks were fully reinforced and no one dared ask. He exists outside the call sheet, beyond the scope of notes. He answers only to the ancient blueprints sealed beneath the stage. His children now perform on the very boards he summoned from plywood and sheer will. Kevin didn’t write this bio. It appeared, chiseled into a crescent wrench, left gently on the prop table. You don’t hire Kevin. You accept that Kevin is.

Missy is the brilliant, sleep-deprived miracle worker behind every corset, ballgown, ruffled sleeve, and “can this sparkle more?” moment on stage. Armed with needles, vision, and a label maker that fears neither man nor god, she has stitched her way through late-night fittings, sudden cast growth spurts, and no fewer than three “accidental” costume sword fights that definitely weren’t in the script. Her sewing machine has seen things—unspeakable things. Her laundry room? A battlefield of tulle, lost sequins, emotional breakdowns, and triumph. If it can be bedazzled, she’s already done it. If it can’t be? She’s figuring out how to bedazzle it anyway, out of spite and excellence. She has turned thrift store chaos into royal elegance, conjured entire outfits from “whatever was in the bin,” and once fixed a zipper using only a paperclip, a prayer, and sheer theatrical rage. She has felt the fabric scream in her hands—and made it fashion. The cast owes their glow-ups to her unmatched brilliance. The crew bows reverently to her tailoring. The director occasionally cries tears of joy when she walks in holding a garment bag and whispering “it has pockets.” If you see a costume on stage that makes you gasp, whisper “YASSS.” That was Missy. It’s always Missy. She is the divine force behind every entrance that feels like a moment. Long live the queen of costumes. May her bobbins never run out. May no one ever touch her good scissors.

Robert Reid Goodson is happy to once again be involved with a musical production. Mr. G holds a MA in Educational Theatre from New York University, a MA in Nonprofit Management and a BA in Communication from High Point University.  He is on his fourteenth year of teaching and second at Eastern.  As the theatre arts and leadership teacher, he wishes his teammates, cast, and crew a successful run! Break legs everyone! 

Aiyana is an Eastern High School alum, and is thrilled to be a part of making this production come to life. She combines her love for dance and beauty to support the story being told on stage. She lives for big numbers, bold looks, and the behind the scenes magic that makes theater shine.

is a recent alumnus who, much like her time as a student, was supposed to be in charge of social media for this production, but—oops—forgot. Somewhere between the overwhelming number of shows she may or may not have done (it’s probably 13, maybe 12? 11?) and the fact that “adulting” is, frankly, a scam, she missed her chance to live-tweet every rehearsal and post 57 artsy behind-the-scenes photos. During her illustrious career as a student, she made some unforgettable memories, like being onstage for what felt like an eternity, memorizing lines she definitely never used, and somehow still getting the wrong costume for half of those shows. As a graduate, she can now look back and say, “I didn’t actually post those pictures of the cast at cast party karaoke, did I?” No, she didn’t. She would like to apologize for the social media lapse, but also vaguely remembers being a part of every single show (13 is a safe bet), and she’s very much available for post-show photos—just maybe not the ones from rehearsals, though. Here’s to nostalgia, untagged photos, and one very chaotic theater career.

Evan, a recent alumnus, has made a terrifyingly smooth transition from enthusiastic student to lead tech hand in record time. It’s as if he was destined for this role, and by "this role," we mean the one where you’re knee-deep in spike tape, shuffling furniture around at the speed of light, and maintaining calm in the face of impending chaos. Having only just graduated, Evan has already mastered the delicate art of transforming a chaotic rehearsal space into a well-oiled set-moving machine. You’ll find him on the floor, a roll of spike tape in hand, marking every spot with a precision that can only be described as borderline psychic. Need a quick set move? Evan’s your guy, coordinating cast members like a well-practiced stage manager, and somehow making it look easy—like the professional he’s become in mere months. Outside of his backstage wizardry, Evan has a special connection to the delicate world of *“spike tape placement”—*where every inch matters, and where missing one mark could send an entire set into disarray. Yet, he pulls it off effortlessly, because when the curtain falls, the set’s in place, the lights dim, and Evan’s already two steps ahead, planning the next move. He would like to thank his coffee addiction, his inability to sit still, and the entire cast for trusting him to make the stage look “just like it does in rehearsal” (and for maybe not tripping on any of the set pieces... this time). Fun Fact: Evan’s internal clock has been completely reprogrammed to run solely on the adrenaline of moving sets during tech week. He can also correctly place a 10-foot set piece without breaking a sweat, but will still be caught muttering “The floor is lava” while doing it.