Pulled (4 page)

As she goes over the outline of the year, I make a quick scan of the space. It’s small and filled with mirrored make-up stations along the walls. Under each mirror is a small desk. A dozen or so small lights frame each station.
Cool.
The chairs we’re sitting in are clearly meant to go with each of the stations, but are now angled toward the front of the room. I recognize a few of the faces from my other classes; their names, however, have escaped me.

Turning my attention back to the professor, I notice my arm--and all the hairs that have just puffed up on them.
Oh no
. At that exact moment, there comes a loud scraping sound of a chair sliding against the floor from a few feet behind me. I turn my head away from the sound and into one of the make-up mirrors trying to ignore the possibility of his being in another class with me. But the mirror provides no escape. In its reflection I can see, quite clearly, who has made his chair scream. Etash is sitting four chairs back from me, a tortured look on his face. His hands grasp the bottom of his chair in a death-grip.

“
The make-up kits you’ll need for this class are available at the bookstore, if you haven’t gotten them yet,” Professor Krane's voice floats from far away.

“
Professor?” A large girl directly in front of me asks, “My kit didn’t have any spirit gum in it. Does that mean we won’t be doing any prosthetic work?”

Brown-noser.
I don’t catch Professor Krane’s answer though. My body is much too focused on the pair of dark eyes currently boring a hole into the back of my skull.

Unable to pull away from the mirror, I notice his frozen position. His back is pushed so far into his chair that I swear it might crack under the pressure. I try rubbing my arms hoping to will my stubborn hairs back in place without much success.

But something is different: the overwhelming pull from earlier seems absent now, and I wonder if my proximity to him is the key.
Hmmm?
In acting class, I hadn’t felt 'possessed' until I sat right next to him. And in the library, I was fine until I got a few feet away from him.
I wonder.

Etash

This is unbelievable! How is it possible that this girl is in every single class I'm in?

Granted, I should have taken Make-up, along with Acting last year, but I was busy helping Mom get Grams settled into the nursing home.

I can feel her eyes on me through the mirror. She's got her hair pulled back off her face today, showcasing more of her soft, ivory skin. Her lips part and she sighs, and I smell raspberry. She's been eating raspberry flavored something. How can I possibly know that?

I’m so blindly consumed by this foolish girl's every movement that I don’t notice that there are people standing up all around me. It's too early for class to be over, so apparently we’re going somewhere. I wait for her to stand and go in front of me, but she just sits there, frozen; stubborn fool.

Fine, if she won't move,
I
will. I’ll just follow the line, keep my eyes off her and walk as fast as I can past her.
Easy
.

But the second I’m beside her, I find my legs won't budge. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her flinch. Grinding my teeth, I try desperately to move my feet.

After what feels like an eternity, they do, but not of my own will. Someone has bumped into me, presumably unaware that I had just stopped dead in my tracks. The guy behind me doesn’t hit me hard, but it’s enough to get me free from her apparent pull on me.

Once out the door, I jump to the head of the line, needing to keep as much distance between us as possible, ignoring the nagging ache in my stomach that gets stronger with each step I take away from her.

We head up the stairs to the Main Stage. As the freshmen ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ over the magnificence of the newly-renovated theatre, I manage to slide into a seat in the front row. Naya comes in last, her head bowed down, afraid to look at me. Good. Stay away from the freak.

“
We’ll be coming here a lot this semester,” Professor Krane says, gesturing to the stage with her hands. “Putting make-up on yourselves or someone else under typical fluorescent lighting is one thing. Seeing how that same make-up looks under
these
lights,” she says pointing up “is the real test of the art.” She hops up onto the lip of the stage and sits.

“
Today we’re looking at your blank slate: your face without stage make-up.” She jumps off the stage and puts her hands dramatically on her plump hips, grinning smugly. “You’re each going to take turns standing in the light while those in the house take notes about the way you look under them.”

“
I don’t get it,” I hear from a student in the row in back of me.

“
Everyone has imperfections,” she continues, as though expecting the confusion. “The stage lights only magnify those. Sometimes we can’t tell what areas show us in a 'less than favorable light,' so to speak, so our comments will serve to help you all with areas you'll need to focus on when applying make-up.”

She wants us to publicly ridicule one another:
wonderful
. I can't wait to hear what they have to say about me. No amount of make-up will ever hide my scars.

Professor Krane starts to hand out packets filled with pages and pages of nothing more than an empty outline of a generic looking face.

“
As each of you comes up, I want you to say your name. For those of you who are seated, write down the person’s name on stage. Then simply draw or comment on what you see about their face.” She pauses to let the grumbling pass.

“
Now, I know we’re not all artists; that’s not the point. Just draw the best you can, or simply write down your thoughts, but be as honest as you can.” More uncomfortable whispers ensue.

“
Although this project is totally anonymous,” she cautions,“ it doesn't give you free rein to hurt someone’s feelings. That’s not the point of this exercise. This is a tool meant to help you identify areas you need to work on as an actor. It’s easy. I’ll go first.” She climbs back on stage again and stands in the light.

“
My name is Professor Krane.” No one does a thing. “Put my name down on one of your sheets and tell me what my flaws are,” she insists. “Help me figure out what I need to work on.”

Not a single pencil moves.

“
Oh come on! Start with my huge nose.” There’s a lone chuckle in the darkness. “I know it’s huge; now tell me about it so I can make it appear smaller using shadow and highlights.”

Naya

One by one, students start to comply with her instructions, some tilting their heads slightly to get better views. A small, lanky girl volunteers to go first. Her skin is glaringly white, even whiter than mine if that's even possible, but she is otherwise a very normal-looking girl. Feverishly, others around me start scribbling down things that I know will only be construed as hurtful to this poor girl later on. I am unable to write anything down except, “maybe a dark ivory base would be best.”

The brown-noser steps up to the stage, and a painfully thin freshman with a serious acne problem steps in line to go after her. The large girl announces proudly to the group that her name is Stephanie. Instantly, those around me get to work, but I just sit there. This girl is seriously heavy and I don’t have it in me to put down anything even remotely hurtful about her. It just feels wrong. I can only manage to put down that she has “beautifully high cheekbones” that would be “enhanced with some well-applied shadow.” And so it goes, face after face, lie after lie.

My heart flutters, however, when Etash stands in the light. It's clear that he is uncomfortable and once he lifts his head, anyone could have guessed why. The stage lights catch the curve of his scar, bouncing off it wildly like a giant prism.

I am heartbroken, sensing just how truly flawed he must feel in this sea of perfect faces.
The light scratches of my classmates’ pencils working fiercely on their pages makes my blood boil. I put my pencil down in protest.

Behind me Professor Krane whispers in my ear, “Don’t worry dear. He knows he has a scar.”

I grimace and look at the blank page for far too long before I write one single word across the top:
flawless
. Instantly embarrassed, I flip to the next page in my packet before I can erase it.

It’s my turn before I’m ready. Not that anyone could be ready for such an appraisal. As I stand under the light, I feel naked, ashamed somehow. It’s a sickening feeling knowing that thirty of your peers are about to write down the very things you're already painfully self-conscious about. I want nothing more than to run away from this abuse. But I don't, because I'm a coward. Instead, I suffer in silence.

Etash

She is the last to go on stage, and when she steps into the light, I am gobsmacked. She is so beautiful under the golden wash of light falling down upon her that it literally takes my breath away. Without any instructions from me, my hand starts to fly across the page, sketching her face. My pencil picks up the delicate highlights surrounding her nose, the slight blush kissing her cheeks, and her lush, full bottom lip, so plump that I can’t help but imagine what it would taste like.

Blinking hard, I pull myself back to reality before I write down the two words I need her to know about herself, in spite of these morons around me:
You’re perfect.

Professor Krane corrals us back to class and dumps the packets on her desk. With expert hands she sorts the pages into neat little piles, clearly having done this a zillion times before.

“
After you get your packet, you'll be dismissed. Your assignments are all in the syllabus. When I call your name, you can come up, then you're free to go.”

Naya's name is called first. Watching her as she slips out the door, I fight back an overwhelming feeling of loss.

Naya

As soon as the door closes behind me, I start sprinting toward the exit, desperate for some fresh air. I'm almost to the exit when a bright green flier catches my eye.

AUDITIONS TONIGHT!

Romeo & Juliet

Directed by: Professor Campbell

6:00pm to 9:00pm
on Stanley
Stage Black Box Stage 2

No monologues but come prepared to move

The irony of the play selection is not lost on me.

Still anxious to get as far away from the building as fast as possible, I head to the safety of the bookstore eager to hide in the walls of overpriced books.

Two hundred and fifty-three dollars and nineteen cents later, I’m back in my room, taking inventory of my new make-up kit and small pile of used theatre books. There is an anthology of plays that's about five inches thick and weighs a ton, two scary-looking Stage Craft books, an early European costuming book, and a voice book for my Acting class.

Even though I really should start my reading due for tomorrow's Drama Lit class, I can't help but be curious. Jumping off my bed, I grab my bag and pull out my 'packet of flaws.'

I bite my lip as I begin reading:
She needs some sun! Her eyes are hard to see--they’re too dark; her nose is thin; no cheek bones!; I think her lips are uneven; her chin is really square;
and my favorite:
is that a mole or a zit?
Awesome. Twenty pages of these cryptic remarks sure do make a girl feel good about herself.

The last page changes my sour mood completely. On it there is a sketch of my face—no, sketch is the wrong word. It’s too common a word. This is more than a sketch. This is a
portrait
of my face. The image of the girl staring back at me is so stunning, that I actually gasp. The handwriting on the bottom of the page, which is small and elegant, holds only two words:
You’re perfect
.