Pulled

by Danielle Bannister

  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.

  I clasp my hand to my mouth in shock. “You’re perfect.” Not, “the subject is perfect,” or “she’s perfect,” but “you’re perfect.” A wide smile spreads across my “uneven” lips.

  Just then
my cell phone rings in my pocket causing me to jump, scattering the pages all over the floor. It's Seth’s ring tone so I scramble to retrieve the call before the second ring.

  “What took you so long to answer?” Seth’s voice booms in my ear.

  “I was trying to unlock my door,” I lie. “And it only rang twice,” I add, as though that will make any difference.

  “Pick it up faster next time,” he says with no trace of humor.

  “You're back from class already?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

  “Yeah, I’m at the bookstore now. I got slammed in Psychology and English Lit. Good thing the folks are bankrolling this,” he snorts.

  I feel a slight tinge of jealousy. Not for his money-- my trust fund covers my education--but for the simple fact that he still has parents who care about him and I don’t.

  “Meet me for dinner in a half an hour,” he says. “I’ll be the handsome guy in the back.”

  My stomach grumbles on cue. I guess the fruit bar for lunch wasn’t such a good idea.

  “I'll be there.”

  “And then after dinner, we can go back to your place,” he says.

  “I can’t tonight,” I say.

  “Why not?” he asks, sounding pissed.

  “Because I just found out that there are auditions tonight at 6:00.” Up until this moment, I hadn't even thought about auditioning.

  In the background I can hear some girl laughing.

  “Well, I guess that’s why you came to this stupid school.” More laughter. “Look, I shouldn’t be here too much longer,” he says. “I’ve just got one more thing I want to grab.” I might have been imagining it, but I swear I can hear his hand smack skin before a girl laughs again.

  Chapter 3

  Etash

  “What we need from Romeo and Juliet, above anything else, is chemistry,” Elizabeth tells me in her office later that afternoon.

  “Even more important than their dance ability?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. She's been going on about 'chemistry' now for the last twenty minutes.

  “Absolutely!” She stands up quickly in an attempt to stress her point. I must not look convinced because she storms over to me, leans against her desk and crosses her arms, clearly disappointed that I'm not in total agreement with her.

  “If we can find two actors who click, then teaching them how to move is a walk in the park. But if they fizzle?” She starts to pace within the confines of her small office. “I don’t care how well they can dance; if there is no spark, the audience will never root for them! They'll never mourn for our lovers at their untimely death.” She stops pacing suddenly, then lifts her hand to her forehead and proceeds to 'die' onto her sofa.

  “So, who do you have in mind?” I say, smirking, not the least bit impressed by her performance.

  Elizabeth pulls a pillow over her eyes in defeat. “I have no idea.” Sighing, she sits up and starts rubbing her temples. “Daphne might be able to pull it off, but I’m not sure if she can move. Possibly Alexia or Jade?”

  I shoot her a look.

  “Wait, Jade is back in rehab isn’t she?”

  “Yup.”

  “Well, it’s not Juliet I’m worried about,” she says coyly, smoothing down some of her wild gray curls. “I’m sure there will be enough women to sift through; there always are.” She gets up slowly then slides into the chair beside me. “I’m more concerned about who will be my Romeo.” Real subtle, Elizabeth.

  “I already told you no,” I say, and she pouts. “I’m not doing it. Period. I’m your Assistant Director, take it or leave it.”

  “Fine,” she huffs, “but you and I both know you’d be perfect.” Grumpy, she pushes off from the chair, and goes back to her desk.

  I shake my head and hold back a grin, pulling out my Assistant Director binder, flipping pages absently until she starts asking me about possible crew options.

  There, I can help her. I've got a long list of possible people for the crew, talented and reliable people, sans the diva attitudes of most actors.

  We narrow our crew options down to the best of the best, all of whom I will call tonight, then we decide to hit the dance studio to try out a few basic movements. Elizabeth can use these later at tonight's audition to assess the actors' ability to move and take direction.

  Around 5:30 we start to hear the chatter of people downstairs mingling in the hallways. Early birds. I start to pick up my stuff when Elizabeth taps me on the shoulder and flashes me a five-dollar bill.

  “Tea?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “I promise, once I get a Stage Manager, I’ll make them get tea for both of us.” She crosses her heart with her fingertip.

  Flashing her a smile, I head over to the campus coffee shop to pick up her Earl Grey tea with light cream, and my decaf chai. I’m actually grateful for a chance to get out of the building for a bit. Fresh air is just what I need after being cramped inside for so long.

  There's a longer line than usual once I get there, so by the time I make it back, the stage is already filled with actors and dancers stretching. Half of them are clearly dance majors and the other half are desperately trying to look like they are. Elizabeth is about to head on stage when she sees me, and rushes over.

  “My tea! You are a god! Thank you!” She pulls the cover off her tea, inhales deeply, then takes a long sip. “Perfection.” She puts the lid back on and hands me back her cup. “Now let’s see what the cat dragged in, shall we?”

  I take my seat at the director's table and take out my binder again, this time ready to take notes.

  Elizabeth turns her attention back to the stretching bodies on stage then claps her hands a few times until the crowd quiets down.

  “Thank you all for coming out tonight. You might be wondering why I’ve asked you all to come ready to move for an audition for Romeo & Juliet.”

  Several heads start to nod in agreement as Elizabeth chuckles knowingly.

  “The reason movement is going to be so important for this play is because we’re going to be doing it without words.”

  The outburst of quiet conversations that follow is downright comical. They don’t get it either.

  “I know, I know,” she says, a tinge of defensiveness in her tone, “How do you perform a play, a play written by Shakespeare, of all people, without words?” She climbs the stairs and enters the light dramatically. “You do it, with music and movement.” She raises her arms over her head and strikes a Martha Graham-ish pose. You’ve got to hand it to her; she does know how to make an entrance.

  Although Elizabeth is twice the age of all of the students around her, she still has a dancer's body. Despite her long, frizzy hair and the excessive amount of necklaces looped around her neck, she still manages to evoke the image of grace and professionalism. As though to show off her ability, she expertly glides over to her laptop on the floor.

  “I’m going to play some music now, and I just want you to move however you feel comfortable.” She rests her hands on her hips delicately. “I want to stress something here. I’m not looking for dancers who can act. I’m looking for people who can convey emotion through their bodies,” she says to a sea of blank faces. “Just move however the music makes you feel.” She bends over and hits play and bounces back into the darkness, sliding into the seat beside me.

  “Here we go,” she whispers, rubbing her hands together.

  The track playing is one I hand-picked. It’s that same Celtic singer that I heard the first time dancing with Elizabeth. The singer's voice is so beautiful that it would be close to impossible for anyone without a soul not to be moved by it. I’m fighting the urge to jump up on stage with them myself.

  As the group begins tentatively to move their bodies around, Elizabeth starts grumbling a little. No one is jumping out at her. No one has impressed me, either. But we’ve just started. They just need to relax a little.

  “Any suggestions?” she asks me .

  “They’re just nervous. They have no idea
what they’re supposed to do. You may need to give them some direction,” I offer.

  “Direction from a Director…that’s cute, kid.” She smirks at me, then pushes out of her chair to give more detailed instructions. Unfortunately, there is little improvement. Part of the problem is that they're all crammed up there like sardines. We can't even see some of the dancers in the back. Before I can mention this small detail to Elizabeth, she starts asking a few of the obviously weaker dancers to sit for a moment, and the crowd eventually starts to thin, although there are still a few in the back that seem to be hiding.

  Next she starts to physically pair up the women with the dozen men who have shown up, but there's a problem; there just aren't enough males. She turns and peers at me from the darkness and I already know what’s coming.

  “Be a darling and come up and dance, won’t you Etash?” she pleads. “Just for this one part, please?”

  I let out a heavy sigh, but I relent. After all, I will have to get up there and teach this cast how to move eventually. I might as well start now.

  “Etash is my Assistant Director,” she announces to the dancers when I stand up and kick off my shoes. Bare feet is the only way I dance. “Since we’re so short on men, I’ll have him work with some of you for this part of the audition.”

  Naya

  As the light hits him, my breath catches in my throat. He’s here? So it wasn't nerves I was feeling earlier...it was him.

  Still hiding behind the row of dancers in front of me, I watch as he unbuttons his shirt, crumples it into a ball and tosses it off stage. He's left standing next to Elizabeth in just a white tank that clings to his modest chest and loose fitting, tattered jeans that hang just over his bare feet. Amazing.

  “You can close your mouth now,” Kari whispers in my ear beside me.

  “Shut up,” I hiss, hiding my face in my hands, causing Kari to chuckle softly.

  I do my best to focus on the director who is currently talking to Etash, watching in awe as he smiles at her. Such a small thing, a smile, but seeing the corners of his eyes turned up in laughter, causes me to well up with tears. His expression is always pained whenever he looks at me.