There was something illicit about the sort of socializing that went on in the wings when I was in theatre in high school, all of us, or perhaps only me, thrilling in our roles offstage as much as on. Gathered around the couch that reeked, as a more daring actress commented, "of pepsi and sex," we would gossip, we would posture, we would rehearse - if clutching our scripts and tugging our collars and shirt sleeves in nervously mixed company could be called rehearsal.
Perhaps I was made more daring by my dance costume that flattered from hip to ankle, or perhaps I had simply seen too much Saved by the Bell in my formative years, but a Sadie Hawkins dance seemed to me the ideal moment to confess my desire to attend with a handsome boy on my arm, particularly, one with whom I shared a mutual appreciation for Rage Against the Machine. I knew who Tom Morello was and used his name in context of their greatness, hadn't he laughed when I'd done so? I quoted Zack de la Rocha in my creative writing assignments. Surely this warranted some attention?
Or a polite refusal, if toying with the brim of his baseball cap to keep from looking me in the eye as he explained his wanting to wait around for someone else to ask him could be considered polite.
The next year I wouldn't be conquered on that couch, but I would suffer hands on my breasts and sloppy kisses; I would climb the ladder to the costume loft and lay myself down in taffeta and crushed velvet, chintz, and polyester. The body of a lesser man pinned me above the stage lights, or so I like to think now so I can remember the ones that I did not know, that refused to know me, better.
I won't say they were all the same. But I'm thinking it.
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