Prolouge

A controlled spontaneity.

That is exactly what life on stage is. Should something go wrong, you not only have a duty to try and patch it up as best you can, but you have to do it while at the same time progressing with the task at hand. That old adage ‘the show must go on’ has a basis in truth. Keeping the audience in the state that they are in – the altered consciousness, the tranquil happiness, the complete immersion in make-believe – is your chief duty. It could begin raining fire outside, and the audience, entranced by the false realities you parade before them, would never know.

Behind the set, she sits against the back wall, her scene over and not needed again until the end of the show. There are a few sixth graders on this cast, scared newbies who by now are accepted as equals. Mostly, there are eighth graders, taking their last turn in local fame before their jump into high school. She is the one in the middle, like always. Most of her seventh grade friends chose to work on the crew instead of onstage, but she stuck to what she knew.

The back is dark at this run-through, but her eyes are adjusted enough that she can see just fine from the work lights casting light from the sides of the stage. The tile floor on the stage is cracked and broken in many places, with the broken pieces just lying in their places, not held down by anything. She picks up the largest piece in the broken section nearest her, and just plays with it silently, waiting for the cue that means that the whole cast is supposed to assemble onstage for the final curtain call. As she rolls it from hand to hand, warming it up as though it is aware of how cold it is, her mind wanders all over the place – everywhere except where she wants it to wander. She doesn’t want to think about what might happen tonight, when she is – supposedly – safe at home. What might happen later, on the weekend. She pushes tears, yells, screams, cigarette smoke all out of her mind and thinks about something benign instead.

The locker room. She remembers when they were getting changed before rehearsal in the girls’ locker room with the other girls in the cast. A homemade tattoo that wasn’t there a few days ago flashed from Cora Beth’s ankle. Most of Cora Beth’s eighth grade friends were gathered around her, as usual, and all the talk among the younger girls was the tattoo. Not wanting to commit the mortal social sin of being an outsider, at least not at this young age, she had swarmed with the rest of them around Cora Beth, and she had even extended a finger out to touch it. She ran her finger down one side of the homemade heart, trying to keep her curious touch light in case the mark was painful. It did not feel as she expected it to. Warm to the touch, and slightly raised. “Didn’t that hurt,” she had asked Cora Beth. “No,” she had responded, rather flatly. “I’m pretty good at dealing with pain. High tolerance.” It was awesome and gruesome at the same time – that someone would willingly do that to themselves was horrorific, but the sheer boldness of the person that could do that to themselves and stand the pain…what a concept.

She thinks about Cora Beth’s tattoo while she sits behind the scenes in the dark. What is a tattoo but a bunch of little needle pricks, she thinks. Her mother works for a doctor’s office, she’s drawn blood from her a million times. And it doesn’t hurt. What's so different? she lets her train of thought continue. What’s the difference between what she’s got on her ankle and a scar? There isn’t one. It’s just a scar, a very pretty scar.

Absentmindedly she closes her hand around the cold piece of tile while she thinks about Cora Beth’s tattoo. Just a pretty scar. What’s so fascinating about that? Suddenly her placid thoughts turn slightly darker. Just like there’s nothing pretty about this. Waiting in the dark for something to happen. God, I’m so tired of waiting in the dark. Whatever good mood she’s been working on is gone now, vanished as completely as the student population of the school after three-thirty. Something wrenches her stomach and doesn’t let go; the same thing that’s been happening for about the past year. It’s been getting worse and worse, and she doesn’t know how to make it go away. She’s tried screaming, crying, but the tears don’t come. The screams are halfhearted. Nothing helps.

It’s almost as though she doesn’t realize what she’s doing until she’s about to do it. The pointed piece of tile is against the outside of her arm, and before she stops to think about what she’s going to do with it, she presses down and drags the piece of tile down towards her hand. An angry red scratch is left. Without pause, she does it again, this time drawing a thin line of blood to the surface of the scratch.

The sight of the beaded red line brings her back to herself. It's as though she's been asleep in some dream, and is not just coming out of the unconsciousness of sleep. At first, she's horrified at what she's done. For the briefest of seconds, she panics, but then a sense of peace settles over her. The oddest part about it is that she has no idea why. As if all of the...whatever that pressure was that's been building in her chest for the past few months has been somewhat released through those tiny beads. It's frightening. It's a start. It's nothing but a pretty scar, she thinks.

The house lights dim, and she almost misses her cue for curtain call.