Imagined History 2

(This post is mostly fiction – at least the first sentence is true – and part of my participation this month in the Creative Act project. My theme this week is Imagined History.)

When I was a junior in high school, my beautiful friend Lynette talked me into trying out for the school play. I tagged along, mostly to keep her company, and as soon as I got to the audition I realized that I'd made a mistake; these were the people I should have been hanging around with from the beginning.

Although I have a hammy side, and got a part in that first show, I quickly gravitated to the tech crew backstage, drawn by the twin lures of lingo and behind-the-scenes knowledge. It was one of the first times that I felt like I was bringing my whole self to school. I loved learning the tricks of the trade, from hanging and focusing lights to putting up false walls and painting screens to look like almost anything.

By the time I was a senior, I had painted more backdrops than anyone else in the building, and designers were starting to draw with me and my crew in mind. I could make canvas look like marble, plastic look like wood, you name it. There was something so powerful in knowing that I was helping to draw the audience into an alternative universe and keep them there. All I wanted to do was paint.

I should probably have gone directly to a studio. Or maybe an apprentice program.

But in my house, when I was growing up, all the sentences about college started with "when." So I went to college (UMass, sight unseen), and although I had a mostly good experience, I couldn't help but feel out of place.

Coming from a tiny little town, I was used to being a known quantity, and could never really adjust to the opportunities for anonymity that life at a big school offered. And I couldn't get Monica Russ out of my mind.

Monica Russ was only a year older than me in high school, but I might not have known her at all if it hadn't been for drama club. She had dark, almost black hair, deep dark eyes, and beautiful skin. She was the first person my age who used eyeliner in a way that didn't make me roll my eyes in response. Backstage, she quickly became the makeup girl of choice, and in the one play that I did have a role in, was the only one who could do my makeup.

I'd worn glasses for most of my life, had only recently gotten contacts, and never wore makeup. My eyes seemed anxious in a way that was completely beyond my control. As soon as a grease pencil got anywhere near my eyes, they would well up and ruin whatever work had already been done. Somehow Monica, with her easy smile and gentle touch, slipped past my defenses and got the job done.

Students in my school stuck to their class year, so we never really became friends, although I would have liked nothing more. But we did share some poetry, enough to know that we were both serious about it, and a few times she let me share her seat on the bus to and from drama competitions.

Then, suddenly, she was gone. Never having hung out with a senior before, I hadn't known to think ahead and ask about her post-high school plans. And even if I had figured that out, I might not have done it; I got the sense that maybe the sentences in her family didn't all start with "when." I got up the nerve to call her house once, but hung up when a man (her father?) answered. What would I have said? "Hi, I've never called this number before, but I'm a sort of friend of Monica's and I was just wondering where she is now?" I couldn't do it. And then the chance was gone.

So here I was, three years later in a chilly UMass studio art class with a teacher whose work I found completely uninteresting. Trying to concentrate on perspective drawing but instead remembering drama club. Thinking about her sweet hands on my face as she worked to keep my eyes from crying, and wondering again where Monica Russ was now.

(Thanks to the people of the Creative Act project,
to my best friend CD, and to Monica Russ,
wherever she is, for their inspiration.)