Page 34 of Brushed and Buried
When the actors arrive for rehearsal, Vince retreats to the wings like he’s seeking shelter. I want to tell him he doesn’t have to hide, that theater people are generally more accepting than the cafeteria crowd he usually navigates. But something about his posture, shoulders hunched and arms crossed, suggests this isn’t the timefor reassurance.
I wipe my hands on a rag and head for the stage. I have a small part in this production, not the lead, but a solid supporting role that lets me stretch my acting muscles. As I take my place under the lights, I catch a glimpse of Vince in the shadows, watching with an expression I can’t quite read.
The scene is one of my favorites, a moment where my character finally finds the courage to speak his truth. I’ve been working on it for weeks, finding the emotional core beneath the Shakespearean language. Tonight, something clicks. The words flow like they belong to me, like they’ve been waiting in my chest all along.
From the wings, Vince doesn’t move. He doesn’t even seem to breathe.
When the scene ends, I catch his eye across the darkness. For just a moment, his carefully constructed walls drop, and I see something raw and wondering in his expression. It’s like he’s witnessing something he didn’t know was possible.
The moment passes. Vince looks away, and when I glance back during the next scene, he’s gone.
This becomes our routine. Three days a week, Vince appears backstage with paint under his fingernails and questions about color theory that he pretends are purely practical. He learns to mix the perfect shade of forest green, and masters the art of dry-brushing texture onto artificial bark. His technique improves with each session, but more importantly, his comfort level grows.
He starts talking while we work. They are small things at first, like complaints about Coach Peterson’s new training regimenand some funny stories about his teammates’ latest stupidity. Then come the deeper things, offered in the safe darkness of the backstage world. His father’s expectations. The pressure of everyone watching, waiting for him to be great. The way he sometimes feels like he’s performing even when he’s not on a field.
“I know what you mean,” I say one afternoon, adding highlights to a painted moon. “Sometimes I think I’m more myself when I’m pretending to be someone else.”
Vince pauses in his brushwork. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“Doesn’t it?” I meet his eyes. “When you’re up there, throwing a perfect pass, don’t you sometimes feel like you’re playing a part? The golden boy quarterback everyone expects you to be?”
Something shifts in Vince’s expression. It’s not agreement, not exactly, but recognition.
We work in comfortable silence after that, the kind of quiet that feels full rather than empty. I find myself looking forward to these sessions in a way that has nothing to do with the art and everything to do with the way Vince’s presence settles something restless in my chest.
During rehearsals, Vince becomes a permanent fixture in the wings. He learns the rhythms of the production, anticipates scene changes, and even helps with quick costume adjustments when needed. Mrs. Crawford jokes that she’s never seen a star student athlete take to theater so naturally.
“Maybe I should recruit more athletes,” she muses one evening, watching Vince carefully adjust a backdrop between scenes.
“Maybe youshould,” I agree, though something possessive in my chest rebels at the idea of sharing this space with anyone else.
One evening, after a particularly intense rehearsal, I find Vince still sitting in the back row of the auditorium. The stage lights are off, the other students long gone. Just the two of us in the cavernous space.
“Good show tonight,” Vince says quietly.
I drop into the seat beside him, suddenly exhausted. “Thanks. Though I think I flubbed that line in the second act.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You weren’t supposed to.” I grin. “That’s the point.”
We sit in comfortable silence, breathing in the lingering energy of the performance. I can feel Vince looking at me, not the quick, stolen glances I’ve gotten used to, but a real look, considering and careful.
“I never understood it before,” Vince says finally.
“What?”
“This.” Vince gestures toward the empty stage. “Why would anyone want to get up there and…be someone else? It seemed like lying to me.”
I turn to study Vince’s profile in the dim light. “And now?”
“Now I think maybe it’s the most honest thing you can do.” Vince’s voice is so quiet I have to strain to hear it. “Showing people all the parts of yourself you’re too scared to let them see otherwise.”
The words hit me somewhere deep and unexpected. I want to say something profound, something that matches thevulnerability of what Vince just offered. Instead, I reach over and squeeze Vince’s shoulder, a brief touch that somehow says everything I can’t.
Vince doesn’t pull away.
The memory dissolves as someone drops their coffee cup at a nearby table, the ceramic shattering against tile with a sound like breaking glass. I startle back to the present, heart hammering against my ribs.
