class of 2013 ✓

07 | combustion

Aria lived and breathed under the limelight, which is no surprise she had taken a liking to theatre. Not as a performer—though I used to joke that she was so dramatic she might as well have been an actor—but as a fan that sometimes helped with the behind-the-scenes productions, like prop building or directing.

To put it lightly, the auditorium is a vast void—consisting of two separate tiers—a balcony and ground level that are filled with cushiony red seats. Before she died, I remember coming with her to different shows, a bucket of buttery popcorn between us as the magic erupted on stage, commanding our attention. We didn't spend much time together. This auditorium held some of the fondest memories I had of her.

Sinking further in the velvet chair, I'm 10 again, watching her marvel in awe as backup dancers graced the stage in their extravagant costumes. Between the two of us, she's definitely the prettier sister with a hair deathly voluminous, cascading like a silky noir waterfall down her pronounced collarbones. Skin peachy and kissed by the sun God Helios himself—so bright that even in the darkest rooms, she glowed. Not to mention a supermodel bone structure that could put the most famous sculptures to shame. Really, she unfairly inherited all the good genes. Meanwhile, I was stuck working with the bottom of the barrel I was given.

At that moment, she looked ethereal. Surreal. Most importantly—happy.

I wonder what went wrong.

She didn't leave a suicide note before she passed.

"Great! Both of you are here," the theatre director, Ms. Channing yells from her balcony, reeling me back from my thoughts. "Can you guys get onto the stage?"

Blaise is first up the creaky wooden stairs that seem to be hanging on by a thread. Seriously, they shake with every small movement. Teetering with my arms stretched out for balance, I quietly swear under my breath.

I guess Blaise seems to sense that I'm struggling because he offers me a hand, which I kindly refuse.

"I see how it is," he mutters so quietly I barely catch it.

"I don't need your help," I declare a little too quickly, finally fumbling onto the main portion of the stage that's a lot more stable.

"Alright kiddos, since you're all settled down, let me tell you what I need you to do. I have a little project for y'all. Those boards," she points to large wooden slabs behind us, as she rushes down the steps, "need to be decorated for the play. The theme is The Daughters of Atreus. Be creative. I need to take care of some technical stuff right now with one of my actors, but I'll check in on you guys later."

The door slams shut before I can open my mouth to say something.

Wasting no time at all, I claim the smaller of the two boards for myself. Off to the side are various paints, palettes, and cups of water. Without much thought, I grab a palette, starting at the empty canvas, unsure of what to draw.

The theme should be something related to Greek mythology. What kind of backdrops are there in Greece? Ruins? A colosseum?

A coliseum sounds doable.

By no means am I an artsy person, but I make do with the skills I already have. Gliding the brush against the surfaces, I intentionally make messy strokes to accentuate the shadows.

Minutes pass. Brushes dancing on cardstock. Paint smearing to create a cohesive story.

When I'm done, I walk backward and admire my work. It's not my best by a long shot, the colors aren't blended that well and some of the lines should be sharper, but I like it's decent for the amount of time I've been given.