With Wings

5

The drama hallway, in the minutes immediately before an Ex began, was the best place to be.

Our school did actually have uniforms for events like these (which the drama kids and musical theatre kids were exempt from, since they had to perform), so there was something just unique and special and formal and... there's no way to describe it. It was exciting and unusual and dressed-up, like a holiday, almost, with an extra crackle of tension and sparkle of anticipation; exhilirating to be in school, in our uniforms, seeing each other, when it was already dark outside; something joyous in being here by choice and not by force, in getting ready to give a one-night show of what we knew, without a doubt, we wanted to spend the rest of our lives doing.

And because the drama hallway also contained the door that led backstage, that was where everyone huddled, cramming in their last few minutes of practice or preparation before we went out; girls in short, pleated skirts and sheer black tights with their violins or cellos or flutes, huddling over their sheet music in quartets or quintents; guys in their wool pants sweating profusely, reciting their speeches for when they presented their sketches or paintings or photos; girlfriends and boyfriends adjusting the ties and collars of their girlfriends or boyfriends; Opal pacing and going over her sheet music one last time; and damn she looked good in a skirt, but it went past her knee and her tights were opaque, not see-through like the other girls'.

"Hey," I said coming up next to her. She shot a quick glance at me and smiled slightly. "Hey," she said, and then quickly resumed her scanning of her sheet music and her pacing. I leaned back against the wall, crossed my arms, and watched her, trying not to fidget as the silence dragged on for five seconds... ten seconds... fifteen...

Nothing wrong with silence, I tried to remind myself. Nothing wrong with it. Just take a breath. Wait until it's comfortable. But, all the same, I could feel sweat starting to prick at the back of my neck. Opal doesn't want to talk to you, I told myself. She wants to read her sheet music. Don't. Say. Anything. Keep. Your mouth. Shut. How long had it been now? It had to have been at least sixty seconds. And it was becoming unbearable...

"Hey," Sam said, skipping up to me. She nodded at Opal but didn't greet her. At least Opal nodded back. The two of them, despite Sam's repeated attempts at openness and friendliness and brightness, never managed to hit it off. Sam eventually got the hint and dropped the greeting and efforts at conversation, although she still remained civil for my sake. "We're getting ready to go on now."

"Yeah?" I asked, running a hand quickly through my hair, trying to wipe the sweat away. Opal had stopped pacing now, but her eyes were practically drilling holes into The Winged Plea. Sam, however, observant as always, squinted slightly at me but didn't say anything. I wondered whether she knew the real reason for which I was nervous or thought it was because of Opal. "I still need to get my wings on. Can you help me?"

Sam shook her head frantically. "I'm wearing mine," she said, pointing to her back. "I won't be able to fit through the door."

I frowned slightly. "No, you should be able to fit just fine. We tested them, remem-"

Sam shot a quick glance at Opal to make sure that she wasn't looking, then kicked my foot hard. "Ow," I said, and she immediately kicked me again. I got the point this time and kept my mouth shut. 'Ask her,' she mouthed.

'What?' I mouthed back.

She rolled her eyes and, greatly exaggerating her enunciation, mouthed again, 'ASK. HER.'

'Ohhhhhh,' I mouthed, and then said out loud, "Opal?"

She looked up from her music. "Mhm?"

"Can you help me get my wings on?" I asked her.