This blue eye shadow is never  going to come off. I pick a few bits of fake leather off my thighs. As if it weren’t bad enough these pants have a giant rip in the crotch, they make me look like my legs came down with some obscure spotty disease. I don’t feel like digging my socks out of the bottom of my bag, so I leave my ballet flats on. Not ideal shoes for anywhere out of the theater; I can’t find my jazz shoes or I’d have those, they make better character shoes anyway. Ah, well. The dressing room is a chaotic, sweaty mess of costumes and half-naked girls, stuck zippers, used makeup wipes, and bobby pins. So many bobby pins. I gather my hangers, the jacket just barely hanging off the edge. Turn around, where the hell is the costume rack? Oh right, outside, in the hallway. This happened every day. I head out, his costume isn’t back yet, I notice. Good. I’ll be able to see him before he disappears, he always left so quickly. I head upstairs, wiping beads of sweat off my forehead. I always looked such a mess after a show. I head down the dim-lit backstage corridor. One of these is my script. I knew it was smart to mark the edge with highlighter. I try to stuff it into my bag. Somehow, all my stuff fits, with room to spare, when I leave my house. Not so lucky when I return. Anyway, I shove my socks and Soffes to the side, wedge my script in, and push my way out to the lobby. I always hated this, facing the audience, no matter how many friends I had waiting. And I didn’t even have any friends today- it was the middle of the summer, after all. Even my mom and sister were out of town. But I had spotted a few guys and gals earlier who did year shows, so I figured it might be nice to say hi to them. Sure enough, as I open the heavy double doors, there’s a large, loud group of us congratulating, hugging, quoting the show. I scan the crowd for someone who might talk to me, so I can avoid the awkward standing around I always seem to end up doing. In the back of the throng I see a few girls I know well, so I head over to them. But before I’m halfway there someone calls my name, and I hear “Hey! Great job!” I turn. Sure, I know this guy. I wouldn’t say we were close friends, though. “Hey!” I reply, smiling. “Thanks!” I start on towards the girls, but he moves toward me and makes to hug me. Oh. I hug back, flattered, a bit surprised. Sure, I guess we’re friends now. It has been a while since he called me a skanky alley cat, after all.