I don't know why I remember...

I don’t know why I remember skipping classes in the theater during high school. Most of the kids who had activities in the theater had keys to get in there whenever they wanted. The keys were copies of copies of copies; handed down from each class of students before them.

The theater administrator turned a blind eye, as the previous administrator did when he was a student. He sat in his office in the far back of the auditorium all day, while we remained in the areas backstage. I honestly don’t know if he ever really did any work aside from granting excuses for absences at the end of the quarter for “theater activity work” for missed classes, in exchange for the free labor we provided.

Meanwhile, we would use the backstage as our private locker room and clubhouse. Many simply hung out in the Green Room and relaxed or wasted away the day. Homework was done, gossip was traded, and relationships ended as quickly as they began.

Some, like I, did a little work for the theater to justify skipping that last class. We would spend time organizing stacks of stage lighting gels, adding a coat of paint to an incomplete backdrop for the next production.

Lovers would sneak off into the dark corners of the storage areas; where remnants of past plays and sets were stored; stealing moments of intimacy on an assortment of ancient mattress or couches.

From the theater, we would descend into the catacombs of the school. Filthy, unlit crawlways of pipes passed beneath the halls that the rest of the students walked. Yet we passed beneath their feet; unseen.

When the theater was used, we watched the audience like hawks, keeping their gum and feet off of the seats and walls; student, parent, and teacher alike. We guarded that theater like it was holy ground, because it was. To us.