Pulled Read Online Free Page B

sighs, and I smell raspberry. She's been eating raspberry flavored something. How can I possibly know that?
     
    I’m so blindly consumed by this foolish girl's every movement that I don’t notice that there are people standing up all around me. It's too early for class to be over, so apparently we’re going somewhere. I wait for her to stand and go in front of me, but she just sits there, frozen; stubborn fool.
     
    Fine, if she won't move, I will. I’ll just follow the line, keep my eyes off her and walk as fast as I can past her. Easy .
     
    But the second I’m beside her, I find my legs won't budge. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her flinch. Grinding my teeth, I try desperately to move my feet.
     
    After what feels like an eternity, they do, but not of my own will. Someone has bumped into me, presumably unaware that I had just stopped dead in my tracks. The guy behind me doesn’t hit me hard, but it’s enough to get me free from her apparent pull on me.
     
    Once out the door, I jump to the head of the line, needing to keep as much distance between us as possible, ignoring the nagging ache in my stomach that gets stronger with each step I take away from her.
     
    We head up the stairs to the Main Stage. As the freshmen ‘oh’ and ‘ah’ over the magnificence of the newly-renovated theatre, I manage to slide into a seat in the front row. Naya comes in last, her head bowed down, afraid to look at me. Good. Stay away from the freak.
     
    “ We’ll be coming here a lot this semester,” Professor Krane says, gesturing to the stage with her hands. “Putting make-up on yourselves or someone else under typical fluorescent lighting is one thing. Seeing how that same make-up looks under these lights,” she says pointing up “is the real test of the art.” She hops up onto the lip of the stage and sits.
     
    “ Today we’re looking at your blank slate: your face without stage make-up.” She jumps off the stage and puts her hands dramatically on her plump hips, grinning smugly. “You’re each going to take turns standing in the light while those in the house take notes about the way you look under them.”
     
    “ I don’t get it,” I hear from a student in the row in back of me.
     
    “ Everyone has imperfections,” she continues, as though expecting the confusion. “The stage lights only magnify those. Sometimes we can’t tell what areas show us in a 'less than favorable light,' so to speak, so our comments will serve to help you all with areas you'll need to focus on when applying make-up.”
     
    She wants us to publicly ridicule one another: wonderful . I can't wait to hear what they have to say about me. No amount of make-up will ever hide my scars.
     
    Professor Krane starts to hand out packets filled with pages and pages of nothing more than an empty outline of a generic looking face.
     
    “ As each of you comes up, I want you to say your name. For those of you who are seated, write down the person’s name on stage. Then simply draw or comment on what you see about their face.” She pauses to let the grumbling pass.
     
    “ Now, I know we’re not all artists; that’s not the point. Just draw the best you can, or simply write down your thoughts, but be as honest as you can.” More uncomfortable whispers ensue.
     
    “ Although this project is totally anonymous,” she cautions,“ it doesn't give you free rein to hurt someone’s feelings. That’s not the point of this exercise. This is a tool meant to help you identify areas you need to work on as an actor. It’s easy. I’ll go first.” She climbs back on stage again and stands in the light.
     
    “ My name is Professor Krane.” No one does a thing. “Put my name down on one of your sheets and tell me what my flaws are,” she insists. “Help me figure out what I need to work on.”
     
    Not a single pencil moves.
     
    “ Oh come on! Start with my huge nose.” There’s a lone chuckle in the darkness. “I know it’s