We've got the fire, who's got the matches?
Take a look around at the sea of masks
Come one, come all, welcome to the grand ball
Where the strong run for cover and the weak stand tall

I'm not one to scare the masses
But there's somethings that melt the plastic
Try and dig down deeper if you can!

I'm not afraid, I'm not ashamed
I'm not to blame. Welcome to the masquerade!

“Masquerade”-Thousand Foot Krutch

There was still a short ways to go.

The dark hallway held only silence in itself. The only relenting sound came from the incessant click-click-click and thump-stomp-thump of our shoes hitting the linoleum at uneven intervals. I could barely make out the shapes of those around me: some tall, others short, a few plump, others simply skin and bones. How they were built would decide their final role.

My nose wrinkled as everyone journeyed further into the gloom. Mold? Mildew? Who knew?

The masses ventured forth until a small rectangle of light opened ahead. Excited whispers filled the now dimly lit corridor as light crept in, shining over our faces. Looking around, I could see the plain faces of everyone I had known since childhood, undone and unpolished.
Not much longer now.

The footsteps became hurried as the herd got more excited. Voices grew from whispers to shouts and shoulder bumping became continual shoving as the shaky semblance of camaraderie was quickly forgotten. I joined and pushed through the crowd into the light. The luminescence shone up a long staircase covered with young men and women desperate to get to the final destination.

Soon enough I was one of those youth, plundering my way up the staircase as woops of laughter and joy pealed around me. I let out some of my inner hysteria, and it instantly melded in with the fast-growing cacophony. The musty stench from the depths was beginning to fade, and the light glowed like starlight as the bulbs winked and glimmered at those passing by and ever upward.

Almost there.

The air cleared into a sweet musk of spices and anticipation as we burst forth from the stairwell onto a filling stage. A hastened glance would reveal the stage to be one of a debuting play or musical, perhaps. There was a beautiful –almost lifelike, one could say- backdrop painted and positioned at the back of the stage. Chairs and desks were systematically positioned around center stage and stage left. Any other props were interspersed without rhyme or reason, as if someone set them down to rest and never picked them back up.

I glanced around as the last of the people filtered onto the stage; they were just like me: plainly dressed, no make-up, no jewelry, no individuality. Everyone, despite their varying sizes, was a blank slate, down to the black shoes encasing their feet. There was such sweet comfort in our alikeness. I, as well as every other person on stage, started to calm the excitement down to a simmer as the door shut behind the last person. We might almost get along if we tried.

Then, out of the blue, the coordinators showed up. They were tailed by their esteemed assistants carrying a multitude black suitcases, bureaus, and wardrobes in their wake.
The time had come.
As soon as their feet graced the stage, each coordinator set their luggage up into stations along the length of the well-aged platform. Groups of youth gathered around each station according to their last name, and the excitement started to sizzle in the air again. The artists went to work.

I was third in my station and patiently awaited my fitting. My eyes were affixed to the curious sight unfolding before me. I had previously read from many different sources of the entire process at length. Seeing and reading were two entirely different things. Who knew it was so…transforming?

The first girl got about halfway through her ‘makeover’ before the struggling began. Everything was so tight she began to whine and try to make things fit her properly. She was about to ruin all of their precious work, so the coordinators held her fast to wait it out. Her impatient feet thudded on the floor until everything was in a place and set. Really, the end result was quite impressive.

The next one up was much easier because his new look fit him perfectly, almost like a glove. He was broad-shouldered, so he was dressed and designed to be an athlete. From the looks of it, he would be popular.
Finally I was up for my work to be done. Anxiety exploded in my throat and trickled down into my stomach with sharp icicles as the elder coordinator’s crooked finger motioned me over with a polished nail. She was easy to label from a distance: she was fashioned to be a popular, cliquish girly-girl. Something in her manner told me she once struggled with the procedure too.

I trudged up to the portable bureau and slunk into the chair.
“Trance Adams?”
“Yes Ma’am,” was my only reply.

Without a second’s hesitation, the coordinator and her assistants went to work. I was poked and prodded as they measured me and worked through exactly what I was going to be. I simply sat there and took it.
The old lady gasped in sudden revelation, “She’ll be a bookworm!”

At this, the real action began. My hair was brushed into six plaits and pulled into two tight braids at the back of my skull. Assistants dressed me in a plaid skirt paired with a conservative navy blouse and black sweater. I dressed right there on stage, but no one minded. No one would mind, until they were assigned a personality.
The assistants hastily moved on to makeup with me. I felt a twinge inside when they announced me to be ‘as plain as humanly possible.’ I quickly killed the feeling before anyone could see my reaction. Having a feeling before a personality was dangerous. I was to be anything but.

I was vaguely relieved when it was decided simple eyeliner was to be painted on my face along with light lip-gloss. The whole transition was finished with red hair bows, thick-framed glasses, a huge stack of scholarly books, and my assigned biography.

I casually sat at one of the individual tables and read through my profile. I was to be shy, sharp-witted, socially awkward, love reading and clarinet playing, be legally blind without corrective lenses, and have an allergy to gluten. As each trait passed before my now weakening eyes, I instantly snapped into focus to become the new Trance Adams: socially impaired bookworm without an ounce of confidence in her body.

As I tried to get into character, the last few people were being finished and were wandering towards their seats. In front of me was a larger table with a nameplate reading ‘Ms. Potts’ and an impossibly shiny red apple resting upon it. As I was pondering what era the neoclassical desk was built in, something small and wet plinked and stuck to one of my braids.

“Ewww!” I screeched as I pulled a spit wad out of my now slimy braid. I twisted around and glared behind me at a greaser in his leather jacket who cheekily waved back.

Shouts of ‘nerd’ and ‘geek’ flew all around the stage until the very last person was done. She jumped up from her chair and sprinted behind the front table. Her volition and determination were surprising.

“Class! Class! Stop picking on…what’s your name?” Her freshly attuned eyes burned into me with furious wonder.

“Trance,” I weakly replied.

“That’s right! Stop picking on Trance! She doesn’t appreciate it and neither do I!” She threw her arms up in exasperation and glanced at the clock on the backdrop, her face twitching with bright enthusiasm. “All right, everybody! Class is about to begin! Take your respective places!”

The curtain drew itself back with a whoosh and the audience beyond quickly hushed their conversations to a dull murmur. I cast my eyes down in embarrassment at Ms. Potts’ attempt to rescue me. I spotted a paper that must have fluttered from off her desk during her sudden outburst.

It read “Opening Morning! Welcome to our society’s special production of ‘Westmont High School!’”