The Boob Circle
The Boob Circle
Written by Lucy Latorre
Art by Izzy Maher
“We’re doing the Boob Circle.”
The news would be passed around in whispers, head nods, and gestures. Even if we were expected on stage in 30 minutes, this simple command stopped any and all last-minute wig fixes or dress zipping. We would gather in the girl’s dressing room in as perfect of a circle as we could make, readying ourselves for our tradition.
Theater people are often convinced that if they don’t follow a complex series of steps before a show, something will go horribly wrong. The girls in my high school drama club more than subscribed to the theory. Behind the scenes of our small-budget musicals and half-baked plays was a deep, deep sense of superstition.
Our ritual went as follows: You placed your hands on the boobs of the girls next to you, one to your right and the other to your left. Then, those girls adjoining you put one of their hands on each of your boobs. This cycle continued until every girl in the room was connected by breast. From there, the senior girls would begin a prayer for a dry stage. Let there be no bodily fluids of any kind on the stage tonight. No piss, shit, cum, blood, or milk. And remember, whenever the boys fuck up, we can fix it! We’d chant the words in perfect unison, releasing our hands, hoping that our tradition pleased whoever it was we were praying to.
Along with our ritualistic chanting and breast-touching, my drama club was famous for its gossip. I remember hearing stories about high schoolers when I was still in middle school. So and so got cut from such and such! Gossip became half of the fun of drama club, so once I hit high school I was ready to dive right in. I got my wish in junior year, when I became wrapped up in a multi-layered web of intense theatrical drama. It surrounded a boy, as some of the best high school dramas do. The Boy had only recently become attractive after finally figuring out how to turn his general air of greasiness into something halfway sexy. One January night at a choir rehearsal, he took off his sweatshirt. Underneath, a tight grey t-shirt gripped his torso, his newly-bulky arms shining in a post-gym glow. Two senior girls tied for loudest gasps: Chloe and Anna, the two main stars of the drama club, and therefore mortal enemies. To make matters worse, they were set to play Donna and Sophie in our production of Mamma Mia.
Anna was a stoner. She was incredibly talented, sure, but we all knew she was high at rehearsals even if our teacher didn’t. Still, she was so cool that her carefree nature didn't matter. Any possible critique of her unpreparedness melted away the moment she started talking to you. She was cool outside of the club, too. She went to parties and hung out with jocks and cheerleaders. That was a huge feat for a drama club member. Chloe, on the other hand, was as goody-two-shoes as they came. She felt motherly, with big doe eyes and a voice like Snow White. When I think of her, I picture her stroking the hair of someone breaking down in tears. That, or making someone who wronged her break down in tears. Steadfast and passionate, Chloe took charge wherever she could, whether it was the stage or the classroom. One dominated with her bright personality, the other with her cunning mind. The only things they had in common were that they were both blonde sopranos which in our little theater world effectively made them the same person.
Once the rumors of Chloe and Anna’s attraction to The Boy hit drama club, it seemed to split us down the middle, with various allegiances to either girl popping up left and right. I found myself in Chloe’s inner circle. Our teacher called them “The Witches,” which was great news for me, a wayward Macbeth begging for guidance. A cross between their daughter and their protégé, I was taken under their wing and soon spent my nights driving around town with them, finding empty public restrooms to sing in. The acoustics were always the best in public restrooms.
Being around those girls furthered my love for gossip. With them, everything was rumors. Spreading them, hearing them, loving them. On the opposing team, Anna had an upper hand. She had been seeing The Boy, even kissing him, the first step to a move that could solidify her place in the competition. This simply wouldn’t do. In retaliation, we constantly plotted how to get The Boy to end up with Chloe, finding every outlet to put them in the same place at the same time. As much as we were dedicated to putting on a production of Mamma Mia, we were twice as dedicated to making sure Chloe came out on top.
Our work paid off shortly before the show opened, and despite his budding fling with Anna, The Boy found his way to Chloe. Every time she revealed a bright red hickey, we felt a maddening rush of satisfaction as if it was our own. The Boy seemed to have completely abandoned Anna. On opening night, he showed up with a bouquet of flowers. We were set to perform our show outside because of Covid restrictions, so our dressing room was a series of tents. I remember seeing him through the tent’s sorry excuse for a window. He was warped by the plastic, but the bouquet gripped tight in his hands was unmistakable. Everything my friends and I had fought for was falling into place. Chloe won, and everyone was going to find out.
When I saw the flowers, I didn’t feel a rush of relief that Chloe had ended up with The Boy. I felt a rush of excitement to watch everything fall apart for Anna. She must’ve seen them, or at least heard about it second hand. She must have cried somewhere, surrounded by her ever-thinning group of allies. I wish I knew for sure what happened after she realized she had lost for good, but I was numb to anything that even resembled empathy towards her. So lost in the maze of boys and drama and hickeys, I forgot Anna was a girl, too. My obsession with gossip robbed me of a friendship with her.
I think Chloe was robbed of one, as well. But I don’t blame her for it. Her and Anna had been at odds since Anna scored slightly higher at the 5th grade talent show. As they matured, their ranges mirrored each other until they were almost identical. Every solo was an assumed race between the two of them. Sure, others popped up and took roles here and there, but they knew they were no Chloe or Anna. Maybe their fight for The Boy was a fight for something bigger. To be a woman in theater, you must out-perform everyone around you until you are the last woman standing. This idea of being mean and backstabbing other women becomes part of the game. If you’re talented enough, you’re allowed to be a bitch because you’ve fought the hardest to get there. So, you get the roles. You win the boys. You end up on top. There can’t be any other blonde sopranos beside you. But that’s just the culture, right?
But that was never the culture for any of the boys. They had no need to ruthlessly compete with one another. They had the ability to be the “best boy” by doing the absolute bare minimum. Boys were so few and far between that there seemed to be unlimited roles for them. Sometimes, my teacher would pull a random boy from the hallway and convince him to be one of the leads. For boys, mediocrity is all that is necessary. Girls have to make an impression in elementary school to even be considered in high school, purely because it is next to impossible to stand out in the oversaturated casting pool. Then, once college comes around, the pool grows exponentially, and standing out feels impossible. You’re at every audition shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of blonde sopranos. You become a look, a talent, a caricature. The entire cycle starts over again. But that’s just the culture.
I want to talk to the girl who invented the Boob Circle. I’m convinced she knows something I don’t, which pains me as someone who is, despite all of these harrowing realizations, still a bit of a gossip. Did she have her own Chloe and Anna? Was she able to see through the catfights? When she stripped it all back, was she shocked to see the pain and suffering boiling underneath, or did she know the whole time? Maybe, if I guess right, she’ll let me in on her secret.
I think the Boob Circle was meant to be nothing but a moment between women. A solemn moment for a deep, connected breath. When we all held boobs, it didn’t matter who was mad at who. Nothing existed but the bodies around us. We were finally focused on a common goal, removed from whatever was going on outside of the circle. I think, at its core, the Boob Circle is an acknowledgement, a way to finally see each other as humans, not competition. We unite in a cry for solidarity, chanting at the top of our lungs. For those next three hours, nothing else mattered but each other.
That night, our Sophie and Donna put on a near-perfect performance. No bodily fluids were anywhere on the stage. Whenever the boys fuck up, we can fix it.