Girl in the Shadows (13 page)

“Famous last words.”

fifteen

When I emerged from the dressing room into the costume trailer’s small sea of fabric, sequins, zippers, and feathers on the day of our first Memphis shows, I was still glowing from the effect of my brand-new mask.

Dita was in the other dressing room. We’d agreed to keep the results of our costuming experiments a surprise for each other too, until that evening’s performances.

“Do you like it?” Sunshine asked. The head costumer was in a flowy, flowery dress she’d almost certainly designed and sewn. Her multihued hair was piled on top of her head in a precarious twist adorned with sequined bugs she’d also clearly made herself. Before I could respond, she called out, “Dita, you have to tell me if anything needs adjusting! I’m assuming the silence means you’re in love with it!”

There was no response, but the costumer seemed unconcerned by this and turned back to me. “Well?”

“It’s perfect,” I said.

And it was: black, sparkly, mysterious. I felt more magical the moment I put it on. The eyes were cat-shaped. As I’d requested, it hugged tight to my face, the light plastic lining shaping itself to my skin from above the eyes to the apples of my cheeks, so it wouldn’t create any issues or get displaced when I pulled the straitjacket on and off. Not unless things got uncharacteristically violent.

“I knew it would be,” she said, not cocky, just confident in her abilities. “Let me know if you want me to improve upon your jacket. I have some ideas for hidden pockets I want to test.” She maneuvered away through the racks to supervise one of her staff, hard at work at a sewing station that clacked and buzzed.

Dita stayed quiet in the dressing room, and I decided not to bug her or rush her. I was eager to see how her new costume had come out—but not enough to violate the sanctity of our pact.

The costume trailer was apparently always busy. People kept ducking in and out to pick up alterations, and now Jules waltzed in, drawing attention like she always did, even though she was in simple practice clothes.

“I’m here for the fix-up,” she said.

“Just a sec, princess,” Sunshine said.

Jules sighed and shifted from foot to foot, looking around . . . Her eyes landed on me, and she smiled and came over. I knew Dita wanted to keep the costume thing quiet until later.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

I was saved from answering by Dita’s voice. “She’s with me,” she called from inside the dressing room.

“And what are
you
doing here?” Jules asked, interested, fixing on the curtain.

“None of your business,” Dita sang out.

Jules looked almost injured. From behind the curtain, Dita amended: “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m trying on a new costume. Don’t tell, though, not until tonight.”

“A new costume?” Jules asked. “You’re wearing it tonight?”

The costumer swooped through the racks to us and passed Jules a garment bag. She also made clear she was eavesdropping. “So it fits! I knew it would. I can’t wait to see it on.”

“Me too,” Jules said, accepting the bag.

“Now go,” Dita said, “and
don’t tell
. I don’t want to have to fight about it with Mom. It’s going to be a surprise. No one will see it until the act.”

Until it was too late for anyone—read, her mom—to stop her from wearing it.

Jules shrugged, but there was still an odd look on her face. “Not telling. And going,” she said, and she did, with a nod to the costumer.

After a few more moments, the curtain to the second dressing room slid across its wobbly rod, and Dita finally stepped out. A garment bag was draped over her arm. I wasn’t sure at first why she’d shooed Jules so forcefully, but then I noticed that her face was blotchy. I’d have thought she’d been crying and wanted to hide it, except for how bright her brown eyes were. They danced. It was the kind of ridiculous thing someone would think about the duke in one of my borrowed romance novels, but that didn’t make it less apt.

“Do you like it?” I asked. “I think you like it.”

“Of course she likes it,” Sunshine said. “This may be my favorite costume I’ve ever designed. I can’t wait to see it tonight.”

Dita ducked her head a little. “It makes me nervous how everyone will react.”

“If they aren’t idiots, they’ll love it,” Sunshine said. “Now get out of here and let us work.”

The late afternoon Memphis skies rained sun down on us outside. “You’re clear on tonight?” I said to Dita.

“Are you sure about going through with this?” she asked.

“Yes, I am absolutely convinced. Raleigh might let me do this in a month or two, when the season’s wrapping up. But that will be too late.” I couldn’t afford to play it safe. A success onstage would give me the confidence to finally call Dad.

That was what I was telling myself at least.

She swung the garment bag around. “I know my part. I hate to miss your show, though.”

Dita would have to miss it if she was going to be on Raleigh distraction duty.

“You’ll catch it next time,” I said. “Yes, I’m assuming there will be a next time.”

“And Dez is your assistant. By the way, are you just making out, or is it serious?”

I made a face at her. “Brandon’s helping too, with crowd control and sound design.” When Dita looked at me with a question on her face, I said, “Gathering in people to watch and starting the music. Helping doesn’t mean anything serious.”

Except in Dez’s case. I knew he meant it as a testimonial to his dedication to pursuing whatever was between us.

“Whatever you say. Just don’t die
or
lose track of time tonight—I need you there to protect me when Mom sees this costume.” She didn’t sound as nervous as before. A big grin appeared, creasing her face and showing off gleaming white teeth. I’d never seen her like this, with joy spilling out.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Also, dying is for when we’re eighty. I’d rather be”—I lifted my hands to frame the words—“the Miraculous Moira, the girl who cheats death.”

I visualized the glass coffin I’d escape from in my mind. Everything would go exactly as planned.

Except that night Dez was late.

The dimly lit backstage area of Raleigh’s tent featured two dressing tables with makeup out on them, some trunks and racks, and other random detritus that tended to accumulate in the prep area for a show. I paced around the edges of my glass coffin, a final check for any gaps or problems that I might have missed when I’d assembled it in the shadows back here a few minutes before.

The medium-sized trunk the coffin was stored in when it was collapsed sat nearby. My phone was in the cradle of the Wi-Fi speakers on top of it, ready to blare out my sound track.

Brandon had been right on time, twenty minutes ago, and was out front luring us a crowd. And there was—thankfully—no sign whatsoever of Raleigh. Or his assistant, who
never
came to work early. She seemed disgruntled about having to show up period, anywhere, on anyone’s schedule but her own. We should be safely onstage before she appeared to apply her makeup and don her voodoo-queen costume. Assuming Dez ever got here.

He rushed in through the tent flaps then, and I turned my back to him so he wouldn’t see my relief that he’d shown up.

Whew.

“I forgot to ask before . . . What if you can’t get out?” His question was breathless. “What do I do then?”

The last thing I wanted was Dez coming near the coffin after I was locked inside. I was letting him be my assistant, but I wouldn’t risk hurting him again.

“I will get out, so don’t worry about it. I can hold my breath for up to five minutes, but I won’t need to.” When I’d first started, I’d practiced getting out of the straitjacket in a small space by finding a stray phone booth left over from ancient times. I’d held my breath and simulated with the straitjacket unbuckled many times in my room at home. My room, where the bulk of my walk-in closet’s walls had been covered in blueprints and sketches and designs for various illusions I had in mind—hidden by my clothes. Dad never bothered to go in there. And Dad’s suppliers never questioned why I wanted something made or any questions I had.

“Stop ignoring me,” Dez said.

I finished my inspection and turned to him with a smile.

“Um, wow,” he said. He wore the oddest expression. And that was hardly his most articulate sentence ever.

“What? Do I have something on my face? Am I bleeding out my eyeballs?” He still just stood there. “Do you have brain fever?”

“I might.”

“I hope not. That would be inconvenient. You’re my lovely assistant. All you have to do is”—I ticked the things off on the fingers of my right hand, in case he’d forgotten—“make sure the straps are tight, hold my arm as I get into the coffin, then cross the stage and hit the clock timer. Oh, and make sure Brandon starts the music on cue.” I had one finger left, so I added, “And look pretty. Got it?”

“I always look pretty,” he said.

Tonight he wore a vest with nothing underneath and snug black pants, an outfit that looked like something out of one of those male stripper movies. I couldn’t dispute what he said. He did look pretty.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t protest. “Stop gaping at me. Are you sure about the brain fever?”

“You . . . That mask,” he said. “You look like a superhero.”

“No, I look like a magician.”

When I turned my back on him again, I smiled wider. I could be a superhero magician, like Zatanna, in comic books.

Brandon appeared from the other side of the curtain. He always seemed mellow to a fault, so the nervous energy radiating off him was striking.

“Everything set out there?” I asked.

“I got your crowd,” he said, tugging on Dez’s arm. He whispered something into his ear, and I tried not to be offended.

Dez had a grave expression, but when he saw me looking, he pasted a smile over it. Brandon, done with whatever he’d had to say, disappeared back behind the curtain to his post.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“He just wanted me to know there’s a good crowd.”

I must have telegraphed my skepticism.

“No, really. We probably should get moving.”

He was right, and their shared concerns were none of mine.

“Showtime,” I said.

He hurried around to the far end of the coffin, which had slides on the bottom to allow us to move it more easily. Once we had it in place, we only had to turn the bolts again so it wouldn’t move. I held the curtain aside, and Dez pushed it onto center stage. I put the oversized clock in place beside it, and shook out the straitjacket. The lighting was already set, moodily dim, but bright enough on the coffin to show every tortured movement I made inside it.

Brandon ducked in at the back of the empty tent.

“Let them in,” I told him.

Brandon hesitated. “You’re ready?”

“Go ahead,” Dez said.

At Dez’s word, Brandon actually moved to do it. Annoying.

As the first people wandered in to take their seats, I remembered I shouldn’t stand here gawking. I waved for Dez to follow, and we went back behind the black curtains with Raleigh’s spooky designs on them. That meant Dez stood right behind me. The heat of his body seemed to penetrate through my light black clothes, thin and flexible enough to allow room for maneuvering in the straitjacket. I smelled that boy/soap smell, with a little sweat mixed in.

“I like the mask,” he said.

His mouth was near my ear. And I . . . didn’t run or stay still this time. I angled my head the slightest fraction to the side, so that his lips pressed gently against my neck.

The result was a small noise from one of us—me or him, I couldn’t swear which of us made it. Not and be right.

Maybe it was both of us.

I stepped away, not wanting to, and peered through the curtain. “Full house,” I said, swallowing. It was. Every row filled. Brandon might be annoying, but he was good at rustling up a crowd.

A woman in the front row with long brilliant-red dyed hair—no one’s hair was that shade in real life—fixed her eyes right where I was, having seen the curtain shift. I dropped it. Amateur hour on my part.

“Moira,” Dez said, “I want to kiss you.”

The fact that I wanted that too scared me.
Distraction. Misdirection.
They were for other people, not for me. I had a goal.

“Not now. We’re on the clock,” I said. “Just look pretty.”

“For you, anything,” he said, an echo of his earlier words.

“What are you doing here?” Raleigh’s assistant wasn’t
always
so late apparently. Of course this would be the day when she discovered promptness was an option.

“Um.” I pivoted on my heel and then forced myself to channel Dad when he was in show mode. “I’m opening for you.”

There must have been enough authority in it that she believed me. She shrugged. “Whatever.”

In case Raleigh showed up early like she had, I said, “We’re on.”

Dez held the curtain to one side so I could step through. I lifted a hand high in the air, the straitjacket dangling from it as I strode into view of the crowd.

The audience applauded. All except that woman in the front row, who was cool and expressionless. I knew the type from Dad’s shows—a critic who would have to be mightily impressed before she gave a hint of appreciation. She had bare arms and a tattoo on her bicep, a snake wound into some odd shape that was roughly oval.