At First Bite (6 page)

I spend the next two days on pins and needles.

I jot down costume ideas in my notebook, and observe Paige and her friends in the classes we share. Aside from murmurs of “
Rash
-lee,” followed by snickers in my direction, the glowing group basically acts like I don’t exist.

I, in turn, ignore Sasha, Marc, and Gordon, not wanting to be poisoned by their unpopularity. During lunch, I hide out in the library, where I can drink my Sanga! in private.

It’s a lonely existence. I walk the halls with my head down and a lump in my throat, feeling invisible. Occasionally, I’ll text with Eve and Mallory, letting them know how busy I am with new friends and after-school activities. They seem to buy my
lies. Dylan, meanwhile, is actually living the life I describe — joining a skateboarding club and always racing to answer his buzzing phone — which makes the whole thing more painful.

The Dark Ones weigh on my mind, too. There are no more screams or attacks, but everyone seems on edge after what happened to Mr. Bernal. On Wednesday, the principal makes an announcement that the janitor is “taking a leave of absence and will be out for the remainder of the school year.”

Rumors zip around: Some students whisper that he was bitten by a rabid dog, and others argue that he did go crazy. In gym class, I overhear two jock guys debating the topic. One says, “Dude, what if Mr. B was attacked by a
vampire?”
I freeze, and the other guy replies, “Dude, that’s ridiculous. You watch too much TV.”

If only they knew.

When the final bell rings on Thursday, though, all thoughts of Mr. Bernal leave my head. I sprint out of science class, stop at my locker, and head to the bathroom where I bat-shifted on Monday. Luckily, I haven’t shifted again since then. And this time, I’m here for a different kind of quick change.

That morning, my skin was still a little red and
sore, so I wore my usual long-sleeved shirt and jeans. But now, a glance in the mirror confirms that my sunburn is much better. Even the bump on my forehead has gone down. So I step into the memorable stall and change into a fitted white tee, a pinstriped vest, a short denim skirt, and the same espadrilles that Paige owns. If I want to be the stylish wardrobe master, I need to look the part.

Then I stash my old clothes back in my locker and stride downstairs to the auditorium, feeling like a new woman.

The auditorium looks like how I’d imagine a movie set does, only without cameras. Mr. Harker is sitting in the front row with a notepad, his expression serious. A sixth-grade girl wearing a black T-shirt that reads
PRODUCTION ASSISTANT
is handing him a giant iced latte from The Coffee Bean. Students are clustered throughout the rows or onstage, reading thick bound scripts. Sasha, wearing a headset, is walking around and giving orders into the little microphone: “Marc, you have to adjust the spotlight in Act One. And tell the prop master we need one of the bat puppets replaced.”

When Sasha spots me standing there, wide-eyed, she smirks and removes her headset. “Well,” she
says, a bit snarkily. “I’m surprised to see you here, considering you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

I cross my arms over my chest, annoyed. “I was not avoiding you,” I protest, even though I pretended I was hard of hearing whenever she said hello to me in homeroom. And looked the other way whenever her brother waved at me in the hall.

What I really want to say is,
I’m not here for you,
but it’s clear that Sasha wields some power in this play, so I hold my tongue.

“Okay,” she replies, shrugging. “Come on, I’ll take you to Mr. Harker. When he’s sitting like that with his notepad, he’s in ‘the zone,’ so you need to approach him carefully.” She shakes her head, her curls bouncing.

“It’s all so … professional,” I say in awe as we walk past Carmen, who is hunched over her script and furiously highlighting some lines.

“No kidding,” Sasha says. “Mr. Harker was a child actor — he was in a bunch of movies and commercials and stuff — so he has a lot of experience. And S.M.A. in general takes theater very seriously. On opening night, there are always producers and directors and casting agents in the audience. It’s a big deal.”

I feel a shiver of anticipation. So this isn’t just some ordinary middle school production. It’s very
Hollywood.
That makes me even more determined to be a part of it.

“Excuse us, Mr. Harker,” Sasha says softly, and the director looks up from his notepad, his glasses askew. I bite my lip, intimidated, but then he smiles.

“Ah, Ashlee!” he says. “Excellent. Let’s go backstage so I can show you what we’re working with for the costumes. Sasha,” he adds, “will you please let the cast members know that we’ll be starting rehearsal in about ten minutes?”

Sasha nods, putting her headset back on. I realize that, in spite of her baggy hot-pink tunic, zebra-print leggings, and giant gold hoop earrings, Mr. Harker sees Sasha as very competent and responsible. I’m sort of impressed.

I follow Mr. Harker behind the velvet curtain to the dark backstage area. It smells musty and ancient. A crooked hallway leads to what look like dressing rooms and supply closets. There’s a ladder, a long rope, and a bag overflowing with painted masks. In the shadows, these items seem menacing, and I step carefully to keep from stumbling. The thought pops
into my head that, as a bat, I’d be able to get around here fine.

I hear a rustle, sort of like wings, behind me. I shudder. What if there
is
a bat back here —
the
bat that attacked Mr. Bernal?

“Look out, Ashlee!” a voice calls out from above, and I skitter to a stop, my breath catching. I glance up and see a glass booth perched high above Mr. Harker and me. Marc is inside it, sitting in front of a panel of knobs and switches. Gordon is beside him, wearing a big pair of headphones and, as usual, typing on his laptop.

“You almost bumped into that mannequin,” Marc tells me.

“What
mannequin?” I ask. I face forward again — and stare right at a headless figure. I cover my mouth to keep from crying out.

“Yep, that’s the one,” Marc snorts, then bursts out laughing. What a jerk!

Mr. Harker frowns up at Marc, then turns to me. “This is a dressmaker’s dummy you can use for sizing costumes,” Mr. Harker explains.

“What’s this about costumes?” Paige demands, stepping out of the shadows with Wendy at her side.

Paige, in a cute plaid romper, is holding a bound script, and Wendy, in a short black dress and UGGs, is carrying a bag full of creepily real-looking bat puppets.

Paige takes in my own outfit, clearly surprised by how fashionable I look. I feel a small swell of triumph. Then her eyes land on my feet and she smirks, nudging Wendy.

“Wow, real original choice in footwear, Rash,” Paige sneers. “I guess imitation
is
the sincerest form of flattery, though.”

A searing heat races through me, and I clench my fists. She’s not going to make this easy, is she?

“Paige, Wendy, I was hoping to find you,” Mr. Harker says. “Ashlee would like to be the new wardrobe master, and we should all hear what she has in mind.” To me, he adds, “Paige is playing Vera, and Wendy is our prop master. They had the strongest opinions about Ellen, our former wardrobe master.”

Wendy nods imperiously, and Paige continues to smirk at me, her eyes glinting.

Dread settles like a stone in my stomach. So this is some kind of …
audition?

“Here’s our costume supply room,” Wendy says in a brisk voice, opening a door next to the mannequin. “What do you think?”

Inside are endless racks of clothing, along with shoes, scarves, feather boas, and hats. There are satin ball gowns, tuxedos, soldiers’ uniforms, tutus, regular jeans and tees … the works. I gulp, overwhelmed. But I need to keep calm. Otherwise, I could bat-shift.

“This should be interesting,” I hear Paige murmur, and that gives me all the resolve I need to step inside.

“O-okay,” I stammer, reaching into my satchel and taking out my notebook. I flip through the pages, scanning the ideas I wrote down. “In the movie, Vera wears a lot of lace,” I begin, “so that could be cool to incorporate into the play. Like … this.” I pull a white high-collared lace dress off one of the rods. If I pretend I’m working at a fashion magazine, helping Arabella, this seems easier. Even fun.

“That’s pretty,” I hear Wendy whisper to Paige, who nudges her again.

“And Vera’s very naive,” I go on, feeling a bit more confident. “Mr. Harker said in English class on Monday that the color green sometimes represents innocence.”

“So?” Paige yawns, and I’m sure she’s thinking I’m a kiss-up.

“So …” I spot a gorgeous emerald green gown and take it down from the rod. “Vera could wear a lot
of green. She could even wear this the night she finds Vladimir, um, you know, sucking Mila’s blood.”

I blush, hating how close this play hits to home.

“Paigey, that would look amazing on you!” Wendy exclaims, quickly glancing at her friend for approval.

Paige’s smirk has disappeared, and now she’s eyeing me in a careful, cunning way. As if she no longer knows what to make of me.

“Hmm,” she says at last. “Not a bad start, Rash-lee.”

I let out a breath I didn’t even know I’d been holding.

“Definitely better than Ellen, right?” Wendy says, and grudgingly, Paige nods.

I hug the dresses to me, full of cautious excitement.
It’s happening!

“I agree,” Mr. Harker says. “Any thoughts on Vladimir’s costumes, Ashlee?”

“Well, the cape he wears in the movie is sort of clichéd for a vampire,” I explain, casting my eyes down as I speak the
V
word. “Maybe he could wear a dark suit instead?”

“Good idea,” Mr. Harker says. “I think you’re a natural, Ashlee. Welcome aboard!” Paige opens her mouth, possibly to protest, but Mr. Harker adds,
“Now, it’s high time we started rehearsing. Ashlee, you should come watch.”

I can’t stop grinning as I replace the dresses and float out of the costume room. I don’t even look up at Marc and Gordon in the sound booth. Then I join Mr. Harker and Sasha in the front row as the actors take their places onstage.

“Are you in?” Sasha asks me, and I nod, too happy to bother blowing her off.

“I bet a certain someone will be glad about that,” Sasha replies, smiling to herself.

Who?
I wonder, mystified. Paige? She didn’t seem glad, though I’m sure she’ll come around. Wendy? Before I can ask, the lights dim, and the rehearsal starts.

A spotlight shines down, and Paige steps into it. “The year was 1789,” she begins in a weird accent. It sounds like a mix between Valley Girl and Eastern European ballerina. “I went to — I mean, I — um. Line, please?” she snaps, glancing at Sasha.

I look over at Sasha, too. She doesn’t even need to consult the script in her lap. “I traveled to Transylvania to meet …” she prompts.

“To meet, um, a wealthy landowner named Vladimir,” Paige finishes quickly.

I cringe. Paige is
terrible.
She may be poised and pretty, but she can’t act for the life of her.

“Paige, can we start over?” Mr. Harker asks in a weary voice. “Maybe without the accent this time?”

Paige rolls her eyes but she tries again, sounding somewhat better. As the rehearsal goes on, I notice that she messes up her lines a lot, while the other actors have theirs memorized. The boy who plays Vladimir, James Okada (I recognize him as one of the cute boys from the popular lunch table), is actually really good. And Carmen, who plays Mila, is decent, too. Paige is the only weak spot.

I’d do a better job,
I catch myself thinking, then dismiss the idea. I’m wardrobe master, not an actor, which is for the best. Parents and other audience members will surely film the play and take photos. And a big blank spot onstage would definitely raise some questions.

Plus, trying to steal the lead role from Paige would kind of ruin my plan to become her BFF.

“Awful, huh?” Sasha whispers to me at one point. Although Sasha’s idea of whispering is practically like shouting. “I mean, I just want to speak her lines
for
her.”

“Shh,” I respond. Though I secretly agree with Sasha, I’m not going to admit it.

But then the fake bats — courtesy of Wendy — are released from backstage, and Paige is supposed to faint. She trips forward, lands on her knees, and plants her face on the stage, all in slow motion. I squirm, bothered by the bats — another reminder that this story mirrors my life — and Paige’s sorry attempt at passing out. Having done it myself recently, I can say it’s very different.

“That didn’t look too realistic, Paige,” Mr. Harker says.

She sits up, pouting. “What do you mean?” she asks darkly.

“I thought it was great, Paigey!” Carmen pipes up, stepping onto the stage.

I can’t stop myself from speaking. “Maybe you should fall backward instead?” I suggest. I’m trying to be helpful, but Paige shoots daggers at me.

“It was the music,” she says angrily, pointing up at the control booth. “The cues are
all
off.”

Mr. Harker sighs and asks Paige to try again. I seal my lips shut, vowing to keep my critiques to myself from now on.

Finally, Carmen pretends to die, James pretends to bite Paige’s neck, and then a big crescent moon dangles down, along with two bat puppets.
Ta-da!
Sasha and I clap, but Mr. Harker shakes his head, murmuring something about “lots more work to be done.” He asks the cast and crew to gather around.

“Next week is a short one because of Martin Luther King Day on Monday,” he explains. “So I’m moving up our next rehearsal to lunchtime on Tuesday. It’s crucial that we improve in time for opening night on Friday.”

“Yeah,”
Paige speaks up, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “Some people in the
crew
need to get their music cues right.” She glares at Gordon, who shrugs helplessly. Marc, for once, isn’t by his side.

“We should also do the fittings on Tuesday,” Mr. Harker says to me. “That way, we can send the costumes to the dry cleaners in case they need to be resized. Ashlee, are you able to go to the costume room now and make your selections?”