Damsel Distressed (19 page)

Get out.

Go away.

Be gone, foul demon.

“I have no idea, but I really wish we had some popcorn.”

I watch as Grant leans over and tells Carmella something that makes her respond by placing her hand on the back of his neck.
Why? No! Grant, you are doing it wrong
.

I feel Antonique's head snap in my direction. I guess she was looking for my reaction, which is decidedly not awesome.

Her hand. Her hand. Her hand.

As Grant walks away, Carmella gets up and starts heading back up the aisle. She's approaching the back of the auditorium and walking in the direction of my booth.

“Ugh! Ah! Would I be showing signs of weakness if I hide under the console?” It comes out as almost a shriek.

“No, no,” Antonique replies, thinly veiling her own panic. “You're fine. She's gonna walk right past. She's just gonna keep walking. Oh, yeah, no, she totally saw you.”

“Oh my God,” I say as I pull my chair up to the table as close as it can go and pray for invisibility powers right effing now.

She taps the door, but it's cracked open a little so she just pushes it further in.

“Hey, sis,” she croons.

“I'm working right now, Carmella.” I don't turn my chair around.

“Ella. My name is
Ella
. And I know. I just stopped by before dance practice to see Andrew—my boyfriend—but then Grant and I got to talking. He's awfully cute. I'll have to find some time to get to know him better.”

She purses her lips just a little. She looks so calm, and I hate myself for feeling panicked. Feeling scared. Who is she, and why would I cower in her presence? Where's the beast version of me that told her off last night?

Long gone, best I can tell.

I try to steel myself against her. I straighten my posture and push back my shoulders.

“Yeah, rehearsals are closed to outsiders. So…”

“I get it,” she says. “So is this the little room where they hide people that are considered too hideous to be on the stage?”

My shoulders slump.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what's your problem?” Antonique asks, braver than I am by far.

“I'm pretty sure I wasn't talking to you,” Carmella says as she shifts her weight onto her other foot and crosses her arms. “You're a freshman, aren't you? I can tell by how much you resemble a brick wall.”

Carmella reaches up and runs her hand down her chest.

Antonique's fortitude has run out. “Imogen Keegan! Where is my sound cue?!” Mrs. Gild is screeching from the stage at me, and I have no idea where they are in the script or where she needs me to be.

“I'm sorry!” I yell. “We had a situation back here! So sorry! What's the cue?”

But it's too late. Gild is marching up the aisle, and she looks furious.

I turn to the door where Carmella had been standing, but she's fled, just in time to miss out on what would have been an incredible rant.

“Imogen, you have got to be on this!” Mrs. Gild's face is beet-red.

“I know, I'm sorry, my stepsister came into the booth and I—”

“We have closed rehearsals, Imogen, you know this. I'm disappointed that you had someone here without speaking to me first. Don't let it happen again.”

Mrs. Gild calling me by my first name leaves me feeling like I've been kicked right out of her family.

“Oh, but she wasn't here for me. I mean, I didn't invite her. I wouldn't. I—”

“I do not care why she was here. She was in
your
booth. Period. We quite literally do not have time to discuss this further, so get your head in the game. We need you. Do
not
disappoint me again or Antonique will be the one in the chair on opening night.”

Without waiting for my response, she is gone, heading back to the cast who are all glaring through the glass at me with their hands on their hips or their eyebrows raised in unison.

I look toward Antonique and say with all the urgency I can muster, “We can't miss a single cue from here on out. You know that, right?”

“I know,” she says. “I can't believe that girl's your sister.”

“Stepsister,” I correct her. “Not my sister. Not my sister at all. I'm so sorry she said that to you.”

“I'm sorry she said that to
you
. And also—” Antonique turns a page in her script to find the spot where the actors have sprung to life.

“Yeah?”

“Don't listen to her. She's just a girl. As insecure as the rest of us.”

I scoff. “I don't think she's insecure at all.”

“Of course she is. Maybe not the same way as me or the same way as you, but she is.”

“Whatever her personal issues are, they don't give her the right to treat me—to treat
us
—like crap.”

“Nothing gives her the right, but it might give her a reason,” Antonique says.

I consider the truth of her statement and try to imagine a scenario in which Carmella would have ever felt the way she makes other people feel, and I come up empty.

I nod my head and say, “Maybe,” before we both turn our full and undivided attention back to the script.

20

F
inal dress rehearsals are really horrifying. Normally sane people lose their damn minds, and people who have been on top of their game for weeks suddenly drop lines, miss notes, and can't keep it together. I am grateful for my pharmaceutical regime right now because during such a stressful period there is very little room for error. Or craziness.

The sound, costumes, lights, and props are each small blips on the whole of the production, but when they all start coming together, it's magical. When the house lights go down and the blues, reds, and greens of the stage lights flick on, it's like being transported to another world.

Despite my best and most diligent efforts to loathe them, the cast is doing pretty well considering how insufferable some of the leads are. Andrew and Charity have nice enough voices, but I'm having a really hard time ignoring how ridiculous they are off-stage. Andrew acts like a leader, but he's not. He's a follower, just like the rest of us.

Hell Week blew by before anyone could blink. We rehearsed until midnight and prayed our parents wouldn't be mad, and we still managed to go to our classes and keep our eyes open so that we could stay eligible. The intensity of the week combined with my last two confrontations with Carmella meant that, somehow, we stayed out of each other's way. Evelyn tried to spring a few unnecessary gatherings on us, but since Carmella and I agree that we'd rather drink bleach than spend time together, we managed to hold her off. It struck me as a little weird that we were technically working toward the same goal in that regard.

Walking into the theatre a couple of hours before the curtain rises on opening night, I feel like I'm stepping into a holy place. Something about the ghost lights always haunted me—but knowing that the glow is constant has always comforted me, too. The auditorium is pitch black, except for the weak glow of the single bulb standing alone. Grant leaves me and goes to get all of the lights turned on as I walk through the wings, fingertips brushing the velvet wall of curtains.

The heaviness of the fabric, rich and aubergine, pulls at the ceiling, creating a frame for the stage. Layers of black paint have covered the floor, year after year, sealing off the sweat, blood, and tears of so many casts from so many shows. I follow the glow-in-thedark stripes of tape and find myself standing at center stage.

I look to the back of the room and stare into the glass window of the sound booth. I remember being on my dad's knee, sitting in the back of a booth like that one. It was the “best, free seat in the house,” Mom always said. It was the perfect spot for watching her as she danced across the stage in whatever community theatre show would have her. My dad swears that it was an easy decision for them to leave New York and come back to her hometown to raise a family. He says she never thought twice about leaving her dreams to shelter mine. But now I know that the reason she spent so much time in dinky little shows on tiny little stages wasn't because she was desperate for attention. It was because she had to. If she wasn't in the city, then fine, but that wasn't going to keep her from the stage.

My vision blurs a little, and I turn my head to the left. In the space beside me, washed in cool blues, I imagine my mother. I envision her delicately twined into a shape both strong and graceful. I can picture my dad, seeing her, such a lovely, braided figure, extending right up to the clouds. In my mind, she turns to me, and for a moment, her eyes meet mine.

Slowly, I lift my arms, arcing, softening, placing them in the same aerial position as hers. I mimic her shape, just as I did when we danced together with my dad as our only audience. With the mildest of grins on my lips, I turn my head, hoping to see an approving smile on the apparition of my psyche, but instead, in the wings, I see Grant. His mouth is slightly agape, his eyes focused on my form.

A breath catches in my chest, my arms still raised, and I notice a quick intake of air from him as instantly my eyes are blinded by light pouring in, white and hot, from dozens of can lights all around the stage. My arms shoot back to my sides, quick as an arrow, and I look toward the back of the house as Mrs. Gild enters. I look for Grant to explain to him that I was just messing around, stretching or something, but he's gone.

The curtain wavering slightly is the only indication that someone had been standing there at all.

Opening night unfurls before us.

Grant is dapper as ever in his stage blacks. The SM patch I gave him has been neatly ironed onto his right sleeve. He keeps popping in and out of view as he gets ten million last-minute things accomplished. The cast is running around like a flock of headless chickens, and every few minutes, a new half-dressed character darts past my vision as Antonique and I wait in the hallway with our box of batteries.

“Looks like everyone's been checked,” she says, looking at the clipboard.

“Good. We're about to do circle, and then we've gotta get back to the booth before they open the house.”

“Happy opening, ladies!” Mrs. Gild approaches and puts a hand over my shoulder and Antonique's. Her white hair is tucked and pinned up onto her head, creating a soft nest of curls. She's wearing a pair of flowy black pants and a flowy black tunic that's embellished with rhinestones. One thing I'll never take for granted in the theatre is how acceptable it is to wear head-to-toe black. “Wow, Mrs. Gild, you look beautiful,” Antonique says.

“Yeah, you look great,” I agree.

“Thanks, girls,” she says. “Spread the word. We're gonna circle-up out back.”

“Sure thing,” we say.

Mrs. Gild heads to the area outside past the scene shop, and Antonique and I split up duties. She heads to the wings to notify the crew there, and I head to the dressing rooms to tell the rest of the cast.

As I peek my head into the hall outside both rooms, the smell of hairspray almost chokes me to death.

“Circle-up!” I shout over the sounds of shoes and sprays and clicking compacts.

Dozens of voices, high and low, scream back at me their confirmation, “Thank you, circle!”

Just a few minutes later, the entire cast and crew is in a gigantic circle just outside the stage doors. The neon dresses look amazing, like giant colorful candies. My heart is pounding, but not in its usual way. It's clamoring with excitement, not dread.

“Take hands, guys.” Gild crosses her right arm over her left, and we all do the same.

On my left is Grant, and on my right, Antonique asks, “Am I doing this right?”

“You got it. Just cross arms and hold hands. This is one of the best parts.” I smile at her.

As I stand in the circle, I look from face to face. Brice and Jonathan are on the far side of the circle, sandwiched between a dozen girls in bright poofy dresses. While I'm not terribly invested in much of the cast, there's a friendliness that grows over time when we're all working so hard toward the same goal. For the past two years, I stayed in the shadows as much as I could. But after things got better for me last spring, I really tried to open up during the second-term show. And experiencing the sense of family—even though it usually only lasts for a short while—is something I'd never trade.

Mrs. Gild begins to speak, and every voice falls silent. “Guys, we're ready to put on a great show. I am so proud of each and every one of you. We're already a few minutes behind so I'm going to go ahead and pick tonight's speaker. I hope you'll all agree that I chose an excellent right-hand man in Grant Thornton. Kick us off, would you, dear?”

“My pleasure.” He beams.

I beam by association. I am so incredibly proud of him.

“Gang, we're going to rock this show! All I want to say is trust yourself. You know the show. You trust your fellow actors and techies. All that's left is to have some fun. Let's do it!”