I stood under the willow tree in the shadows. People moved in and out of the stage door. Most of them wore at least part of their costumes.

I told my mom and dad that Ethan and I were going to watch a movie at his house while Beth helped with the box office at the festival. Ethan and I had to practice.

I wasn’t ready. I could tell Gilda that I didn’t feel well enough yet. Anybody could wear the old bear suit I’d borrowed from Musky. It sat in the bag by my feet. But Ethan would be crushed. And a tiny, deep part of me remembered how much I loved the festival. Maybe, if things came together, it could be fun again. One last time before I said goodbye to Murphy.

I opened the door. Backstage smelled like dust, paint, and the cedar oil they used to clean the stage. It also smelled like sweat and kerosene from the fire dancers, the sharp tang of a metal frame holding octopus arms on a skirt, and the shoe polish on the archer’s shiny boots. A backstage smells like practice and possibilities.

I soaked up everything, because it started to feel like it used to, when coming into the theater before a show would make me want to bounce off the walls, though it was different without my family. Dust thickened in the light beams over my head. Ethan stood behind me, dressed like a circus ringmaster. Top hat. Red satin jacket with tails. Fake mustache. Flip-flops. He smudged something dark around his shiny eyes, like he hadn’t slept in weeks for mysterious reasons.

“Ready?” He’d been there all day, just waiting for the fun to start. Someday, Gilda would make him master of ceremonies. Murphy is his kingdom. I peeked through the stage curtain from my favorite spot by the ropes. Empty chairs and decorations made my breath shake. It’s the same every year. The audience sat underneath one hundred different old lamps, bases bolted to the ceiling, lampshades secured, ready to dim and start the show. Big paper lanterns hung above the chairs too. The stage was empty except for a giant papier-mâché Marvelo with foil-covered cardboard scales. They built a new one every year.

This is what happens when a big group of wacky people do something together. It felt upside down and outrageous but nice, in a Murphy way. Ethan tapped my shoulder, and we headed to the lawn outside to rehearse. My heart beat like a drumroll. I put the bear suit on.

“It’s hot in here,” I said. Ethan leaned forward.

“What?” he said. I said it really loudly three times before he heard and understood. The costume head was a big sound muffler, so I took it off and we changed our plan again. I would be a fortune-teller bear. Ethan would act like he was the bear tamer and ask me questions that the audience asked him. I would give advice. Except nobody could hear anything I said, so I would mime something he could “interpret.” He’d do most of the work, and I got to be the anonymous guy in the bear suit.

The audience lined up out front, and Gilda made us go backstage. People bring a lot of food to the festival. Tom-with-the-beard always makes a big pot of crab dip that everyone loves. Most people goofed around in the dressing rooms, but I stood by the curtain and watched the auditorium fill up. My hands were sweaty, and my body felt like it was humming. I could tell who was new by the way they looked around. The lights dimmed to a golden orange while people found their seats. The whole room swelled. I didn’t see Izzy. Leti sat with her friend Ramona. I worried that my parents would come on a whim and see me there, and I’d have to explain, but I didn’t see them either. I watched Herb and Arlene and some teachers sit down. Almost the whole island was there.

A band played old-fashioned music in the pit below the stage. A couple of older guys from school juggled glitter-covered sea stars. One of the ushers wore roller skates and a tutu. He spun in blurry circles down the aisle.

“Showtime, everybody!” Gilda passed by in a tiara with a headlamp. She checked off performers on her clipboard. I peeked around the curtain one more time to look for my parents. They probably would’ve come if I had asked, but it was like we had all decided to not talk about it anymore. I sat down behind the curtains on a giant clamshell built for a mermaid routine and took deep breaths.

Gilda stepped into the spotlight to wild applause. She talked about the history of vaudeville, like she does every year. She thanked everybody for coming and announced that festival proceeds would go toward storm relief. Performers would collect donations at intermission. The audience cheered even harder.

“And now, by the power of Marvelo, let the festival begin!”

It started with an aerialist on long green scarves. Next, a fireball-spitting sword swallower. Heat rolled backstage with each blast. The people in the front row seemed relieved when his act was over. A lady played “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” with a bow on a saw. The fighting acrobats almost smashed Marvelo’s tail. Gilda gave me a thumbs-up from the other side of the stage. I nodded and held the bear’s head in my lap like a shield. Number five was the bubble man, who has been doing the show since I was little. He put volunteers inside giant, swirling bubbles. Then the big Marvelo chased colorful first graders dressed as cichlids. They got a standing ovation, and my hands got clammy. Number seven was a magician who made it snow and swept it all up with a broom he never touched. The crowd cheered louder after each act.

Ethan stood next to me. It was time for us to go on, but I didn’t know how we could follow all that.

“We’ve totally got this, Fig,” Ethan said. “We are festival pros. Follow my lead. Or, you know, put your own spin on it. Whatever. It’s going to be great.” He adjusted his tie and took a big breath. “Right?”

“Right.”

Our set was six minutes long. I put my bear head on, and Ethan gave me a push. We stood under the stage lights between the papier-mâché Marvelo and the dark, lumpy audience. People say that something is like a dream when it’s foggy and confusing, but to me, dreams are sharp and saturated, and real life is blurrier. The stage felt fuzzy. My heart beat a whooshing sound. I paced around Marvelo, trying to shake off feeling submerged. Ethan talked to the audience, and I couldn’t hear anything. A few hands went up, and I figured out he called for volunteers. He listened. I tried to look like I listened too, but when he repeated the question for me and the audience, I heard, “Mmmmmgorp…fay…bitten…job or flibcan toll?”

Ethan raised his eyebrows and nodded. I couldn’t tell if it was a yes or a no question, or if they wanted a longer answer. He stood there in his top hat with the microphone and waited. I realized too late that he had the easy part. I waved my arms, as if explaining something, and nodded and grunted as loud as I could. The drummer in the pit hit the snare drum. Ethan translated and made a face, as if he was apologizing for my brutal, bear honesty. I could hear the audience laugh through the whooshing. My heart beat fast enough to burn my chest, and more hands went up.

Ethan called on somebody else. I hammed it up and gave a couple of spins with my answer, lifting up one leg like a ballerina bear. Ethan nodded, rubbed his chin, and told the audience “Da bear bliffs clamtop soba!” They laughed again. If people knew it was me inside the suit, the weirdo kid who got bit by a bear and drove around with a bear, I couldn’t know. We did seven more questions, more clapping and hands going up each time. I jumped, spun, and balanced on tiptoes, gesturing and grunting. Ethan hammed it up more and more. I growled and shook my head. A bear-wisdom bonanza.

When Ethan bowed, I bowed. People clapped and we bowed again. Pushing through the curtains was better than breaking the surface of the lake after a dive. I pulled the bear head off. I laughed the way you do when things aren’t exactly funny, but they’re better.