12

My belly was so full after back-to-back meals that I floated through the next few hours in a gastrointestinal-shock-induced coma. My math teacher woke me up three minutes after the last bell, my face soggy from drool and a giant streak on my cheek from the seam of my hoodie sleeve. Faced with the choices of A) jogging to tech theatre and arriving winded or B) being a couple of minutes late, I opted for tardiness.

So as I open the door to the theatre room, Gild is already in full-on drill sergeant mode.

“…We have much preparation and work to do, so please get started on either the platform assembly in the scene shop or painting the sides of the two main set pieces. The sides only…” She is waving her arms, and people are starting to scatter around the room, looking for ways to stay busy and out of her line of fire. She’s still hollering as I try and make my way to Grant and the rest of my group. “…And if you think you don’t have anything to do, let me know and I’ll find work for you.”

She turns, and the room fills with chatter before I can duck out of sight.

“Miss Keegan, you’re late.” She puts a hand on her hip and tries to make her face look stern, but as I cross toward her, she gives me the tiniest of grins. “Everything all right?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Gild. I’m sorry I’m late. There was a line at the bathroom.”

“There’s a line on your face, too, Scar.” Grant approaches from our table at the back, and with a giant smile, he reaches up and runs his thumb gently along the red stripe on my face.

This is the third time today he’s touched me, and all I can think about is how much I hope he finds a reason for a fourth. He laughs and sets off toward the scene shop singing “Hakuna Matata.”

“Hey!” I chuckle before turning back to Gild. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

She reaches up and puts her hands on either side of my shoulders and gives me a warm smile. Gild is tough on us, but we’re like family. The feeling of her hands on my arms makes me feel at home.

“Good,” she says. And then she sets off. “You can go get started. All of the mic packs need new batteries and labels, and round up all of the mic tape you can find because as soon as class is over, I need you on stage ready to start showing the cast how to wear them. Got it?”

She says all of this while she’s writing on her clipboard, sorting papers into piles, and pointing at objects for the prop crew to take out to their tables.

“Yes, ma’am.” I give her a thumbs up, and she heads out the side door to the hallway by the wings.

“Missed you in first period today,” Jonathan says as he strides over to me, one hand tucked away and the other holding an old, blue, rusted toolbox by the peeling handle.

“Sorry. I had to go see TG—errr. George. He’s—” I shake my head and feel myself blink five times in a row. “I had an appointment.”

He waits for a moment, pulling his mouth to one side for just a second before repositioning his grip on the toolbox with his visible hand. “We’ve all got stuff,” he says plainly before gesturing to me with the box and stepping backward toward the door. “Here comes my beloved. I better go before I get roped into another rousing round of ‘Kristin Chenoweth is More Fierce Than…’” He laughs to himself. “He’s cute, but he’s loud.” Jonathan’s playful smile lingers even after he turns around.

I grin as he sneaks out the door, and I spin just in time to see Brice drop his bag and apply a fresh coat of lip balm.

“Hey, dollface.” Brice approaches and runs a hand through his golden hair. He’s wearing a lavender sweater that looks like it probably cost about as much as my Grannymobile.

“Heya, mister,” I say as I set down my bag and pull my hair back into a ponytail.

Everyone in the classroom is shedding their personas as students at Crestwood High and stepping into their roles as vital members of the Tech Crew.

The sound of power tools whirring to life makes me feel at home.

Brice pulls off his gorgeous sweater to reveal a plain five-dollar T-shirt underneath.

“Awwww,” I say, letting my face droop with disappointment.

“What?” Brice asks as he folds it into a perfect square.

“I liked your sweater. Now you just look like another kid in a T-shirt.”

He chuckles and puts his hand on his hip. “Yeah, but have you seen the boots?” He looks down to his feet, and I notice he’s got these pretty incredible combat boots that are all folded over and chunky. He steps away from me and then turns on a dime to pose and give me the full picture.

“You’re totally right. Those boots make even your T-shirt look like a million bucks.”

He throws up his hands with exasperation and says, “You doubted me?” He grins as two freshman girls walk toward him in perfect unison and stand beside him without saying a word.

“Uh, Brice, you have some people,” Grant says, as he approaches with arms full of props.

Brice turns and looks at the girl on the left. Her delicate eyes are dark slivers, and her jet black hair hangs in a perfect pixie cut. “Fish-kick 1: You’re going to go to the dressing room and start checking the principal character costume list. Make sure they’re all hung in the right section.” He snaps his head toward the second girl who has wide-set green eyes and long, blonde hair. “Fish-kick 2: You’re going to start writing out a list of costumes that might have a tight fit around the waist if we try and fit a mic pack in there. Got it?”

The girls nod at him fiercely, and then he raises his hand and sends them on their way.

“Brice,” I say with a stern look on my face. “Why are you torturing your freshman?”

“I’m not! When they came up to me on the first day, they were so freaked out they just sorta started acting like I was a drill sergeant. So I rolled with it. I mean, consider the boots.” He gestures again and then raises his hands to me in question. “What was I supposed to do?”

“You’re right. You clearly had no choice.”

Brice steps to my side and links his arm through mine. We take a few steps through the classroom toward the doorway by the backstage corridor.

“I’m going to start with the boys’ microphones right after school and then move onto the girls’. Will that give you plenty of time to check the dresses with Thing 2 back there?” I ask.

“Sure. Fabulous.” He pulls his arm from mine and starts scanning the room. “Crap. I’ve gotta move some giant hanging racks. Thornton!” he calls across to Grant who’s been trying to double-check all of the spotlights out in the hallway. “Can you help me move some racks?”

“Sure, bro,” Grant says as he comes back in the room and wipes his already sweaty brow.

“Thanks, Mister Stage Manager, sir,” Brice says with an uncertain salute. “I’d have Jonathan help me, but he and his toolbox snuck out earlier when he thought I wasn’t looking so you’ll have to do.” He clicks his heels together and shouts, “Sir!”

My head and Grant’s snap back at the sound before we start giggling.

“Gee, thanks. And, um, at ease, soldier,” Grant says as he glances first at Brice’s boots, then to his limp salute, then back to me, and back to Brice again. “It’d be my pleasure. Gen, I’ll see you in a bit. Let me know if you need help with anything until Antonique gets here.”

“Sure, thanks,” I say as Grant starts to walk out into the hall toward the racks without Brice.

“Ahem.” Brice gestures to Grant’s arm and clears his throat.

Grant laughs and then crosses back to Brice and bows. “Oh, my mistake, soldier.” Grant bends his elbow and offers it to Brice before looking over his shoulder and rolling his sparkling eyes.

In the sound booth, I sort through my giant case of wireless mic packs. I love the way they all look the same. Little ducks in a row, the little plastic boxes that make sound fill a room all the way to the corners.

I’ve already replaced nineteen out of twenty sets of batteries before the little door to my sound booth snaps open.

“Honey, I’m home.” Antonique blasts through the door in a flurry of motion. Her skinny braids lift away from her shoulders and fan out as she turns around to set her bag under the desk. Her strong, dark brown shoulders are bare as she pulls off her cardigan, revealing a narrow torso in a tank top. “I’m ready to help. What’s happening?”

“Well, I’ve just replaced all the batteries.” I gesture to the box full of microphones and then turn to face the big glass window looking out into the house. The stage is set and the finished castle is one of the best-looking set pieces Crestwood has ever had. “In a few minutes, once everyone gets signed into rehearsal, we’ve got to start doing pack fittings and showing the cast how to wear and tape them.” I lift up the little rolls of mic tape and spin one around on my finger.

She flops down onto her folding chair with a defeated look on her face. “That sounds complicated.”

“It will be a piece of cake. I’ll walk you through it.”

She turns her face from the glass and smiles at me. Her teeth are so perfect. I pull my own lips closed and run my tongue along the uneven row across the bottom.

Antonique sees my facial expression change. I can tell because her smile fades just as mine does. She clears her throat before changing the subject. “So is Ella Cinder really your stepsister?”

Like a roundhouse kick to the gut, the wind is knocked out of me.

I wonder for a second if I’ll ever get used to the way it feels when Carmella is forced into my mind unexpectedly. Maybe it will get better over time. Somehow I doubt it.

Antonique is still looking at me expectantly.

“Uh, kinda. I mean, yes,” I answer. “Why?”

“Oh.” Her expression changes. Her eyes dart back and forth.

“Seems like you didn’t expect that to be true,” I say.

“Right, well…” She reaches up and tucks her braids behind her ears again. “It’s just that some girls in my lunch were talking about her. They were saying she joined the dance team and immediately tried to re-choreograph their entire routine. And one girl said she laughed when the captains were doing their dance solos. They said she wasn’t very nice.” She looks down and mutters to her hands, “Sorry. No offense.”

I look through the glass at the chorus huddled in the center of the stage, mumbling the song “An Opening for a Princess.” I can just barely make out the sound of them singing through the soundproofed walls. I look down and see the mute button is still glowing red.

“Seriously, none taken, Antonique. She is horrible. They’re not wrong.”

“It’s just that I was telling my table she couldn’t be your sister. ‘Cause you’re so nice, I guess I thought if you did have a sister, she’d be more like you.”

More like me.

I try to picture Carmella and I if we’d grown up together. Would we have more in common? Would I be more stuck up and pretentious? Would she be more insecure and emotional?

I can’t see it. I can only see her, and I can only see me. And I can’t find a single way that we’d bring out anything but the worst in each other.

“Did you not grow up together?” Antonique reaches up to the box of mic packs and pulls one out, flipping it end over end in her palm.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Uh, no. We definitely didn’t. Yesterday was her first day at Crestwood, actually. My dad and her mom got married last year.”

The sentence repeats over and over in my head.

My dad and her mom got married last year.

My dad got married last year.

My dad got married.

I start to rock in my giant chair, the springs helping me bounce back and forth.

“Oh, that’s cool,” she says. “Where’s your mom?” She continues to stack the mics into neater piles.

Oh. My head feels like it’s being twisted around and is about to pop right off my body. The light from the stage and the sound, even muffled, is instantly too much. My head bursts into migraine-level pain. I’m burning up. I push back from the desk and put my arms on my knees so that my head can hang down nearer to my legs. My hoodie has become an oven.

“Imogen?” Antonique squeaks out my name and stands up from her folding chair. “Imogen, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

I try to breathe, but I can’t make my lungs fill up. It’s so hot. It’s like I’m stuck in a sauna and the door has locked behind me.

I can feel my face turn green and clammy, and it occurs to me that if I don’t crawl out of this chair, I might crack my head on the desk and die. This would not be ideal.

All I keep thinking is that I can’t breathe. I’m trying, but I just can’t breathe.

I pull myself off the chair and sit on the floor in the tiny little, foam-padded closet. I lean against the sound proofing material, which is soft against the back of my head. I begin to count. I’m not listening to her, but I can see Antonique moving and gesturing and I think she’s reaching for her phone.

“I’m okay,” I say to her. “I’m sorry, I’m okay.”

Blink. Blink.

My blurry vision clears, and my lungs finally open up to the oxygen they need.

Antonique plops down beside me, sitting up on her knees. “Are you sure you’re okay? What happened? You went all white, and I’m freaking out.” She holds out her hand in front of my face. “Look, I’m shaking.”

I smile at her. “Me, too.”

I hold out my unsteady hand, and she grins, sitting back on her heels and letting her shoulders drop a bit lower.

I close my eyes for a moment and then jerk suddenly as I feel her hand on my forehead. My eyes shoot open, and she pulls her hand back like she’s been burned.

“Startled me,” I lie. I didn’t expect her touch. I’m glad I didn’t instinctively reach out and pop her in the jaw.

“You’re burning up, seriously.” She reaches toward my chest, and I try to resist her, but my head keeps sagging from one side to the other. I sit up so that together, we can unzip my hoodie and try to get me cool.

“I like your shirt,” she says gently as she pulls off both sleeves.

I drop my head and look down at my Starlight Express T-shirt.

My breathing slows down to normal, and without my hood, my temperature drops from lava to human levels. I look at this sweet girl who’s just helped me through a full-blown panic attack. She looks sick and worried and confused, and I feel horrible.

I can’t just go totally crazy and take her help and not tell her why.

“She died,” I say. Softer than I mean to. “My mom.”

Heat presses against me on all sides. I close my eyes and mumble into my lap while I force my shoulders to move up and down with my breaths.

“She was on her way home from the cast party of a stupid community theatre show and there was a semi-truck… He just didn’t see her. I was ten.”

The sweat that has beaded on my nose and upper lip starts to dry.

My lungs fill fully, and my skin cools almost instantly. I sit in quiet for a moment, Antonique beside me, her eyes wide.

“I’m usually okay, but sometimes, something can just hit me and take me by surprise.”

Antonique’s braids have fallen in front of her ears again but she doesn’t seem to care. She lets them hang as she stares at me with sad eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to…I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

“No, Antonique, really. I have had panic attacks and…other problems for years. You didn’t know, and I didn’t know. It just happened.”

She gives me a tiny smile, but she still looks shaken.

“Hey, at least if I had to go crazy, I did it in a padded room, right?” I joke, trying to make her laugh. Trying to make her remember that I’m not just the mortifying display she just saw. I don’t want to be crazy in her eyes. Especially not after two days.

I reach across the space between us to pull myself back up and freeze like an animal being hunted.

I feel her eyes and my eyes travel down my exposed arm together.

They’re faded for the most part, but when there’s focus on my skin for more than a moment, they’re definitely visible. The faint lines are whiter than the rest of my notably pale body. I consider pulling my arm back, but then I see her eyes flash away and I know there’s no point. There’s no little joke I can say. There’s no way to make this not what it is.

She smiles gently.

“It must have really hurt.” She swallows. I look at her as she looks at me, and she doesn’t break eye contact. “Losing her, I mean. That must have really hurt.”

I open my mouth to speak, but there is nothing I can say. I close my mouth again and give her a tiny nod.

She nods back, and the moment floats away.

She stands up and brushes the melancholy off like crumbs after cookies. “Should we go take a seat?”

“Yeah. I’ll grab the box.”

Since all of the packs aren’t sitting in their little foam cubbies, the metal case is open and awkward, and I have freaking Tyrannosaurus arms, so it’s only a few steps down the aisle, being bumped by passing ensemble members, before Antonique recognizes my struggle.

“Here, let me help you.” She reaches toward me as kids continue to pass us in the aisle, and her long graceful arms look like they could wrap around the case twice with no trouble.

I try to hang on to it, but I feel my pride turn purple and bruise a bit as this tall and strong freshman takes the weight from my grip and effortlessly begins to walk down the aisle.

Twice in ten minutes, she’s carried my burden. She saw me curled into a ball, barely breathing, and now she’s saving me again. She doesn’t even break a sweat.

The feeling of weakness, inside and out, stings at my confidence.

All at once, my sacred place—this room and this stage—seem out of my league. I’m supposed to feel strong here. I’m supposed to feel like I belong. Like I have something to give. But what does she—what do they all—see when they watch me out of breath, trying to carry this box or just carry myself through my job? The stickiness of my arms at my side and the feeling of my thighs rubbing together through my jeans must be calling them all to watch me.

Antonique walks effortlessly down the aisle toward the front of the auditorium where most of the cast is assembled and waiting for the start of rehearsal notes. Two separate dudes—two dudes who walked straight past me just seconds ago—jump out of their chairs and offer to grab the case from her.

My cheeks redden, and I close my eyes tight. When I open them again, I’m at the row where Antonique has taken a seat and saved one for me.

“Here you go, Sound Goddess.” She smiles and doesn’t even know that, in my own crazy head, she’s spent the last sixty seconds making me feel like a loser. She reaches over to push down the folded-up seat so I can sit. One minute she’s my savior. The next minute I hate her for being strong enough to save me. Shame flushes through my skin, and I feel goose bumps sprout up all over my arms.

Wow, I’m messed up in the head.

“Thanks,” I say, taking the seat by her side. Maybe if I suck it up and stop being so annoying and whiny and jealous and childish, I’ll feel better.

I try to wedge myself against the armrest opposite her so she’s less aware of how tight the tiny auditorium chair is on my significant backside. The guys that helped her are still glancing over their shoulders at her while I try to melt into the chair unseen.

Grant’s perched on the edge of the stage, and Gild is already spouting notes and objectives for the day.

“—Imogen?” I blink away my daze and see the whole lot staring at me as Gild repeats my name. “You have some instructions for microphone business today?”

It sounds, suddenly, like water is rushing through my head. The last thing in this known universe that I want to do right now is lug myself out of this chair and address fifty people who are looking at me as if I’m the main attraction in a freak show.

Oh my God, shut up, I tell myself. They’re looking at you like you’re supposed to be talking. Because you’re supposed to be talking. Hold it together!

And then I see Grant.

My eyes slam into him with a thud I can feel in my lungs, and I take a deep breath as he gives me a wink.

“Yeah. I do. Um. My fish-kick, Antonique, and I are going to be showing you how you’ll be wearing mics during the show. How to tape them, where to put the battery packs, and how they work. We’re going to start with the guys so the girls can check with Brice about costume changes, and then we’ll switch.”

I’m sitting again and trying not to audibly gasp for air, and Gild is already barking other orders. Before I can catch my breath, everyone is disbanding, and Antonique sets her hand on my knee.

“You good to go?” she asks.

Her eyes are kind, and I glance to her hand.

“Yeah. Let’s do this,” I say, strengthened by her small display of solidarity.

I try to get the attention of a dozen teenage boys.

“We’re going to have to strap the mic packs around your chest under your costumes, so when you come up, grab a pack and one of the elastic bands and we’ll show you how to set the strap so it won’t move.”

My words seem lost in the crowd of inattentive ears, but I turn around and grab the first pack anyway.

I flick the on switch, untangle the wire, and loop the roll of mic tape around my index finger.

When I turn around, I nearly smash my face straight into the bare-naked chest of Andrew Bates.

“Oh!” I yelp and stumble back, so startled that I catch my left foot against my right. I’m plummeting to my doom in front of this half-naked man-boy, and as I’m imagining what my skin must look like as it’s rippling in the wind, he steps forward and grabs my arms, steadying me and standing me upright in one fast motion.

“Dude, I’m so sorry.” He says it as if he’s the reason I tripped over my own body.

“No, it’s fine. I…um…You do not have clothes on. I mean…Where is your shirt? You have lost your shirt.”

I try to avert my eyes because somehow, looking at him without his shirt on isn’t as fun as I might have thought it would be.

He chuckles for half of a second, and I’m not sure if he thinks I’m funny or if he thinks it’s flattery, but then he says, “No, it’s cool. You said it had to be strapped to our chests anyway, so I thought it would be easier like this.”

“Okay. So, um…I need to show everyone how to do this.”

I look over his head at the guys who have no intention of shutting up any time soon. I take a risk and look him in the eyes. I gesture over his shoulder with my head and give him a look that I hope means “please help me” and not “wanna be my topless-manpartner?”

“Guys! Shut it!” He grunts his command, and the rest of the monkeys fall silent as their alpha insists that they watch my demonstration.

Well, that was effective.

I clear my throat. “So, well, you need to, um…”

It is at this moment that by brain realizes that I will have to strap this mic pack around his chest. This will require the use of my hands. Which will be touching him. And his naked muscle-boobs, so…that’s going to happen.

“Just clip the pack on the elastic here, and then wrap it all the way around you, cross it in the front, back to the back, cross it again, over the pack, and then pin it the rest of the way.”

I look at him, but he’s just staring up at the techies hanging lights and is utterly uninterested in the fact that my nose, once again, is virtually on his body and my godforsaken T-Rex arms are wrapping all the way around his back, over the front, and around back again.

Antonique grabs one side and pins it while I pin the other.

“Hey, what’s your name?” Andrew, who has been only mildly interested for the past five minutes, is now channeling his inner skeezy, overly flirtatious macho man, raising his eyebrow and pointing his still very naked chest at her like a double-barrel Nerf gun.

I watch them for a second, but neither turns to look at me. I roll my eyes and step around them in front of the group of guys who have already started to chatter again.

“Guys!” I scream, and this time every single one of them turns and gives me their attention. “If you line up here, I’ll get your pack and band.”

I hand the chimps their bananas and watch as Andrew does this thing where he makes his shoulders look even wider, and I hear him say to Antonique, “Thanks for helping me get this thing tied on. I hope you’ll be around to help me get it situated next time.” He raises both eyebrows in unison and blasts her with a smile.

They’re both giggling, and she’s saying something about how he’s a big boy and can certainly do it himself.

She is beaming with confidence and he’s beaming with confidence and they’re all confidency, and I realize that as far as he’s concerned, she’s the only one who pawed at him. I am a non-entity.

“Antonique, can you finish up with the guys and then get the girls squared away? We may have to keep the packs lower on their waist to fit under the bodices of the dresses.”

She doesn’t really look at me while she responds. She’s staring at Andrew, who’s cheesing at her. And it doesn’t make me mad. I mean, she’s a freshman and he’s a junior and attention is awesome, I get it.

“Yeah, no problem, Sound Goddess.” She smiles and gives me a thumbs-up. “Where are you going?” she asks without turning her head.

“I have some stuff I need to take care of in the booth. Looks like you’ve got all of this…handled.” I can hear my tone. I sound bitter and sarcastic and, well, I sound an awful lot like Carmella.

She turns toward me and then cocks her head to the side like a tiny bird, and as her grin fades slowly, like water draining out of cupped hands, I step backward up the aisle, turn, and head toward the sound cave.