19

"Okay, guys, I have a few announcements! Listen up!” Grant is shouting, trying to get the attention of the cast and crew before rehearsal. The actors, however, are still too enthralled with the sounds of their own voices to shut their yaps.

“Hey! That means you.” He gestures to a clump of chorus members who instantly melt into their seats. “Thank you.” His authoritative scowl drifts back into a glowing smile.

“Mrs. Gild will be out to talk with you in a minute. She’s working out the blocking on scene four right now, but as it doesn’t concern most of you, I’m going to get these announcements out of the way. So the coming week of rehearsals is really important. None of you should be absent or ineligible or sick or covered in head lice or infected with leprosy or anything that would keep you off the stage for the entirety of Tech Week.”

I look around and watch as everyone stares up at him and hangs on his every word. I make a mental note to tell him again how proud I am of his making stage manager this year.

“We’ll have rehearsals every night, through Thursday, and then, as you know, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday is our show! Yes, you will all be required to strike the stage after Sunday night’s closing. Yes, everyone will stay to help clean the dressing rooms, green rooms, and anything else Gild asks us. We have just three shows, then we’re out. If any of you have questions, feel free to track me down, though it will probably be difficult if I’m wearing my stage blacks backstage because, as you know, when the lights go down, every techie wearing all black becomes invisible.”

I let out a chuckle, but I’m the only one.

As the crickets chirp, everyone in front of me turns around to see who the sad soul is who thought Grant’s lame punchline was actually funny.

But his enthusiasm won’t be deterred. “Okay, then. Go forth! Check your props! This is your last day without costumes! We’re getting started in ten minutes!”

The rest of us offer the traditional echo back to him. “Thank you, ten!”

Minutes later, Antonique and I are sitting at the soundboard while the cast prepares for Gild’s first declaration of the day. I automatically recite Winnifred’s words right along with Charity, who is running lines on stage. Antonique smirks at my delivery, and I have to admit it feels kinda nice to have an audience.

“Are you getting excited? I can’t believe next week is Tech Week,” Antonique says as I’m fiddling with the gain on mic two, which has been giving me fits since yesterday.

“I know. Hell Week is more accurate. It is so intense,” I say. “And opening night is a rush. The pressure can be so heavy you feel like it might squash you.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” she says. “I already feel like I’m going to barf, and it’s still days away.”

Her face looks like she might actually throw up.

“That’s not weird, but remember, throwing up in the sound booth is strictly prohibited.”

She laughs. “Good to know. Hey, I thought we had closed rehearsals?”

I follow Antonique’s gaze and see Carmella traipsing down the house-left aisle of the auditorium. She’s wearing her drill team practice uniform, and her ponytail could literally not be higher.

On stage, the cast is working through some bumps in Act II, which have been giving them trouble for days. I know Carmella may think she’s the golden girl, but she does not want to be the person who interrupts Mrs. Gild’s rehearsal. Doesn’t matter who the Princess thinks she is—Gild’s gonna rip her to shreds.

Carmella takes a seat on the aisle about five rows from the front and watches her apparent boyfriend, Andrew, flit around the stage.

I reach up and depress the button on my headset that connects to the other techies and, most importantly, to Grant.

“Grant, you have your ears on?”

I hear a faint click before a slightly digitized version of Grant’s voice starts crinkling in my ear.

“‘Course, Gen, what’s up? Everything okay?”

“Kinda. I don’t want to raise the alarm and trigger Gild’s werewolf transformation, but Carmella just walked in and sat, like, five rows from the front.”

“Seriously? Gild didn’t notice her? Where is she?”

“I guess not. She’s up against the stage trying to start Act II. She’s got other things going on.”

“I’m on it.”

My headphones go dead, and I look over to Antonique who’s sitting beside me in front of the mixing board, peering through the thin pane of glass that separates us from the rest of the auditorium. Her eyes are just as big as mine.

Seconds later, Grant emerges from the stage right edge of the proscenium arch and hugs the wall as he descends the small staircase.

Miraculously, Mrs. Gild is still barking orders at the cast. The general busyness of the moment masks Grant heading toward where little Miss Perfect is sitting.

“Oh my gosh, what is he gonna say to her?” Antonique asks.

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.