“Close your eyes. You need to do your first entrance right.” Gregor links his arm in mine as we stand outside the Sidestreet Theater. The word Backstage is stenciled in yellow letters on the beat-up metal door in front of us.
“Is this some weird theater tradition I’ve never heard of, where newbies are brought in like hostages?” I can see my breath. Despite the midday sunshine, the air is frosty, and I just want to get inside.
“Wow, harsh. You need to have a little more trust in your fellow actors.” Gregor purses his lips.
I laugh. “Okay. Don’t be so dramatic.”
“Dramatic is my default mode, girlfriend.” He wriggles his fingers at my eyes, hypnotist-style. “Now, close them.”
I do as I’m told. That’s my game plan after messing up at Sunday’s run-through. Stick to the script, Ellie.
The door squeaks open. “One short step up,” Gregor says.
I let myself be led up and then a few steps forward. The sounds of wind and cars die down, and then the door cranks shut with a bang. I flinch.
“You’re fine, you big chicken.” Gregor’s voice travels only a few inches in the deadened air. And even though I can’t see, I sense the dimness here compared to the brightness outside.
“Now, breathe it in,” he says.
A musty but dry smell. With an undercurrent of hairspray and makeup. Also paint. “It’s not pretty,” I say. “But I like it. Can I open my eyes?”
“You may,” Gregor declares, a wizard granting permission.
We’re in a narrow passageway. The black walls are chipped, probably from earlier show crews knocking awkward props against them.
Gregor still holds my arm. “That was a test. Only true performers understand the beauty of this smell.” He wafts the air toward his nose with one hand. “Glorious eau de backstage.”
“So I passed? I’m a true performer?” I try not to sound desperate.
“I didn’t say this was the only test. We still have to see how you get through tech and dress and opening and second night and—”
“I get it!” I whack his arm the way Shantel would. “Can you just show me where to go now, oh True Performer?”
“That’s the spirit.” He takes me toward the stage and the voices of our castmates.
The day stretches ahead of me, full of the pleasure of being Piper. And no Marissa to spoil it.
* * *
Tech rehearsals were never this detailed in the poky Rossmere auditorium. Rachel and I have shifted the two dorm-room beds and the window wall onstage and off three times. I’ve had to make quick notes about every entrance and exit and set shift in my script to pass on to Marissa.
Now Rachel, Shantel and I stand squinting out to where Drew and Neeta sit in the middle of the darkened audience section—the house. They’re in a circle of light cast by the desk lamp clamped to their makeshift table. They look awesome out there, like the classic movie image of a director and stage manager.
Drew was right about things feeling different once we got into the theater. It’s miles better than the rehearsal hall. The show is starting to form into a real thing.
“We should do that one more time, girls,” Drew says. “So you’re solid with getting everything in place.”
“And so Cheng can lock in the timing for the cross-fade after Shantel’s spotlight,” Neeta adds.
Cheng, the twentysomething sound and lighting guy, pokes his spiky-haired head out of the control-booth window at the back of the theater. “Don’t worry, people—you’ve only got about four and a half more hours of this torture.”
“We love you, Cheng,” Neeta shouts sarcastically over her shoulder.
He gives a cheesy grin and a thumbs-up and goes back to his adjustments.
Neeta says something into her headset’s small mic.
In the wing beside me, Lucy, Neeta’s red-headed friend who is working as our stage-crew person, replies into her own headset, “Got it.” She calls out, “Headmistress Winterbottom, back onstage with Hannah, please. Piper and roommate, back in the wings.”
Ilona—“the lesser Headmistress,” as Gregor has privately nicknamed her—emerges from backstage to join Shantel. I go to the foot of my bed in the stage-left wing; Rachel goes to hers, stage right. When we hear our cue, we have to get the beds in position and lock their wheels in place. Then Rachel has to bring the window wall out and crouch behind it until her line in the song. All of this in dim lighting behind Shantel in her spot.
For now, though, we all stand at the ready.
Cheng calls, “All set here.”
Drew says, “Shantel, take it from I can’t wait to get started.”
And we start the scene again.
* * *
“So, Marissa’s gonna be a celeb.” Brayden, hands in the pockets of his artfully ripped jeans, walks backward to face the rest of us. He, Gregor, Shantel, Rachel, Ilona and I are on our way to grab a quick bite. Renée showed up just before our break to announce Marissa’s appearance on This City This Morning. Too bad Marissa couldn’t be here to act humble while soaking up the glory in front of us all.
“I don’t know if being on some local morning show makes anyone a celebrity,” Ilona sneers. She’s the more judgmental of the two Headmistress Winterbottoms. “Who even watches those things anymore?”
I’d like to elbow her in defense of Dad. I can make fun of his show, but no one else should.
“Oh, my mom watches, that’s who.” Shantel projects like she’s still onstage. Passersby turn to look. “Every morning before she goes to work, I hear her crushing on the host dude: That Mark is one fine cut of prime beef!”
I practically choke. But I can’t help correcting her. “It’s Mike.”
“Oh-ho, you’re a fan too?” Gregor says, shaking his hand like he’s burned it. “Older man!”
“He’s my dad.”
That gets their attention. They all stop dead. Two guys shoot us dirty looks as they have to detour around us.
“Get. Out.” Gregor faces me.
“It’s true,” I say. “Mike Fisk, This City This Morning host. Ellie Fisk, daughter of.” I start walking again so we don’t keep blocking the sidewalk.
“Cool.” Rachel gives her laid-back approval. “I bet it was your idea for them to do a spot about Schooled.”
“Uh, well—”
Before I can clarify, Brayden says, “I bet being him would be an awesome job.”
“He does a pretty good job of being him already,” I say.
The others laugh, and Brayden goes, “Right… right. Still, I think I might have to look into that idea.” He gazes off into the distance.
If I’d known I’d get such a great response to my dad being the TCTM guy, I might have confessed to it sooner.
We step into a pizza place. As we line up for slices, Shantel asks, “Why aren’t you going on the show? Since he’s your dad.”
“’Cause it’d be weird?” Ilona says.
“Actually, Renée was thinking of me doing the appearance.”
The words come out of me so easily it’s almost scary. Although, strictly speaking, there’s no proof Renée wasn’t considering me before she knew I was Mike Fisk’s daughter. I hurry on with, “But Dad said the station policy wouldn’t allow it.”
“That sucks,” Brayden sympathizes.
“Anyway,” I say, “I thought she should have chosen you, Shantel. You are the lead.”
I should stop surprising myself with what I’m saying. None of this seems to fit my morning stick-to-the-script plan.
“Uh-uh.” Shantel shakes her head. “If I went on your dad’s show, my mom would explode. Literally.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “Marissa will represent. That girl works herself so hard, she deserves a little glory.”
No doubt Marissa would agree. This time I have no problem keeping my mouth shut.