12

Friday morning, Jasmine’s still looking for a parking spot when my phone lights up with a text from Dr. Lochley.

Dr. L almost never texts. She thinks it’s an inappropriate blurring of teacher-student boundaries.

But this text says:

CODE RED

“Stop!” The car lurches to a stop halfway up one aisle. “I’ve gotta go!”

I grab my stuff, leap out of the car and run for the entrance, ignoring Jasmine’s confused shouting.

There are three common Theatre Emergencies that I have to deal with:

Since Denise plays in a softball league for queer femmes with an administrative assistant for the fire department, she usually gets a heads-up when Riverstone’s about to be inspected. And Riverstone’s theatres are not anywhere near technically up to code.

It’s not for lack of trying: It’s just impossible to comply with the fire code when the prop closet has to double as textbook storage for Language Arts, the spot booth also hosts in-school suspension, and the Little Theatre’s lighting system hasn’t been updated since the late 1900s.

I sprint up to the Theatre Office, taking the stairs two at a time. I dimly register Liam, sitting beneath the Theatre Board, playing on his phone.

Dr. L is furiously stuffing loose papers and old script books onto the shelves in the corner of her office, but her shoulders relax as soon as she sees me. “Jackson. Good.”

“I got your message. Code red?”

“Can you take the catwalk? I’ll get the prop room, and Mr. Giacomo is taking care of the spot booth.” Mr. Giacomo is the assistant principal who runs in-school suspension.

“Got it.”

I tie my crescent wrench to my belt loop, stick my hand through a roll of gaff tape like it’s a chunky bracelet, and follow Dr. L to the catwalk door. It’s technically always locked, but before she graduated, Caprice showed me how to open it with a student ID in case of emergencies. I don’t know if Dr. Lochley knows you can do that or not. So she leans in, using the key on her lanyard to open the door.

The air gets hotter as I climb the red metal ladder. Scents of mothballs and plywood and burnt dust and decades-old cigarette butts assail me.

At the top of the ladder is our old dimmer rack, a twenty-four channel one with red side panels, still emblazoned with the faded logo of an old production company that went bankrupt after its owner was convicted of embezzling equipment from a local news station.

Half the channels have stopped working, the broken modules labeled with pink gaff tape over the breakers. I double-check the working modules are breaker’d off, then duck under a dusty beam onto the catwalk proper: a set of wooden planks that have been nailed down to make a walkway all around the theatre.

The lighting rail runs at chest height, lights clamped every six feet or so, mostly old incandescent PARs and Lekos that got sent up here after the Main Theatre’s rig got upgraded to LEDs. A tangle of orange extension cords runs all around, connecting lights to whatever working circuit we could find.

Orange extension cords (especially ones that have had their ends hacked off and replaced with stage pin connectors by Denise) are very much not up to code.

Neither are the plastic tubs stacked haphazardly on the wooden walkways, shoved halfway into the dusty recesses of drywall that make up the theatre ceiling and cloud.

Something touches my back. I jump, banging my elbow against a Source Four on the rail, and let out an embarrassing a totally justified scream.

“Sorry!” Liam looks sheepish, his hand still raised.

“What are you doing up here?” I rub my elbow; it’s going to bruise. “Your shmoodie is downstairs.”

“I came to help you. And your tag was out.”

“I can handle it.” I tuck in my tag.

Liam doesn’t even know how to do lights, much less how to speed-strike a rig before the fire marshal shows up.

“But I want to help. Dr. L said it was an emergency.”

No one’s ever offered to help me with a code red before. But here Liam is, being all tall, smelling like the pool and clean laundry and lemon candy. He does have long arms, which might be useful. As long as he stays on the other end of the catwalk, I’ll be fine.

“Okay. But watch your step.”

I lead Liam to the corner opposite the dimmer rack, where the longest cables are run. “We’ve got to unplug all the orange cables, wrap them, and store them above the cloud.”

He starts to unplug a light, but can’t get the stage pin connector apart.

“It’s stuck.”

I fight a grin. “You’ve got to wiggle it.” I show him, wiggling the connector until a gap widens and it’s easier to pull apart. In the warmth of the catwalk, his skin smells especially chlorinated. “It’s for safety.”

Safety third, Denise likes to joke. Speaking of which, I should double-check that all the fixtures have their safety cables.

Liam grips the end in his hand and starts coiling the cord around his elbow.

“Stop!” I take the cable from him. “Don’t coil it, it’ll get tangled. Wrap it instead.” I show him, doing a loop, then a counter-loop, over and over as I follow the cable to the end of the row, where I unplug it from the circuit. The cable is missing its tieline, so I pull off a strip of gaff tape and use it to tie the cable.

I stand on my tiptoes and drop it over the edge of the canopy, where no one will look.

“Like that.”

Liam’s got a smile in his eyes. I don’t know why.

“Don’t make fun of me. Doing it this way means the cable will unwrap smoothly when you need it.”

“I wasn’t. I’m impressed.”

“Oh.” I’m starting to sweat; my lip tastes salty as I chew it. “Okay. Well. Like that.”

I leave him to cabling while I start clearing the walkway of plastic tubs and broken lights and whatever detritus is in the way. The fire code says there has to be a clear path to the ladder in case of a fire, not that anyone is ever up here except during shows.

The work goes quicker with two. Liam gets the hang of wrapping cables, while I do all the little things it takes to make the catwalk safe fire code compliant. I keep my space, because the catwalk wasn’t built for tall swimmers with broad shoulders who are too nice for their own good. Who help when they don’t have to, just because.

Who like my sister.

I’m tightening the last Leko down on the rail, just to get it out of the way—it’s got a broken reflector, but for some reason we’re not allowed to throw it away, the district has to “remove it from inventory”—when Liam comes up to me. He’s got a smear of black dirt under his left eye, so it looks like someone punched him.

“One of the lights get you?”

He cocks his head to the side. I point at his eye.

“What?” He pulls out his phone to study it in the front-facing camera. “Oh. Oops.”

He pulls up the hem of his shirt to wipe at his face, giving me another front-row seat to his abs and left nipple.

I realize he said something.

“Huh?”

He drops the shirt and scratches at his arm. “Sorry. Are there somethingsomething? My arms keep itching.”

“It’s the lights.” I pinch the Leko’s power cord. “Fiberglass insulation. We’ve got scrubby soap downstairs.”

“Thank god.” He fingers the long sleeve of my black shirt. “I guess this makes sense.”

I nod. He’s hunched over me to avoid hitting his head on an air duct. Looming again.

I clear my throat. “You get all the cables?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Let’s go before—”

The house lights in the theatre snap on. I lean over the rail to see. The principal, Mrs. Bashir, is crossing the stage, leading a man in black pants and a white polo shirt with a red-and-white patch on his chest. The fire marshal.

We’re trapped.

“We need to hide,” I say as quietly as I can. At least I hope it’s quiet.

Students aren’t allowed in the catwalk without teacher supervision.

Liam glances back toward the ladder, but I grab his hand. “No time.”

I lead him around the catwalk, trying to balance speed with stealth, until I come to one of the panels on the south side of the theatre.

When Riverstone High School was originally built, it didn’t include the second level with the Little Theatre; that got added on as an expansion in the 1970s. There are still weird hidey-holes in the catwalk, from where they connected the new part of the building to the old; most were drywalled up, but some were left with covers instead. I open the panel—a thin sheet of aluminum or something—and gesture Liam inside.

It’s dusty and small, just enough room for the two of us to sit inside, shoulders pressed together. I pull the panel closed, shutting us in darkness.

My whole side is pressed up against Liam, and I try to lean away so we’re not touching so much, because otherwise I will hyperventilate and die and that will definitely not be up to code.

But the sharp points of nails that weren’t completely filed off keep poking me, so I’m trapped against Liam’s firm side.

The air is getting hotter, Liam’s body heat turning the tiny space into an oven. He shifts against me and whispers something in my ear. I jerk away before he can cause any feedback in my hearing aid; not only is it painful, but it might give us away.

I pull my phone out and open the Notes app.

Don’t do that!!!!

He takes my phone and types:

Sorry. Are you ok?

How long do we stay here

I answer:

Until Dr L gives the all clear

It can cause feedback

I text Dr. L to let her know we’re trapped. In the dim blue glow of my phone, I can make out Liam’s face a little. His mouth is pinched, and his blue eyes are wide. He looks . . . frazzled.

You okay?

I hand him back the phone. His hand shakes slightly.

I’m a little bit claustrophobic

Sorry

He’s shaking next to me. If he doesn’t stop, he’ll give us away, and that would be terrible.

Not only for the trouble we’d get in with Mrs. Bashir, and possibly messing up the fire marshal inspection, but because of the rumors. Two guys caught hiding in the catwalk? No one ever comes up here except for shows or—legend has it—to hook up.

Would people think we hooked up? My armpits sweat. Jasmine would kill me if people thought that.

Liam drums his fingers against his knees. I put my hand over his, give it a squeeze, and he lets me take his hand to calm him.

Holding Liam’s hand is a mistake.

His hands are big. The one I’m holding is clammy, but smooth, soft enough to make me self-conscious of my own calloused palms and fingers. I wonder if swimming did it for him or if his hands are just naturally perfect like the rest of him.

As I squeeze his hand, he relaxes, his whole body softening against my side, and I can’t breathe.

The floor shifts beneath us slightly. The heavy stomp of boots reverberates in my butt. I lock my phone to make sure no light spills out from the hidey-hole. But now I’m alone in the dark. With Liam.

Last year I was plugging in an old PAR and got electrocuted. That might be too strong a word: It was a tiny zap, and it didn’t hurt me, but it made my skin buzz and my tongue feel fuzzy.

I’ve got that buzzing again, but it’s not electricity.

It’s Liam. Liam’s hand in mine. Liam’s shoulders pressed up against me. Liam, who likes to tuck in my tags, and beg for shmoodies, who offered to help just because I looked like I needed it.

Liam, who worries no one sees him, but who sees me just fine.

And I wonder if I’ve been wrong this whole time, and maybe he’s not so straight, and maybe he could like someone like me. Even though he’s him and I’m basically a background character.

What if every time he touches me, every time he waits around after rehearsal, every time he haltingly fingerspells a word because he knows how tired I get listening and guessing and reading lips all day, he’s trying to tell me something? Something more than just “we’re friends.”

My armpits are sweating so hard I worry the fire marshal will notice a puddle. Should I say something?

What if I’ve read him all wrong?

What if he does like me, and it goes bad anyway? What if I’m just like Jasmine and we break up because I’m too much? What if we’re just like Mom and Dad and we break up because we can’t stop fighting and making our kids miserable?

Worse, what if it’s good, but then he goes off to college and leaves me anyway?

I don’t know what to do. But all of a sudden, I’ve got a lump in my throat that has nothing to do with the fear of discovery, and everything to do with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he feels something for me.

I should ask him. I have to. Just as soon as we escape this mess.

Outside our hidey-hole, the footsteps tromp off, the reverberations in my butt gradually receding. And then all I can feel is Liam’s hand in mine. He’s still quivering a bit.

I squeeze his hand to let him know it’s going to be okay. That I’m here for him. And he squeezes back.

We sit in the dark and wait for the all clear.

All too soon Finally the fire marshal finishes, and Dr. L texts that we can come back down. I’m almost sad at how fast Liam scrambles out of our hidey-hole, but I don’t blame him.

“All good?” I ask when we get back down.

Dr. L tosses her scarf over her shoulder. “Passed with flying colors. Thanks for helping, Liam.”

“Sure.” He scratches the back of his neck. “It was really something-something.”

Really what?

Really nice, pressed up against me? My heart hasn’t quit hammering this whole time.

Dr. L smiles and nods. “I’ll go write you passes.”

She heads into the Theatre Office, and I look anywhere but Liam’s face. My backpack is still lying against the wall, next to Liam’s shmoodie. I grab it for him.

“Thanks.” He gives it a shake and uncaps it, while I take a few deep breaths and try to summon my courage.

But we were just crammed into a tiny box together, holding hands, and he didn’t mind. He even squeezed me back a few times. So maybe I’m not imagining things. Maybe I’ve been reading him wrong this whole time. Maybe he’s not so straight.

So maybe . . . just maybe . . .

“I was wondering,” I say, but I’ve got a frog in my throat. I clear it. “Um. I mean . . .”

His eyebrows raise, looking at me patiently.

“I was thinking . . .”

“Oh, sorry.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Thought it was on vibrate. Thank god it didn’t go off when we were up there, huh?”

“Yeah.” The consequences are too dire to imagine.

“Sorry, lemme just . . .” He taps away, lips twitching into a shy smile. “Okay. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I take a deep breath.

I can do this.

“You doing anything this weekend?”

“Yeah. Actually, that was Jasmine.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” He bites his lip for a second. “We’re . . . going on a date tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

I can’t breathe.

I wish I’d said something sooner. I wish I’d never let him and Jasmine get to know each other.

But that wouldn’t have made any difference. I was just imagining things. Imagining that he wanted anything other than friendship from me. And friendship is fine. It’s fine.

I’m fine.