The actors scream. It’s more like a mock scream than a real one, but it’s still kind of scary.
“Everybody freeze!” Ignacio shouts.
I stop on the catwalk, high above the theater in the darkness.
I feel panic in my chest. It’s hard to breathe.
It’s just a blackout, I say to myself. No big deal. You’ve been through dozens of them.
It’s true. I’ve been through dozens, maybe even hundreds in the last two years.
But my mind starts to go places when it’s dark.
Scary places.
That’s why I always keep extra light on me. I have a glow stick in my right front pocket, a penlight in my left, a mini Mag on my belt. That’s just for starters. All I have to do is grab one and take it out.
But I can’t move. The dark feels vast and empty, like standing on the edge of a canyon.
I try to slow my breathing and calm myself down, but it’s not working.
The dream.
I’m back in the dream from last night, my father stepping out of the gloom to stand near me. I don’t think the dream ever goes away. It just advances and retreats inside my head, ducking out of sight long enough for me to forget about it, then popping up to reassert itself.
My father is next to me now, but there’s no way to keep him there. He’ll be gone again any moment, lost in darkness.
“That’s a Rothko,” Dad says.
I’m eight years old standing in front of a painting at the MoMA in New York. Dad and I used to go there a lot. We took the train from Montclair into the city every Sunday. Dad would choose a museum for us, and we’d spend hours looking at art. Then we’d walk through Central Park together, talking about what we’d seen.
I’m back there with him now, standing in front of this burst of orange red on the wall.
“What do you think?” Dad says.
I look at it for a few seconds, but I don’t see much, only bands of color.
“It’s okay,” I say.
Dad says, “Give it a chance.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, willing me to stay.
I look at the painting. I look at my dad.
“Wait,” he whispers.
I wait.
The painting starts to move, the canvas vibrating with color.
“Now what do you see?” Dad says.
“It’s alive,” I say.
“Where are the damn lights?!” Derek shouts.
The museum evaporates. I’m back in the theater, standing high in the air.
My father is gone.
I can still smell him, feel the warmth where his hand touched my shoulder.
The house lights come back on. Black stage in front, empty theater seats below. The actors are clustered onstage, some of the girls with their arms around one another.
“What happened to the lights?” Johanna says.
Derek’s face turns purple. “Son of a bitch!” he says. He looks around the theater until his eyes settle on Ignacio.
Ignacio gulps hard. He looks around the theater until he finds Benno.
Benno shrugs. “I think the dimmers blew,” he says. “Maybe something was plugged in wrong?”
He looks around for someone else to blame. People are ducking out of sight, slumping down behind seat backs, sliding offstage.
I don’t slump or slide. I stand there, still thinking about Rothko and my father.
Benno, Ignacio, and Derek all look up at the same time.
I can imagine what it looks like. Me standing with a cable in my hand. Guilty as hell.
“That kid up there. I always forget his name,” Derek says.
“Adam Ziegler,” Ignacio says. “Z.”
He doesn’t even pause before he says it, like maybe he’s considering covering for me. He just gives me up.
I’m watching this happen, but it seems far away, like it’s got very little to do with me. A lot of my life seems like that now.
Derek’s face curls into a snarl.
“Get your butt down here, Ziegler!”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say.
“Z!” Derek screams. He taps his foot.
I cross the catwalk, the creaking metal loud in the theater below.
“What’s going on out there?” Reach says in my headset.
“Firing squad,” I say.
I walk to the edge of the catwalk where a ladder leads to the stage floor below.
I glance down. The Posse looks up at me, the girls putting their hands on their hips in unison like a cheerleader move.
Everyone is looking at me. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. The floor seems like it’s a thousand miles away.
“I’m coming for you,” Reach says in my ear, and I hear a scraping sound as he rips off the headset.
I take two steps down the ladder, and I stop. My mind is reeling.
The girl with long black hair is onstage looking up at me, or at least at my ass sticking out from the ladder. Not what I’d call a great first impression.
“What the hell is wrong with that kid?” Derek says.
Good question.
I want to climb down and tell them I had nothing to do with it, but I can’t.
I’m stuck on the ladder, high in the air, caught between up and down.
I hear footsteps running onstage.
“Rishekesh Patel at your service,” Reach says to Derek.
Reach to the rescue.
“How can I help?” Reach says.
“You can get this jerk down,” Derek says.
“What did this jerk do now?” Reach says.
The girls laugh a little.
“He blew up my lights,” Derek says. “What if Mr. Apple were here? What would he think?”
He would think you screwed up, I say to myself. Mr. Apple weighs five hundred pounds, and four hundred ninety-nine of them are vicious. He doesn’t like people making mistakes on his stage. He’s fine if you make a legitimate mistake, because that’s how you learn. But not a stupid mistake. A stupid mistake earns you a face full of sour Apple.
“The last thing I need is a techie screwing up my design,” Derek says.
The way he says techie makes me wince.
I look up towards the catwalk. Climb, my head says. Get away.
The stage lights come back on. Not at full, but at 25 percent. Benno is testing the board.
“Looks like we got the lights back for you, Double D,” Reach says.
Derek scowls. He hates that name.
Reach smiles like he has absolutely no idea he did anything wrong.
I have to give it to Reach. He has the ability to make fun of Derek and kiss ass at the same time. That’s a major skill set.
“What are we going to do about ladder boy?” Derek says.
“A public thrashing,” Reach says. “I suggest you whip him with a cable. Twenty lashes.”
The girls laugh even more. Derek looks at them, trying to figure out if he’s being made fun of. After a second, he smiles.
“We shall make him walk the plank,” Derek says, his accent turning him into the ship captain from The Pirates of Penzance. “Or perhaps he needs to be removed from the crew?”
Does Derek have the right to fire me? Not exactly. But he could get me fired. A few words to Mr. Apple and I would be out the door.
I think about a life without techies. Without theater. Without light.
“What if we have him gas up your car?” Reach says.
Derek’s car is his pride and joy, a bright red BMW convertible that he loves more than life itself.
“That’s a fine idea,” Derek says, now smiling.
He walks offstage with the actors following behind.
The girl with black hair hangs back for a second. She stares up at me. There’s a look in her eyes, a familiar look. It’s the kind of look I got all the time after Dad died.
She pities me.
I start to climb as fast as I can, scurrying up the ladder until I’m back on the catwalk where I can breathe.