There’s one bad thing about being up on the catwalk for a long time: no bathroom facilities. After five hours, my bladder feels like the pressure hull of a nuclear sub. I’ve heard that some professional lighting guys keep a soda bottle on the catwalk for emergencies. That’s hard-core tech, too hardcore even for me. I already have a negative rep. I don’t need to be the kid on the ceiling with a collection of piss bottles.
I’m still feeling embarrassed about the ladder incident, so I keep looking over the side, waiting for the actors to go away. When the theater clears, it takes me like five seconds to get down. It figures. With nobody around, I’m like a mountain goat.
I’m rushing offstage when I hear a strange whimpering sound from the wings. It sounds like Mr. Apple brought his dog to school again, even though it’s against the rules. He has a little Lhasa Apso named Carol Channing. It’s quite a sight to see a five-hundred-pound man with a two-pound dog. But Carol is his pride and joy. Mr. Apple is known to go on a rampage when she gets lost. If she’s loose in the theater, I’d better find her.
“Carol Channing,” I call as I walk towards the wings.
No answer. Just more whimpering.
“Hello, Dolly?” I say.
I turn the corner, and I see two feet peeking out from behind a flat.
“Go away,” a girl’s voice says.
I stick my head around the corner. It’s Grace Navarro, a girl who joined the tech crew a couple months ago. She’s crying and sniffling. She uses the back of her hand to wipe snot from her nose.
Gross.
“What’s wrong with me?” she says.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“That was a rhetorical question,” Grace says, kind of nasty.
“Whatever,” I say, and I start to walk away.
“I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at myself,” Grace says.
I look back at her, tears running down her almond cheeks. I can’t stand it when a girl cries.
I reach into my tech pack and come up with a tissue. I hand it to Grace.
“He said I was his favorite,” she says, blowing her nose hard. “And I believed him. How stupid.”
That’s when I remember: Grace was going out with Derek a little while ago. Maybe “going out” is not the right expression. Derek burns through new girls so quickly, we stopped learning their names and started calling them DNF. Derek’s New Frosh.
So Grace was DNF. Temporarily.
I’m already on Derek’s shit list, but if anyone sees me talking to this girl, I might cross over the line onto his dead-meat list.
I should walk away and leave her to her meltdown. But then I think about my mother crying in the bathroom after dad died. She never wanted me to see her, so she’d hide in there and close the door, thinking I wouldn’t hear the whimpering noises. But I heard everything.
“My heart is broken,” Grace says.
Now I can’t leave her alone.
“Come with me,” I say, and I pull her into the Cave.