I’m a coward. There’s no other word for it.
I’m on the catwalk trying to hang and focus the rest of the lights, but I keep thinking about it. I don’t understand how I can run around twenty-five feet in the air and handle dangerous electrics, but when it comes to girls, I’m Chicken Little.
The idea makes my zits ache.
I move from light to light, trying to lose myself in work. I push the actress out of my head. It’s important not to get distracted when you’re teching. That’s how people get hurt.
At some point Ignacio walks onstage pulling the ghost light with him. The ghost light is a bare lightbulb on a pole that burns downstage center when nobody is in the theater. It’s one of those theater superstitions, like not saying the name of a certain Scottish play or telling people to “break a leg” instead of “good luck.” Some people say we need a ghost light because ghosts roam the theater at night, and they’ll get angry if they can’t see where they’re going. Other people say the light is like a talisman that keeps ghosts away from the theater in the first place. Reach has a more practical explanation. He says the ghost light is there so the last person out of the theater and the first person in don’t trip and kill themselves in the dark.
“You almost done?” Ignacio says.
“Can I get five more minutes?” I say.
“I’m out of here, but Mr. Apple is still around.”
No kidding. He’s probably breathing into a paper bag in his office right now.
I wave to Ignacio. He plugs in the light and exits.
I look at the glow of the ghost light on the empty stage. There’s something sad about it, like the last streetlight in a deserted town.
I lean back and lay my head on a sweatshirt on the catwalk. I’m not planning to go to sleep, only rest for a minute. I’ve barely put my head down before I’m back in the school hallway in my dreams, looking at the pools of light and shadow that hopscotch the long hall.
“I used to love you,” a girl says. It’s the actress with long black hair, the one playing Peaseblossom. She dances down the hall, spinning until I see her red panties.
I know it’s crazy that a girl I’ve never met is talking about being in love with me. But it’s one of those dream things—it’s true in the dream even if it’s a lie in real life.
“You don’t love me anymore?” I say.
“Not anymore.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing to do, nothing to be done,” the fairy girl says. “You can’t change the past.”
I don’t even get to have a girlfriend in a dream. I only get to have a breakup. Sad.
The surprising thing is how much it hurts when she says it. There’s this deep ache in my chest, like the time I had bronchitis for two weeks and I could feel my lungs hurting.
“It’s a shame,” she says.
But her voice sounds different now, like a man’s voice.
“I used to love this,” a man says.
I open my eyes.
I’m up on the catwalk. My head has slipped off the sweatshirt, and it’s resting on cold metal. I glance down to the floor where Mr. Apple is lying on a chaise longue in the middle of the stage, his enormous bulk draped over the sides, a cell phone pressed to his ear.
He says, “I used to love the theater, Sylvester. Now I hate it.”
He dangles one foot to the floor where Carol Channing lies next to him. He slips off his loafer and rubs her fur a little too hard with his pudgy toes. She yelps and scurries away from him.
“Don’t tell me it’s not that bad,” Mr. Apple says. “You should have seen the last rehearsal. Shakespeare turned over in his grave, threw up, then rolled into his own vomit. And whose fault is that? Mine! I’m the atrocious director of an atrocious production. This is what it’s come to, Syl. I’m not only a high-school drama teacher, I’m a terrible high-school drama teacher.”
It feels bad to listen in on Mr. Apple’s private call, but I’m stuck. If I say something now, he’ll know I’ve heard the whole conversation.
“I’m doing everything I can,” Mr. Apple says, “but I have no inspiration, sweetie. It’s like the lights are off. It’s Midsummer in the dark.”
He scratches at one of his stomach folds.
“Of course you inspire me, Sylvester, but in a different way. My God, why do you have to take everything so personally?”
I shift on the catwalk and my arm hits a gel frame.
Mr. Apple stops in mid-sentence.
“Hello?” he says.
He pauses for a moment, then says into the phone:
“I’ve got to go, honey. I’ll be home in a little bit. Dinner sounds nice. You know I love your salmon croquettes.”
He hangs up.
“I hate salmon croquettes,” he says to no one in particular.
He hefts himself up to a sitting position on the chaise.
“Is someone here?” he says.
He looks around the theater, scanning everywhere. Then he looks up in my direction. Does he see me? I can’t be sure.
Derek rushes in.
“I’ve got it!” he says.
“They have medicine that will get rid of it,” Mr. Apple says.
Silence.
“That was a joke,” Mr. Apple says.
“Yes, sir. Very funny,” Derek says.
Mr. Apple sighs, unappreciated. “All right, Mr. Dunkirk, what do you have for me?”
“An amazing inspiration,” Derek says.
“I can’t wait to hear it. But why don’t you start by telling me what inspired the blackout earlier?”
“You heard about that?” Derek says.
“I’m the director. An actor passes gas in the dressing room and I get a memo. Often a long memo.”
Derek shuffles from foot to foot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him nervous before.
“That blackout was a fluke,” Derek says.
“A fluke is a onetime event. We’ve had set problems, light problems, even costume problems. That’s not a fluke. It’s a trend.”
“This one was not my fault. One of the techies made an error.”
“Which one?” Mr. Apple says.
“The lighting guy, Adam Ziegler. You know him?”
“I do,” Mr. Apple says.
I flash on Mr. Apple in the bathroom stall, mopping his forehead with wet towels.
“I’ll get rid of him,” Derek says.
Mr. Apple scratches at his goatee, thinking.
I have to speak up now. I have to defend myself.
But how I can explain a blackout when I don’t know why it happened?
“Here’s what I think …,” Mr. Apple says.
I try to say something, but I can’t.
This is how it ends. I’m going to sit up here and watch myself getting thrown off the crew, and I’m going to do nothing. Because that’s what a coward does.
“I understand that you’re a student and there’s a lot of pressure on you,” Mr. Apple says.
“I can handle it,” Derek says quickly.
“I hope so,” Mr. Apple says. “But I don’t want you firing people quite yet. You’re in a position of authority now. You need to take care of your people. Teach them. Guide them.”
“I’d rather get rid of him,” Derek says.
“You’re not hearing me,” Mr. Apple says. “I gave you a big opportunity on this show.”
“I know you did. And I’m grateful.”
“What has been given can be taken away,” Mr. Apple says.
Derek’s face goes pale. I can see it white and clammy on the edge of the ghost light.
“I assure you, Mr. Apple—”
Mr. Apple holds up a hand. Silence.
Derek takes a moment to regroup.
“This brings me to the inspiration I mentioned,” he says.
“Let’s hear it,” Mr. Apple says, exhaustion creeping into his voice.
“I’ve noticed the show is lacking a certain—”
“Talent base,” Mr. Apple says.
“Panache,” Derek says.
“Very politic,” Mr. Apple says.
“I have something I think will improve it. A spotlight.”
“More light? You’re going to brown out Northern Jersey.”
“Not just more light,” Derek says. “The perfect light.”
“We can’t afford any more equipment in our budget.”
Mr. Apple rises from the chaise, slipping his bag over his shoulder.
“Money is no problem,” Derek says. “My father will take care of it.”
“I see,” Mr. Apple says. “Fine, then.”
He nods and walks slowly from the stage.
Derek calls after him, “About that techie—”
“No firing,” Mr. Apple says.
“At least not yet,” Derek says.
“That’s right,” Mr. Apple says. “Give the poor boy another chance.”