I step out the backstage door into the theater department hallway. Derek is there, leaning against the wall, waiting for me.
“Do me a favor, would you, Z?”
“What is it?”
“Take the knife out of my back.”
Was Derek eavesdropping? Did he hear what Mr. Apple said to me?
“Is this how you repay a kindness?” he says. “I put you on spot. I entrust you. And what do you do? You change my lighting plot.”
“That was a mistake,” I say, secretly relieved. I’m still in trouble; I’m just in trouble for something else.
“So the gel changed itself?” Derek says.
“No, it was me. I was testing something out, and I forgot to put it back. I’m sorry.”
“It’s little mistakes like that which have me reconsidering your position in the grand scheme of things,” he says.
“It worked out pretty well for you,” I say.
Derek raises one eyebrow.
“Is that a challenge?” he says.
I didn’t mean to challenge him; it just popped out. Is that what courage does?
I always thought you had to decide to be courageous, but what if I was wrong? What if courage is just a reflex like fear, and it can come out anytime it wants to?
Anything could happen.
“You’re upset because I took credit for the color of the spot. Is that it?” Derek says.
“A little. Yes.”
“You feel like I stole it from you.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, guess what? I did steal it,” Derek says. “You work for me now. If I look good, you look good. That’s what it means to work for someone, to be a team player. We rise or fall together.”
Derek’s speech is so convincing, I almost believe him. ut something bothers me about his idea. If he takes credit for people’s successes, shouldn’t he take the blame for their mistakes? That’s not what he did after the blackout.
Then again, I wasn’t on his team then. Maybe things are different when you’re on the team.
“Rise or fall,” I say.
“That’s right,” Derek says. “Speaking of rising, how do you like being on spot?”
“I like it,” I say.
“And you’re good at it. Even better.”
“I love light,” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t. “That sounds pretty stupid, doesn’t it?”
“It doesn’t sound stupid at all. Remember who you’re talking to. I’m a designer,” Derek says.
He glances both ways down the hall to see if we’re alone.
“You know what I love?” he says. “Fog.”
“Like in London?”
“Stage fog. You hit it from the side with a bank of light—boom. Instant mood. I’m thinking we should do Wicked as the spring musical next year, just so I can fog the hell out of everything.”
“That would be fun,” I say.
“No kidding,” Derek says. “Lights, fog, a strobe, a couple flash pots. We’d blow these people’s minds.”
“Like high-school theater on steroids.”
“Now you’re getting the idea,” Derek says. “So I can count on you, right? You’ve got my back with Apple?”
“I do,” I say.
He gives me a wink, then starts to go.
“Incidentally,” he says, “that girl, Grace—she’s quite a character, isn’t she?”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“Don’t believe everything she tells you,” he says.
He studies me for a minute.
“What did she tell you?” he says.
“Nothing.”
“Just in case, I want you to hear it from the horse’s mouth. We went out a couple times. That much is true. But my God, she acts like we were married or something. You know how women are,” he says.
“I know,” I say, even though I don’t know.
“Point is I want you to stay away from her. She’s not techie material. We need to get rid of her before we have another Mindy incident.”
I think Derek has it wrong. I’ve watched Grace building sets the last two days, and she’s better than most carpenters. She might even be the best I’ve seen.
“Are you with me on this?” Derek says.
I check the hall, hoping someone will come along and end the conversation. But there’s nobody.
Derek is standing a foot away, waiting for my answer.
“I’m with you,” I say.