I walk into the theater the next day hoping things blew over during the night. I want Reach to run over when he sees me and say, “I’m sorry, Z. Let’s let bygones be bygones.” Then he’ll give me one of his bony hugs and the techies will stream out onto the stage and all will be forgotten.
If I had stopped to think about it, I’d know it was a ridiculous idea, but it’s like my brain refuses to believe what happened at the movie theater. Suspension of disbelief.
I’m barely through the door when Half Crack brushes past me like I don’t exist. He doesn’t say a word, not even a hello grunt like techies do sometimes when they’re busy.
He’s the first, but not the last.
Nobody will talk to me. I get dirty looks and cold shoulders. Nothing else. I step into the Cave, and my eye drifts over to the Techie Wall of Fame.
Something’s wrong.
There’s a blank square next to Reach where my face used to be. I look around the floor just in case my photo fell down. Sometimes tape gets old and yellow and loses its adhesive quality.
But it’s not on the floor. It’s gone. They’ve taken it down.
That’s when I know it’s for real.
I’ve been exiled.
As I’m walking back to the stage, I notice the emergency door is propped open with cables snaking outside. I peek my head out, and I find Benno and Half Crack hunched over the power box with tools scattered around them.
“What are you doing? You’re going to get yourselves killed,” I say.
Half Crack reaches into the box.
It’s not just any box. It’s where the power supply comes into the school building from the electric company.
“We’re not supposed to talk to you,” Benno says.
“You’re not talking to me. You’re just answering a question,” I say.
“Derek wants us to wire extra dimmers into the cam locks,” Half Crack says.
Benno nudges him. “Shut up, dude.”
They’re talking about tapping into the main power flowing into the building. I know there’s a way to do it safely, but I’ve never done it. None of us has.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I say.
“The boss wants more light. A fog machine, too,” Half Crack says. “And what the boss wants …”
He bends over, staring into the power box. Half Crack bending over is not a pretty sight on the best of days, but watching him bend over while messing with three-phase power with enough juice to fry him is particularly frightening.
“When you say boss, who are you talking about?” I say.
“Derek is taking charge of the show,” Half Crack says.
“He can’t do that.”
“Who’s going to stop him?” Benno says. “Apple’s not around. We took a vote on the way home from the movies last night.”
I run into the theater.
Derek is pacing back and forth onstage, Ignacio following close behind taking notes on a clipboard.
It’s true. Derek made his move.
It’s like Throne of Blood.
I look for Reach, but he’s not around.
“I want us in places in twenty minutes,” Derek says to Ignacio.
“Twenty minutes, please!” Ignacio shouts to the theater, relaying the order.
Derek heads towards the stairs on the side of the stage. As he walks past, he pauses.
“How are you today, Z?” he says. It seems like he’s in a great mood.
He leans towards me, his mouth right up to my ear.
“I told you I was going to direct,” he whispers. “It just happened sooner than I imagined.”
He gives my shoulder a little pat, then hops off the stage and takes the director’s seat at the tech table.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Summer says.
I turn around to find her standing there. She’s in costume, her skin pale and beautiful.
“You’re the only one who will talk to me,” I say.
“Privately,” Summer says.
Her face is serious. She leads me out to the hall, through the theater department, and into the music area. She doesn’t stop until we’re safely inside a practice room with the door closed. I feel this burst of excitement, like we’re going to rewind and continue the kiss moment from last night, only this time we won’t get interrupted.
“I hope I didn’t get you in too much trouble last night,” she says.
“The techies are blackballing me.”
“The actors aren’t thrilled with me either.”
“I was hoping they’d adopt us as the new ‘it’ couple,” I say.
Summer doesn’t laugh.
A viola begins playing in the next room. High-pitched scales.
“That was a joke,” I say.
“The thing about the actors—I need them to like me. Especially now.”
“They do like you,” I say.
“Maybe they do,” she says. “But they don’t like you, Ziggy. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but they think you’re trying to ruin the show. You caused the blackout and that’s why Miranda took a nose dive—”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know it is. But think how it looks. I get the lead because Miranda’s injured, and then I’m hanging out with the guy who did it?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“It doesn’t matter if you did it or not. It’s all perception.”
“Why didn’t you say any of this before?”
“I didn’t think of it before.”
“So where did you get this new perspective?” I say.
“People.”
She looks down when she says it, which tells me that it’s not people.
It’s person.
With accent.
“It doesn’t matter where I got it,” she says. “What matters is the show. I need them on my side. We have to pull it together fast. Derek needs us.”
I was right. Person.
The viola plays, the scales getting higher and higher with each repetition.
“What I mean is, we can’t hang out anymore. Not that we’d have time anyway with the production. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“I understand.”
Her shoulders relax.
“I’m so relieved,” she says.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say.
She touches my arm, but it’s not the same as last night. Last night felt like a beginning touch. This is an ending touch.
“We can still be friends, right?” she says.
The viola stops.
Friends.
Reach was right. I was kidding myself thinking Summer and I might be together. She never cared about me. She was scared about the show, and she needed help. A shoulder to lean on.
A friend.
Just like Reach said. That’s all I was to her.
A funny, zitty friend.
I stare at Summer’s neck. It looks like there’s a red spot there, probably a zit or a makeup rash, but maybe something else. Maybe a mark.
Maybe Derek’s mark.
“You look upset,” she says.
“I’m not upset.”
I’m staring at her neck. I can’t help myself.
“Yes, you are. I see it on your face,” she says.
“Stop looking at my face,” I say. “I’m not like you, Summer. I don’t want people looking at me, applauding for me, whatever. I don’t even want them to see me. I like to be away from everyone.”
“Okay,” she says. “Don’t get angry.”
“I want to be away from you, too,” I say.
The viola starts up again in the next room, a mournful screech that pierces through the wall.
“I have to go,” I say, and I run out of the room.