I pull a glow stick from my pocket, bend it until it cracks, and shake it hard.
I remember one time Dad and I went out into the woods at night, and he cut open a glow stick and shook it onto a tree. Dad wanted me to see how the chemicals still glowed outside the tube. He used them like paint, transforming the dark woods into a green speckled abstract.
The woods.
Most of Midsummer takes place in the woods.
I have an idea. I could cut open glow sticks and sprinkle them on the fairies. I imagine them moving across the stage like they’re walking through the woods at night, seen and not seen.
That image is followed by another: flashlight beams crossing the woods at night. You turn the beam on someone’s face, and you’re expecting it to be one person, but it’s someone else. Maybe the person was your friend, but now they’re your enemy. Or the person you thought loved you is gone forever, replaced by a stranger.
Something clicks for me, something essential about the meaning of the play.
It’s so confusing in the woods at night, you can’t be sure if you’re awake or dreaming.
That idea triggers a rush of images, ways I can light the show. All of them use stuff we have backstage. None of it has to be plugged in.
The audience is calling out now, shouting at the stage, demanding to know what’s going on. Most people have turned on their phones. I see faces glowing blue in the darkness.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please stay calm,” Ignacio says. He stumbles onstage with an electric lantern, waving his hand to help disperse the fog.
A lantern. I could use a lantern, too.
“Can I have your attention, please,” Ignacio says. “We’ve had a power outage. I’m sorry but we have to cancel the show—”
I need to do something. I can’t let it end like this.
I tuck the glow stick in the collar of my shirt and navigate to the ladder at the edge of the catwalk. I look into the darkness below.
I take a deep breath, and I climb.
Ignacio says, “For your own safety, we ask you to remain in your seats until we can get some lights up. Then we’ll lead you out of the theater.”
The audience groans.
“Hail, Mortals!” I shout from the middle of the ladder.
The audience turns in their seats to see who’s talking.
I flip on the flashlight beam.
“What are you doing, Z?” Ignacio calls to me from the stage.
The audience chuckles uncomfortably, not understanding what’s going on.
I use the big Mag like a spotlight, swinging it from one face to another until I have the audience’s attention. The light hits my mom, her mouth frozen in amazement.
I navigate down the center aisle and hop onstage, walking past Ignacio.
I mash a couple of Shakespeare’s lines together: “And now from depths of darkest night / Through the house give gathering light!”
And I hand the Maglite to Summer.
“You look like you could use a light,” I say.
“Thank you,” Summer says.
The audience laughs.
“What do I do with this?” she whispers.
“Use it as part of the scene.”
“You want me to improvise Shakespeare?”
“You texted me Shakespeare.”
“That was different.”
“You can do it,” I say.
“How do you know?”
She bites at her lip with her front tooth, just like she did that night at my house. She thinks hard for a second, and then her face relaxes.
“I’ll try it,” she says. She points the light at different places around the stage.
“’Tis dark in the forest,” she says. “Methinks a girl could get lost out here.”
“Hey, what about a light for me?” Wesley says.
“Ah yes, m’lord,” I say.
I take out a penlight and hand it to him.
He looks down at the tiny light, and the audience howls with laughter.
“Crewus technicalis! We need more light!” I shout, and I wave my glow stick towards the wings, signaling Reach.
I take the lantern away from Ignacio and place it on the front lip of the stage so the actors know where the edge is.
“You can’t do this,” Ignacio says.
“Do you have a better idea?” I say.
He glances at the audience, embarrassed.
“You have to talk to Derek,” he whispers. “Chain of command.”
He stamps his way offstage, tripping on a ramp and nearly going down.
I hear a noise from offstage. Reach rushes out from the wings with an armful of flashlights.
“Crewus technicalis at your service,” he says with a bow.
The audience laughs again.
“Thank God,” I whisper.
“I’m doing it for the show,” he says. “Not for you.”
“For the show,” I say. “That’s reason enough.”
We pass the flashlights out to the actors.
“What are we supposed to do with these?” Johanna whispers.
“Start the lines,” I say. “Don’t move around a lot. Stay together and use the flashlights to help you.”
“This is crazy,” Wesley says.
“Let’s try it,” Summer says. “It’s like an improv exercise.”
She steps forward, turns the light up towards her face, and says:
SUMMER
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind.
And the play begins again.