Scene Four

[The theater]

Marcus Zimmerman and I are probably the only people in this theater right now who are not hoping to pursue a career in the arts. Well that’s not entirely true, because what is bird calling if not an art, and Marcus Zimmerman wants to be a professional bird caller. I don’t even know if that’s a thing, but it’s what he’s just confessed to me as we wait backstage for Max and Victor to fix yet another missed light cue in the sequence.

“The toughest for me is the nightingale,” Marcus says, cupping his hands around his mouth and making a screeching sound that is more of a cross between a train squealing to a stop and a microwave timer going crazy. It sounds like nothing that could ever exist in the natural world. Ever. He’s convinced it’s his ticket to the big show, though.

“Wow,” I say, shielding my eyes and looking up at the catwalk, where Miles and Kelli are repositioning a light. Nothing has gone right this entire dress rehearsal. Darby actually tripped and impaled herself on Romeo’s weapon at their first meeting. From then, it’s all gone downhill, like a snowball set loose on the top of Everest.

“Okay,” Max says in my earpiece. “Tell them to try from the top of the scene.”

Beside me, Marcus is bobbing his head and making cooing sounds. “Dove?” I ask.

“Yesss,” he hisses, extending a hand for a high five.

My head is throbbing, and I want to smack Marcus between his eyes rather than on his well-padded palm. “Max says you guys should try again.”

Marcus looks confused for a beat and then recovers. He takes his place next to Darby onstage. By the time Thomas enters as Romeo, they’ve messed up every third line.

When we reach the end of act four, I’m beyond the end of my rope. I crumple in a seat in the audience next to Darby. “Why is this sucking so hard?”

“Theater tradition.”

I glare at her. If I could stab her with my corneas, I’d do it right now. Why is she so calm?

“The more disastrous the dress rehearsal, the better the opening night.”

“Really?”

She nods, but the muscles of her neck are so tight, they look like thick cords just under her skin.

“Besides that, we’ve only had four weeks to pull this together.”

“We need more duct tape.”

It’s true that we’ve redone all the set pieces, recon-structed costumes, and refurbished props, but it felt like a whirlwind. Everyone has been working together, and no one has killed anyone else, so that’s a plus. Still, it feels like something is missing. Like we’re all playacting at being a team.

I wish I could just wave a magic wand and make it all work out. I hate being a Muggle. What we need is something that will truly pull us together.

Help me, Charlotte. What can I do?

Thomas flops down in the seat behind us. “We’re going to be here all night, aren’t we?” It isn’t a question, though. He rests his head in his hands.

It’s true. We need to trudge through this disaster at least one more time. We need to prove we can do one freaking scene without messing up. Yet when I look around at everyone with exhausted, mannequin expressions, I can tell we need a big break.

You need a distraction, Charlotte answers.

She always claimed that distractions were a good thing. I don’t know that you can categorize them as good or bad, but sometimes they are necessary.

“Think Owens is all moved in and comfy in his cushy new office?”

Darby thunks her head back on her chair, puffing out her cheeks and then letting the air leak from her pursed lips like a punctured balloon. “Who gives a shit? Not me.” Her voice is thick bitterness, with a side of rage.

“You said your dad is busy with a bathroom remodel, right?”

She opens one eye and looks at me like I’m Hamlet’s Ophelia.

“What’d he do with the old toilet?”

“Ew, why?”

“Because I think we should help Mr. Owens decorate his fancy office at his fancy job over at The Actors’ Studio.” I make sure to infuse my voice with the appropriate amount of snootiness as I say the community theater’s name.

Thomas looks up from his hands and leans forward, gripping the back of my seat. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, it seems like such a king of a man deserves a real throne of his own.”

Darby laughs, an explosive sound that ends in a snort. The snorting sound makes her laugh even more. We’re all just a hair shy of delirious.

“Yes,” she says, jumping to her feet and punching a fist in the air. She jogs to the stage, grabbing a broadsword from the prop table and pointing it out at all of us. “We’ve got a mission. A mission so important the entire success of the play may just lie in its completion.”

Thomas and I chuckle from our seats. He puts a hand on my shoulder. With a gentle squeeze, he whispers, “Thanks.”