Page 69 of 10 Things I Hate About Prom
Anna’s voice crackles through the decade-old headset. “You get that?”
“Sorry, say that again.”
“You have fifteen minutes.”
Shit, less time than I thought. If I can’t finish screwing down this base, we’ll have to hold curtain, and nothing pisses off an overcaffeinated theater kid like telling them you need to delay the show twenty minutes. Anna speaks up again when I don’t reply. “You need me to come down there?”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me from up in the light booth. “No, no, I have it handled. You woman the fort.”
“Aye aye, Captain.”
Anna’s end of the line goes quiet, and beyond the curtain her “Showtunes except they’re cool” playlist—a collection of jazz covers of Broadway classics—kicks on through the speakers. The rumble of the waiting audience quiets down, their conversations reduced to whispers as they settle in for the last stretch before the show officially begins.
That’s if I can find that goddamn screw.
I call over EmilyZ, the only Emily who isn’t carrying an armful of props, and have her help me scour the floor. If I could go back in time and strangle past Ivelisse for not thinking to have a backup set of these annoyingly specific screws, I would. Because holy shit is this a high-pressure situation.
“Ivelisse?” Anna says, the worried tone of her voice sending my panic into overdrive.
I stop scouring the flowerpot beneath the balcony to give her my full attention. “What happened? Did a spotlight go out?”
“No.”
“Did a set piece fall apart?”
“No, but—”
“Is something wrong?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then it can wait.”
I’ll apologize for being snippy and shower her with praise and her favorite candy at the wrap party, but right now I donothave time for anything that isn’t finding this goddamned motherfucking screw.
Across the stage, the rest of the Emilys are gathered around the edge of the curtain, giggling and whispering among themselves as they sneak peeks at the audience. Whatever’s going on past the curtain has them worked up—each one flushing an even deeper pink than the strawberry stage blush lathered onto the cast’s cheeks.
“Hey!” I snap. “Either help me find this screw or go backstage.”
The Emilys frown, casting longing glances out at the audience before ultimately getting onto their hands and knees.
“Ive,” Anna says again, her voice more insistent this time.
“What?!” I shout, regretting it instantly. Anna doesn’t deserve the brunt of my rage—especially considering she’s the only person who understands what kind of stress we’re under. But, as I go to apologize, a silver glimmer catches my eye. The screw, stuck in a crack in the floor.
I dive for it before it can disappear or roll away or God knows what, cradling it in the palm of my hand like a piece of solid gold and letting out a victory yelp.
“You should look at the audience,” Anna says, her voice unusually apprehensive.
My brow furrows. So much for celebrating my miraculous find. “Why?” I ask, already bolting back to the tower to finish screwing things back into place.
“You’ll see.”
Well, that’s totally not ominous or anything.
Dread creeping up the back of my neck, I dismiss the Emilys and carefully reinsert the screw (and therefore saving the play, thank you, Shakespeare). Once I’m done, I head toward the edge of the stage. With less than ten minutes to curtain, everyone has made their way to the backstage pen. All that’s left behind the curtain is me and our no-longer-wobbling balcony. Sucking in a deep breath, I crack open the curtain prepared to see pandemonium, gore, or a UFO abducting our audience.
But all I see is Joaquin. Sitting in the front row, in the seat I’d always save him, except this year because I didn’t think I’d need to. A bouquet of peonies in his hands.
