Page 11 of Script Swap
Fox’s shocked expression melted away into smug self-satisfaction.“I brought you these cookies because Indira said she was going to throw them away.”
“Lies,” I said.“Indira doesn’t throw cookies away.She hides them in the freezer where she thinks I won’t find them—”
I stopped, but too late.
“It’s one layer after another with you,” Fox said, “isn’t it?”
“Thank you for the cookies,” Bobby said, taking the tray.“Now what do you want?”
Fox sniffed, but as usual, they let Bobby get away with it—Bobby got away with pretty much everything when it came to Fox.I had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with what Fox called Bobby’srump.
“I was wondering—” Fox began.“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble—” They drew a deep breath.“I thought you might be interested—” They broke off again, and then they said, “Oh fudge!”
(I mean, you’re an adult.You know what they said.)
“What—” I tried.
“My father wants you to figure out who swapped the script,” Fox said.“Tinny is furious; that little tart has been screaming her head off all night.”
I actually had to loop back to make sense of that statement.Twice.And what I finally came up with was “Someone swapped the script?Wait, what?”But the last few moments of the play before intermission floated up to me: Kyson’s line about—something.And the way he’d turned to the audience.And then the lights had gone out.“You’re talking about Kyson.And the lights going out.It wasn’t a malfunction!”
“Could you try,” Fox snapped, “to keep the Encyclopedia Brown energy to a minimum?”
I shut my mouth.
Bobby, on the other hand, did nothing.Loudly.
Fox passed a hand over their face.“I’m sorry.It’s been a long few days.Weeks, actually.And tonight—” But they cut off again.In a stronger voice, they said, “I apologize, Dash.No, there was no malfunction.That seemed like a possibility at first; we’re using a backup lighting console—an old one.But that wasn’t the case.Someone tampered with the program.They set a timer for the lights to go off exactly when they did.The young woman who was running the booth blames herself, but before you ask, she’s seventeen and is possibly the sweetest child on God’s green earth.There’s no way she had anything to do with this.”
“But someone planned it,” I said, “even if it wasn’t her.”
Fox nodded.
“Why?”Bobby asked.
“Interesting question,” Fox said.“The take from the box office is gone.”
“What?”I said.
“The take.The money from tonight’s ticket sales.”
“Someone stole it,” Bobby said.“How much?Did you call the sheriff?”
“Yes, we called the sheriff.”
“It can’t be that much,” I said.“Doesn’t everyone pay with credit cards nowadays?”
“In Hastings Rock?”Fox asked drily.“The retirement capital of the Oregon Coast?”
Okay, that might have been aslightexaggeration—but it wasn’t entirely wrong.There were a lot of people who retired to the coast.And although Hastings Rock was a little touristy gem, much of the coast was still a working-class world: fishing and logging and agriculture.For people in those industries, cash was still king.
“Do they know who did it?”I asked.
“Of course I know,” Fox said.“It was that little tart.”But they huffed and fluffed their dressing gown.“Not that I can prove it.That, my dear, is where you come into the equation.”
“Uh.”
(That’s all.That’s the sound.And it sounded a lot longer when I made it.)
