Page 13 of Script Swap
“Dash,” he said, “have a cookie.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
But my stomach chose that moment to rumble.I decided that was a good time to end the conversation, so I grabbed my phone and set my alarm.And then I set the alarm on the clock on the nightstand.And then I set thethirdalarm on the travel clock and slid it under the mattress.The trick was to make it impossible to reach in the morning without getting out of bed.
“You’re going running again?”Bobby asked as he climbed into bed.
“The gym,” I said.
“You went every day this week.”
“I like it,” I said.“I’m getting the hang of it.”
He ran his fingertips across my forehead, feathering along my hairline.“You need a day to recover.”
“I’ll take it easy.I’ll stretch.”
For a moment, I thought he might say something else.But then he pecked me on the lips and turned off the light, and even though he was right next to me, I thought if I reached out, I’d feel… nothing.
He loves me, I thought as sleep came in.We love each other.
Chapter 3
The next morning, Ididgo to the gym.
The less said about it, the better.
I showered and dressed—jeans, wallet chain, suede vest and newsboy cap—and by mid-morning (yuck—there’s no way anyone can convince me that ten-thirty is mid-morning), I was backstage at The Foxworthy.
I hadn’t spent atonof time in theaters.I’d done my mandatory gay-boy stint with the drama kids in high school, and so far as that went, backstage at The Foxworthy was similar.Kind of.The floor was painted black.The walls were painted black.Black masking curtains hung in neat rows, rippling and billowing every time someone walked past them too briskly.What Ihadn’tseen in Mrs.Donnegar’s high school theater was three massive painted backdrops meant to depict the interior of Hemlock House.One showed Vivienne’s study—someone had taken the time to carefully hand-letter the title of each of the Matron of Murder books on the bookshelves.One showed her bedroom (where, presumably, I had murdered her).And one showedmybedroom—my former bedroom, anyway.The one with the secret passage in the fireplace.Overhead hung lighting trusses and a narrow catwalk.Someone was moving around up there, occasionally sending down the sounds of rubber on metal, and then a series of pings.But whoever it was, they were hidden by the glare of lights.
I was starting to feel like hiding myself.
“Someone is trying to ruin me,” Terrence Foxworthy said.Instead of a tabard, today he wore a rumpled flannel suit that probably could have passed for normal except for the cape.(Okay, who am I kidding?Even without the cape, it was like someone had turned Mary Poppins’s sewing bag inside out.)
Dressed today in a white, shift-like dress, Tinny was cupping a large crystal in her hands, staring into the milky stone.(I want to say it was quartz?) I think she was shooting for the adverbdreamily—she was, as she had told us several times, scrying.And even for a guy like me who had spentwaytoo much time designing his own imaginary castle with lead shielding to prevent anyone from spying on him by casting Wizard Eye (it’s third-level, and it’s not as good as it sounds), it was a lot to swallow.
“No one—” Fox said.
“That’s the only thing it can be,” Terrence said.“Someone is out to ruin me.”
Tinny made a sound that was supposed to be mysterious.Right on cue, Terrence glanced over at her, hope rising in his expression.
“No one is out to ruin you,” Fox said.But they shot a dirty look at Tinny.
“My money is gone,” Terrence said.And with surprising cynicism for someone who looked like he could either be a magician’s assistant or, at any moment, get shot out of a cannon, he said, “The theater doesn’t operate on wishes and fairy wings.”
Color rose in Fox’s cheeks, but before they could say anything, I opened my mouth.“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”I asked.
“You were here,” Terrence said.“You know what happened.Someone ruined the opening night.I want you to find out who!”
“I mean before that.”
“Before that?Nothing happened before that.We were rehearsing a play.And then someone switched the script.And then the lights went out, and someone stole all my money.”
“Right.I guess what I’m trying to ask is: if we start at the beginning, shouldn’t Kyson have known his lines already?Why would it matter if someone swapped the script?For that matter, why would it matter at all?Why bother if you’ve already programmed the lights to go off?”
Terrence’s expression became strangely guarded, and I got the feeling he was working on a real whopper.
