Page 43 of Script Swap
Nothing fell.
Nothing slammed into the floor.
No near-death experience.(Try telling that to my heart, which had climbed up into my mouth.)
Faint laughter floated down, and then more of those soft clangs as someone—Milton, my brain suggested—moved away along the catwalk.
“What happened?”Bobby asked.“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said.“Sorry.It was—” I stopped.Took a breath.“I guess I’m still spooked from the other day.”And then my mouth said what my brain hadn’t quite processed.“He did that on purpose.”
Chapter 10
When we took our seats in the theater, Fox was already there, and their expression was sour.
“Any luck?”I asked.
“Not to speak of,” they said.“I lost Tinny in the lobby.”
“We couldn’t find your father.”
“He’s always running around before a performance,” Fox said.“It’ll be easier to talk to him after.”
At that point, the house lights went down, and Cheri-Ann Fryman (the biggest gossip in Hastings Rock, except for possibly Millie) turned around to give me a look that was the cozy, civilized, we’re-friends-and-neighbors-in-a-charming-community version ofBe quiet now.
So, I shut up.
The play began with a moment of silence for Kyson.I was surprised that Pippi was the one who spoke; I had the feeling Terrence didn’t give up the spotlight (literally) easily.Pippi said a few words about the pleasure of seeing her play performed in her hometown, and her gratitude to the actors and the crew of The Foxworthy, and yada yada yada.Then the play got rolling, and in a weird way, I found myself enjoying it even more than the first time (especially since I was pretty sure I’d perfected the right blink-to-not-blink ratio with these contacts).Sure, I didn’t love the Daniel Dank character.But the play was actually pretty funny if you didn’t dwell on the fact that your fictional alter-ego was the butt of most of the jokes.There was suspense.The acting was top-notch, as it had been the night before.For all Pippi’s, uh, schemes (which was probably the kindest word for them), she did have some writing chops buried deep down.
No wonder she was happy.The play was a huge success.She was getting to see it performed.Heck, her son was playing one of the leading roles.And Dylan was doing a great job—you could tell he was nervous, sure, but he was a cute kid, and the town loved him, and as the play went on, he grew more and more confident.There was one scene (which I honestly shouldn’t dignify by including here) in which Daniel Dank tries to explore the secret passage in the fireplace—the one that connects his bedroom to Marienne’s.He manages to get himself stuck in the secret passage, kind of like Winnie the Pooh in a honey pot, and Dylan nailed it.The crowd was roaring.Chester’s dad, Tony, was wiping his eyes.Aric Akhtar had slid down in his seat like he was melting.Mr.Cheek had a particular gleam in his eyes like he’d discovered a new way to get rid of me.
This was what every author wanted.What every creator wanted.To have your work find an audience.To have the commercial success that meant, among other things, money and prestige.To be validated.This—a show like this, a performance like this, an audience like this—wasit, at the end of the day.This was proof.That all the years of striving, all the effort, all the sacrifices were worth it.That you were talented.That you were good.That you were special.
And, of course, if that never happened for you—well, what did that mean?
That you weren’t.
Well, it wasn’t going to help to go down that road again.Especially not where Bobby could see me—I was starting to suspect he had a sixth sense for Dashiell Dawson Dane’s meltdowns, and I didn’t want to have another conversation about, quote,whatever you’re feeling.
I’m feeling bad; that’s what I wanted to say.Actually, I feel like crap.Do you want to talk about that?
Instead, I turned my attention to the theater.Everyone was still having a great time.And there was Pippi again, sticking her head out stage left.Someone probably needed to tell her that if you can see them, they can see you, which was something the school nurse had to tell Jimmy Boyle in third grade when he kept trying to pee on the playground.You didn’t see a pro like Betty hovering in the wings, although Betty seemed like she was made out of gaff tape and safety pins and probably lived in the theater.
It wasn’t until my third sweep that it hit me: Terrence and Tinny weren’t here.They weren’t anywhere in the theater.
Why?
I mean, Terrence was the creative director, whatever that meant.And Tinny was…Tinny.They both seemed to have a vested interest in the production that went beyond making the show a financial success.But neither of them was here watching this performance.That went beyond the limits of belief.Were they backstage?Were they in the control booth?After the hiccups in last night’s show, had they decided they needed a more hands-on role?
Maybe.
I mean, nothing bad could have happened to them.Right?
It turns out, it’s a lot harder to focus on a play once you start asking yourself that kind of question.I kept thinking about how no one knew where Terrence was.And about the fact that Kyson had those pictures of him.And the fact thatsomeonehad put that altered script in Kyson’s room.
Behind all of it, like an afterimage that wouldn’t quite clear: Milton above me on the catwalk, and that movement like he was throwing something over the rail, and his laughter trailing away.
It felt like a long, long time before we reached the end of act one.Instead of Kyson’s line from the night before, Dylan delivered the speech he was supposed to give, and then the curtain fell, and the house lights came up for intermission.
