Page 44 of Script Swap
No script swap.
No sudden blackout.
Bobby and I shared a look.
Fox said, “What does that mean?Nothing happened—is that good?”Then Fox flushed.“Not that I expected—I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“We’ll have to wait and see.”Bobby squeezed my knee.“Come on, let’s get you some popcorn and M&M’s.”
“Oh, no, I don’t want—” I began.
But he was already shuffling out into the herd of people moving toward the lobby.
“Fox, where’s your dad?”I said.
“I don’t know.He could be anywhere.”
“He doesn’t sit out here to watch the performances?”
“He does if he can,” Fox said.“But if he needs to be backstage, that’s where he’ll be.Or the booth.Or wherever.One time, he didn’t trust them to lower the curtain properly, so he stayed by the rigging all night.”
Which was reasonable.Logical.Lots of creative types were like that: particular, demanding, controlling.I mean, take me for example.I could be particular about having my blankie and my hot chocolate and my pillowsexactlyright.Fox’s explanation made perfect sense.
And it didn’t do anything for the feeling that something was gnawing its way through my stomach.
(Although, to be fair, that might have been because I hadn’t eaten anything except a salad for dinner.Asalad.)
“I know this is crazy,” I said, “but would you go backstage and make sure he’s all right?”
Fox gave me a strange look.
“I know,” I said again with a laugh that didn’t quite make it.“It’s—something feels weird.And Betty said she’d arrest me for high treason if I go back there again.”
“Yes,” Fox said slowly.“Okay.”
They inched their way past a family of four, murmuring apologies, and then headed toward a door set next to the stage.My heart was beating faster.My knee was starting to bounce.
This is crazy, I told myself.This is absolutely bonkers.It’s a theater.They’re putting on a silly play.If anything, Terrence is thekiller—he’s the one the sheriff suspects; he’s the one Kyson had all those pictures of.
A nasty little voice inside my head answered, Then where is he?
I needed to stand.I tried stretching.I tried getting up on tip-toes and doing calf raises.I thought about how great it would feel to eat a healthy breakfast and go for a run again tomorrow, work all this stress out of my body with exercise, like a good, red-blooded American male.(Barf.)
The control booth.
Fox had said their dad was either backstage or in the booth.
I should wait for Fox.
But intermission was almost over.
I should go now.Just to check.
I didn’t need to go.This was ridiculous; I was making a big deal out of nothing.
But what would it hurt?
