Cut the Lights (6 page)

As we pass through the foyer, George calls to Sonata, “You've got to see this too! Come on.”

Sonata dabs at her eyes and follows us. Unfortunately, so does Lorna.

“What's up?” Lorna asks.

“You'll see.” George turns the corner and then stops abruptly by the door of the room where we'll be performing
Wish Upon a Star
in front of a live audience in only two short weeks.

“You're about to witness a spectacular feat of staging wizardry.” He spreads his arms dramatically, catching the attention of a few others in the hall. “Come inside.” He motions to the open classroom door.

We file into the dimmed room, and some onlookers from the hall trail after us. I peer into the shadows. The stage is set up in a rough version of our set, the curtains drawn back. I get a sick feeling in my stomach. Is George going to do something stupid?

“Wait here.” George stops us in front of the set. “Ready, Clayton?” he calls.

“Ready!” Clayton says from somewhere stage right.

“George,” I begin, “are you sure—”

“Relax, Briar.” He turns to Sonata and the others. “At first we were trying to rig a cord to the lighting grid so Clayton could fly in, but we thought this would work better.”

“Tell me you didn't!” I peer up at the thick rods that support the stage lights. Clayton's weight could tear the grid out of the ceiling.

“We didn't.” George jogs over to the switch and flicks on the overhead lights.

I gasp when I see Clayton strapped into fifties-style roller skates, standing at the top of a ramp.

The room fills with noise as people urge Clayton on. Sonata clamps a hand over her mouth. Lorna gives me a look like this is my fault. Before I can do anything, Clayton pushes off.

He rolls down the ramp and is airborne briefly, arms windmilling, before he crashes face down on the stage.

We rush toward him.

“That was even better the second time, buddy!” George says.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

Clayton moans and rolls over. “My arm!” he gasps. His right forearm has an unnatural curve above the wrist, like the bones are painfully out of position.

“I think it's broken.” Sonata's mascara is smudged.

“Why did you let him do that?” Lorna asks, turning to me.

My face heats up. “I didn't know,” I say, even though the director is always supposed to be in charge.

“This play is cursed,” Lorna says in a loud voice. “I don't know how you're ever going to stage it.”

I want to sink through the floor and disappear.

Sonata flinches. “How could you say that?”

“I didn't mean you, Sonata.” Lorna glares at me.

The bell rings for class.

Mr. Ty appears. “What happened here?”

Everyone answers at once. Mr. Ty's face clouds over. I can't bear the disappointment in his eyes.

Nine

Late evening. Briar's secret hideout. (At least, it used to be.)

The front window in our living room has a wide ledge. When I was a kid, I'd drag old blankets and pillows onto it and shut the heavy curtains, pretending that I was backstage. I'd peek through the curtains at my parents reading in the living room or arguing with Darla, and I'd imagine they were part of a show that I'd staged. Behind me, the driveway, the birch tree in the front yard and the street beyond didn't exist. I was invisible in my secret hideout.

Tonight, I pull my knees up and hug a pillow to my chest. My hideout doesn't seem so secret anymore, especially when Mom waves to me as she parks her Jetta in the driveway.

In the kitchen, Dad's already making dinner. I can smell salmon and garlic and hear him setting the table, but I doubt I can eat. Not with this ache in my gut.

Clayton went to the hospital to get his arm set. Sonata was wound tighter than usual. Mica disappeared. Mr. Ty scolded George and then me—that was the worst. “You're responsible for the safety of the actors. I shouldn't have to tell you this.” Afterward, George followed me around like a distressed puppy, guilty and eager to please. Maybe he'll do his job now. As if that will help.

I bite the inside of my cheek, wondering how I'm going to sort out the mess that is my play. Maybe Lorna was right. Maybe it
is
cursed. Maybe Mr. Ty has already ruled me out for the advanced directing workshop.

I stare at the curtains and ponder how to handle my next rehearsal. Dad said I should explain logically what needs to be done. Mom thinks I should tell people what to do. Darla said to inspire them. But Mica is too emotional to listen to reason, Sonata is too stubborn to take direction, and Clayton is hardly inspired. Then I remember that Mr. Ty said a successful director empowers actors. Is that what Lorna's been doing all along? Will it work for me? And how exactly do I do it?

I'm startled out of my thoughts when Mom draws back the living-room curtains. She's still in her work clothes—an ivory V-neck blouse and a black pencil skirt.

“What's wrong?” She feels my forehead. “Why are you hiding behind the curtains?”

I tuck my knees under my chin. My glasses sit beside me on the ledge. “It's nothing.” As if Mom could understand.

“I bet it's that play she's working on.” Darla appears behind Mom. Her hair is braided in cornrows, with beads woven in. “Are you about two weeks from opening?”

I nod. How does Darla know? I haven't been talking about it much at home.

“That's always when everything goes to hell,” Darla says. “It's perfectly normal. It has to go wrong so it can go right in the end.”

“I'm not so sure,” I say. “This play may be different.”

“It's never different.” Darla shakes her head and her beads click.

“You know what's always bothered me?” Mom snaps at Darla.

Darla lets out a long breath. “I know you're going to tell me.”

“It bothers me that you always romanticize the theater in front of Briar.” Mom's tone is sharp.

I get a heavy feeling in my chest. Not another fight.

“I'm not—” Darla begins.

“Yes, you are. Even though you're a guest in our home, you hold up your unsustainable artistic lifestyle like it's somehow better than ours. Glamorous. More exciting. But it hasn't done much for you. And I don't want Briar believing in it any more than I wanted you to believe in it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Will this day never end?

Darla flips her beaded hair over one shoulder. “Just say it. You don't want Briar to be a failure like me—a wannabe actress who didn't make it.”

“Your words, not mine.” Mom's neck is rigid.

“Maybe I would have succeeded if I'd had support. Maybe you should be supporting Briar in whatever she chooses to do.”

“We support you every time you lose your job.” Dad enters from the kitchen, gesturing at the dining-room table set for four. “And we'll support our daughter too. We just want her to choose a sensible career.”

“Well, you don't need to support me anymore.” Darla raises her voice. “I'm moving out.”

“Again? It's about time.” Dad scowls.

“Charles!” Mom folds her arms.

“Stop it!” I yell. “All of you.”

They all stare.

“For the record, I'm not going into theater because of Darla, and I'm not going into finance or business either. I'm not like any of you. And I can make it as a director. I know I can.”

I snatch up my glasses before taking the stairs two at a time to my room.

The next day before first class. Shoes squeak on the scuffed floors. Lockers slam. Kids jostle in the hall. The smell of freshly baked muffins wafts from the cafeteria.

After helping Darla pack her rusty old car with boxes, I came to school early to meet with Joseph Chan, a friend from stage crew who agreed to run the lights and sound for my play. I need to keep trying to make my play work, no matter what, and I didn't want to be at home for Darla's farewell with my parents. Now I'm hurrying toward my math class, with George at my heels.

Strangely, George remembered to come to the meeting, although his ideas were a little wild— maybe purple disco lights aren't required.

“I need you to write down all the lighting and sound cues we discussed.” I hope that he can help me out if I give him specific tasks to do and check up on him. “And maybe you could print neatly? The stage manager calls the cues during the performances, so it would help if you can read them.”

“Uh, sure.” George nods. He's playing the good guy, like in French class when everyone behaves extra well after Madame Bouchard has screamed at a student.

“Thanks, George. See you at rehearsal tomorrow.” He nods as we part ways, just as Ratna catches up to me, her eyes wild.

“Briar! What's going on?” She grips my arm and squeezes. “Clayton's wrist is in a cast. Sonata and Mica aren't talking. My play is a mess!”

“I know.” I take a deep breath, feeling horrible. “Just calm down. I'm going to work it out.” I try to sound convincing.

“How can you?” Her voice rises. “Everyone's saying
Wish Upon a Star
is cursed. I can't have my first play ruined.”

My face heats up. I glance around, holding my director's binder in front of me like a shield, trying not to imagine who's gossiping about me. “I'm not completely sure how to fix it yet, but I'm thinking about it. Anyway,” I add, desperate to offer Ratna a glimmer of hope, “my aunt Darla says that rehearsals always fall apart two weeks before opening.”

“Is this the same aunt who can't keep a job?” Her eyes are brimming with tears. “How is that comforting?”

I swallow hard. “It isn't, really. But freaking out isn't going to help either.” I give her a quick hug. “I've got to get to math now, but I promise the play will be everything you wanted.”

“Really?” Her dark eyes are pleading.

“Really.” I cross my fingers, hoping I can keep this promise. “I won't let you down.”

Ten

Whitlock cafeteria. The next day after school. Rehearsal (although it's more like torture in a medieval dungeon).

When I enter the room on Friday after school, the sideways glances begin. Lorna stares outright. Everyone's eyes seem like dagger points aimed at me.

There she is
, I imagine someone saying, as if my entrance is an event worth watching—like a stoning.

I'd hate to be in her cast
, another probably adds.

She's too inexperienced to direct
, Lorna's sure to be whispering.

Their words are the clink of gears on a torture device, a rack slowly dislocating my bones.

Ratna's not much better. Her face tells me how uptight she is. I have to pull off a miracle for her and for my cast.

My actors are sitting at a table near our usual spot by the recycling and garbage bins. Clayton's right forearm is in a cast, and he's wearing a sling. Sonata and Mica are on either side of him, looking anywhere but at each other. My throat tightens—I feel sorry for them. They're probably hating this moment as much as I am.

Then Samuel sweeps past me on the way to his crew.

“Ignore the gossip.” He leans in to whisper, his long hair brushing my shoulder. “Anyone who directs Sonata has a hard time. And Clayton's broken arm isn't your fault.”

His words give me strength. I try to smile.

I collect George, who's chatting with one of Samuel's actors, and approach my cast. Empower them, I think. But I'm not sure how.

Then I notice Mr. Ty. He's set up near my corner with a stack of marking, obviously keeping an eye on me—the problem director.

No pressure.

My hands begin to sweat.

I nudge my glasses farther up my nose and slide onto the bench across from Clayton. George sits next to me. Mica is hunched over, and Sonata stares stonily into space. I open my mouth to deliver the speech I planned—about how we've had our share of troubles, but we can overcome them if we each play our parts. But even I don't believe it.

So I'm left staring at them for an awkward moment, until I decide to face the gossip head on.

“So, our play is cursed.” I wipe my palms on my jeans. “At least, that's what I hear.”

Mica studies me, his forehead knotted. Sonata scowls, her eyes flicking to Lorna. Clayton and George exchange a startled look.

“But I'm not willing to give up,” I say. “So I want to hear from you. We have less than two weeks to get this thing right. How do you think we can do that?”

Sonata's eyes narrow. “You're asking for our ideas?” She sounds exhausted.

“I guess I am.”

“That's a first.” She leans back, taking in the six other rehearsals. “To start, we should practice somewhere else. This place is toxic.”

“That's actually a good idea.” George nods.

“Don't sound so surprised.” Sonata glares.