Authors: Kristy Tate
Remove his power and crippling hold,
That I may dwell in peace alone.”
I sat beneath the maple tree waiting for Bree to go back in her house and go to bed. Where had she found the spell? The Internet, I decided. But she couldn’t really believe in spells and magic, could she? Did she really believe Dylan liked me because of the love elixir? I found that insulting—and yet possible, if not probable.
Bree sat staring into the flame, and as I watched her I realized she intended to stay there until the candle melted into a puddle of wax. And since I didn’t want to risk getting caught by her, I sat tight, cold and sad.
When the flame finally sputtered and died, I was too tired to think about going to the theater. I had rehearsal tomorrow. Maybe I could sneak down into the basement without being noticed then.
The moment Dylan walked into the theater, tingles shot up and down my back. It was as if he held me under a spell, and whenever he was around, I couldn’t think of anyone or anything else. And I absolutely couldn’t focus on the play at all, even though I was about to be surrounded by a flock of flying monkeys.
“Go to the strangers who are within my land and destroy them all except the Lion,” Andrea, AKA the wicked witch, said. Stretching out her arm, she pointed her long pointy finger toward me.
“Your commands shall be obeyed,” said Judson, the monkey leader. Then with a lot of grunting and squawking, the boys, Lincoln and a crowd of his friends who were too cool to be Munchkins, pretended to fly to my side of the stage.
Dylan walked over to the seat beside Bree and sat beside her with his devastating smile. She didn’t smile back and barely acknowledged him. Dylan said something in her ear, and Bree flipped her hair over her shoulder, obviously striving for nonchalance. I wondered if she really believed in the spell she cast the night before.
“Push over the tin man,” Janette said, looking up from her script.
Lenny Oliver, a middle-aged man with hair the color of his character, protested. “Must I really fall again? Can’t we just assume I know how to topple?”
“But that’s the problem, Lenny,” Janette said. “You have yet to properly fall. You have to keep your knees and elbows straight. Imagine you are a tree being chopped at the base.”
Lenny straightened his spine. “I will not risk a concussion.”
“He’s right. No need to bruise him on this early day.” Andrea strode across the stage. “Here, watch this,” she said. Standing on one leg, she leaned to the side, cartwheeled her arms, and opened her mouth to a great O. Righting herself, she faced him. “If you make a big production right before you fall, the falling itself won’t matter as much. And you can easily catch yourself with one hand.” She fell ramrod stiff onto one hand, hitting the floor without a thud or woof of pain. Climbing to her feet, she brushed off her pants and smiled at Lenny. “We can practice later if you’d like.”
Lenny didn’t return her smile. I sympathized with him, because I had a falling bit, too.
“Yes, we can work on it later,” Janette said. “For right now, let’s go on. Monkeys, toss the scarecrow across the stage.”
Carrie, AKA Scarecrow, folded her arms. “Touch me and you die,” she said to the monkeys. “I refuse to be tossed,” she told Janette.
“You want to skip to the part where they jump on you and steal your straw?” Janette asked.
I watched Dylan and Bree while Janette and Carrie argued. I really liked Dylan, but Bree had been my best friend for eight years. I couldn’t imagine a world that didn’t include her.
The monkeys jumped around me, chattering and throwing their arms in the air. The leader grabbed me and escorted me across the stage.
Andrea glared at me.
“We dare not harm this little girl,” the lead monkey said to Andrea, “for she is protected by the Power of Good, and that is greater than the Power of Evil. We have obeyed you as far as we were able, but we cannot harm the little girl or the dog she carries in her arms.”
“Come with me, and see you mind everything I tell you,” Andrea said. “If you do not obey, you will be destroyed.” Andrea marched to the front of the stage so she could address the audience in a loud whisper. “Curse those shoes! Without them, the girl would be in my power! I must set a trap for her!”
Looking both beautiful and terrifying, Andrea waved her hands in the air. After a moment, she called out, “Come, Dorothy.”
After picking up a sympathetic glance from Lenny, I stumbled and kicked off one shoe.
Andrea darted over and put it on her own foot.
I was now supposed to say something. I felt everyone watching me, but Dylan was the only one who mattered.
A door at the back of the auditorium opened and closed and Josh walked in. My already shattered self-confidence splintered a little more.
“Give me back my shoe!” Janette prompted.
I repeated it word for word, but what I really wanted to say was,
give me back my friend
. I didn’t want to choose between Bree and Dylan, and yet it bothered me that Bree was forcing a choice. Or was she? What did her midnight ceremony mean? Was she trying to stop liking Dylan so we could still be friends?
Life would be so much easier if emotions could be turned off and on with a flip of a switch or a twist of a faucet.
“This is where you throw the bucket of water.” Janette called my attention back to the stage.
I made a bucket-throwing motion, and Andrea started shrieking about melting as she sank to the floor. All around her the monkeys chattered and squealed.
“And let’s take a break!” Janette stood, put down the script and rubbed a tired hand over her eyes.
The monkeys, pushing and shoving each other, continued their noise. Janette consulted with Mrs. Henderson about something while Andrea and Lenny the tin man worked on stiff man falling without injury. Bree and Dylan looked lost in a conversation. If I interrupted them, Bree would add another log onto her I-hate-Evie fire. Would anyone miss me if I slipped down to the basement now?
I grabbed my bag, pulled it over my shoulder, and ducked behind the black curtains. Once in the shadowy back stage, I breathed a little easier. Within minutes, I was headed down the stairs leading to the basement. Because I didn’t want to call attention to myself by turning on the lights, I kept my hand against the wall—feeling the way down the stairs. By the time I fumbled to the bottom, my sight had adjusted to the inky darkness. Still, I felt a small surge of gratitude that I hadn’t tripped or fallen. If I had, how long would it be until someone noticed I was missing? How long until someone found me?
I tripped across the dirt floor as fast as I could and chose the hole furthest from the stairs and the dangling light bulb. I peered into the hole and saw nothing at all. I unzipped my bag, drew out the shoes, and tossed them over the edge. They landed with a thud, completely invisible.
I wondered if a workman would find them, but what if he did? Chances are he wouldn’t know why anyone would toss a pair of shoes into the hole.
“Evie? What are you doing down here?”
Josh? Had he followed me?
I squinted in the darkness. He stood at the bottom of the stairs with his hands shoved in his pockets. I eased away from the edge of the pit, my thoughts scrambling for an explanation. I couldn’t tell him, or anyone, about the shoes.
“I’m writing an article for the newspaper about the history of the theater.” Not quite a lie. “I thought it would be interesting to mention the reconstruction, maybe even take a picture, but I think it’s too dark.” I went toward him, reading the questions in his eyes. “What about you? What are you doing down here?”
He glanced down at his shoes, looking a little like Scratch did when I caught him chewing Uncle Mitch’s slippers.
He had followed me? Why?
“Are you going to need a ride home?”
So, that was it. Bree had sent him. She wanted to make sure I didn’t get a ride home with Dylan. I sighed.
“I thought maybe I’d walk.”
“Walk? It’s raining.”
I shrugged and moved past him and up the stairs. “I’m okay with rain.” I felt him right behind me. His warmth radiated through my clothes.
“You didn’t seem so okay with it the other night.”
For a moment I didn’t say anything. “I thought we were going to forget about that.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” Josh said in a tone that told me he had no intention of forgetting it.
I pulled open the door, and even though the light backstage was dim, it still hurt my eyes. I blinked at Dylan and Bree. They stood on the other side of the black curtain, and had obviously been looking for me.
“What were you guys doing?” Dylan asked.
“Evie’s doing research for a paper,” Josh told him.
“In the basement?” Bree asked.
“They’re renovating it—reinforcing the structural beams,” I said. “It’s actually pretty interesting.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s so not interesting,” Bree said.
“Yeah, about that,” Dylan said, “my mom suggested I bring you over so she can tell you about the scandal.”
“Scandal?” Bree turned the word into a question. “I want to hear!”
Dylan’s attention flicked to Bree before he turned to Josh. “You want to come too?”
“Uh, no. Why would I?” Josh asked.
“Just asking,” Dylan said, sounding accusatory. “After all, you wanted to go to the basement.”
Josh flushed, looking embarrassed. “I’ll see you guys later.”
And for a reason I didn’t understand, I felt sick as he walked away.
Dylan took my hand as we walked up the brick path to a large colonial, set on a tree-lined street. I couldn’t look at her, but I felt Bree’s radiating anger.
Mrs. Fox met us in the kitchen. She glanced at Bree with surprise.
“Mrs. Fox, this is my friend, Bree,” I said.
Although, she’s not acting very friendly.
“It’s nice to meet you, Bree,” Mrs. Fox said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Are you on the newspaper, too?”
Bree shot first Dylan and then me a quick glance, as if asking what she should say. I couldn’t help her, but Dylan could.
“She just likes scandals,” Dylan said.
“Hearing about them, or causing them?” Mrs. Fox asked in a gently teasing voice.
“Both,” Bree said.
Mrs. Fox raised her eyebrow. “Have I heard of any of your recent scandals?”
“I did fall out of a window,” Bree said. “Dylan was there. He might have told you about it.”
Mrs. Fox let out an exaggerated sigh. “Sadly, my son doesn’t always confide his scandalous adventures in me.” She winked at me. “That’s why I have to share mine with him . . . and his friends.” She motioned to the kitchen table. “Why don’t we sit down?”
A large bowl of grapes sat on the oak table next to a pile of scrapbooks. Dylan passed out napkins and the grapes.
“It’s such a pleasure to relive my glory days.” Mrs. Fox drew a scrapbook toward her and flipped it open.
I sat beside her, with Dylan to my right. Bree took a chair on the other side of the table.
“Were you a Thornhill Player, too?” Bree asked
I would have pegged her as a tennis player, or a cheerleader.
“Indeed I was. Drama is, surprisingly, good practice for the law.”
A faded newspaper clipping announced the production of
Arsenic and Old Lace
. I pointed at a thin, fragile man in the gray and black photo. “Who is that?”
Mrs. Fox nodded. “Andrew Aston. He really was the most promising of all of us.”
“Lauren was so beautiful,” Bree said.
“Time is cruel,” Mrs. Fox said.
“Not to you, Mom,” Dylan said gallantly.
Mrs. Fox’ laughed. “Are you fishing for privileges, darling?”
“Of course,” Dylan said.
“And what would you like?”
Dylan shrugged. “What could I possibly want? With you as my mom, I have everything I could ever desire.”
Mrs. Fox patted his hand. “You wicked boy. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“And maybe the car on Saturday night?”
Bree squirmed in her chair, looking miserable. “Is that Lauren Silver?”
Until I read the caption with her name on it, I had wondered how Bree could tell, because the Lauren of the 1990s looked wildly different from the woman who was just recently murdered.
“She was beautiful, too,” I said.
“Yes, she was. Hugh Thornhill was so in love with her,” Mrs. Fox said.
Hugh Thornhill looked a lot like a young George Clooney. It wasn’t hard to imagine him in every Thornhill Theater production.
Bree perked up. “Thornhill—like the theater?”
“And the thespians.”
“So, did he start the theater?” I asked.
“No. The theater, originally called the Orpheus Playhouse, was started around the turn of last century, but poor Hugh sunk so much money into it we decided to name it after him.” Mrs. Fox laughed, but it sounded sad rather than happy. “He loved the theater. He really had no talent for it, but he had lots of money. He started luring Broadway actors, actresses, and directors to Woodinville. That led to backing Broadway productions. And of course, the Manhattanites knew a lot more about squandering money than poor Hugh knew about producing plays.”
“What happened to him?” Bree asked. “Is he still around?”
I tried to imagine what he would look like now, and wondered if I had ever seen him in town.
“No. He went to Alaska.” She tapped her long, French-manicured nail on his picture. “He wrote a long letter to the theater troupe before he disappeared, said he needed to find himself.”
“Why would he go if he was so in love with Lauren Silver?” I asked.
Mrs. Fox lifted her shoulder in a small shrug. “No one knows. Maybe he wasn’t interesting to her once his money ran out, or maybe Lauren was in love with Max Kipling.”
“Who?” We all asked at once.
Mrs. Fox sighed. “Max Kipling. You all know him as The Friendly Giant.”
“The Friendly Giant?”
Who could ever love the Friendly Giant?
Mrs. Fox flipped a few pages to show us a picture of Max Kipling, AKA The Friendly Giant, host of the children’s popular TV show. In the twenty-year old scrapbook photo, he was Clark Kent handsome. In his Friendly Giant costume and TV persona—not so much.