by Anna Davies
“Of course you do. You don’t believe me, do you?”
“I need to think, Zach. I need to think and I need to take care of myself.”
“And you think I’m a murderer. Great. I knew I shouldn’t trust you.”
“Likewise,” I said tightly. I pushed myself from the booth and stormed out of the diner.
Briana Beland @alleyesonbree
The show must go on. Final countdown to #machalehamlet opening night.
Matt Jasinski
Who’s going to be left in the show once @alleyesonbree kills everyone?
The auditorium was silent as I walked in. Supposedly, this was tech week — the week where lighting and sets were put in place. Tech rehearsals were tedious to sit through, which is why they were usually broken up by card games backstage, junk food runs, and silly pranks.
I winced, remembering how during the tech rehearsals for the one-act festival the big joke had been to string up a large pink stuffed plastic flamingo in a noose somewhere backstage. What had seemed silly was now incredibly macabre.
“All right, folks.” Mr. O’Dell clapped his hands loudly, even though it wasn’t necessary — everyone was already focused on the stage. I noticed Kennedy and Eric sitting together, his arm draped around her shoulders. My stomach clenched. I knew I shouldn’t even be thinking about my crush on Eric at a time like this, but it seemed like my body hadn’t gotten the message.
“I know this is a tough time. And I have no doubt that all of you will rise to the challenge. Remember the world Shakespeare wrote in. He wrote during the plague, during wars, during civil upset. He wrote knowing that his audience and his players had no idea if they, or if even their world as they knew it, would exist the next morning. They lived in a world where the stakes were high. And now, you live in that world, too. And instead of mourning it, use it as an opportunity for art.”
I shifted, preparing for the inevitable glares that would come my way on the mention of the deaths by looking down at my lap. I wasn’t sure if I agreed with that. Sure, knowing what true terror felt like made it easier to act terrified … but who would actually choose to live like this?
“And now let’s get to work. I need Gertrude and Claudius, please!” Vivy Brownslee and Christian Kent clambered onstage.
Christian launched into his opening monologue, where Claudius gloats about his marriage to Gertrude, stumbling over his lines.
“You have to really make it seem like you’re in love, Christian. That you’ve conquered her. You’re the lion, and she’s the lioness. She’s strong, but you’re stronger, and she knows it. So show it!” Mr. O’Dell said passionately as Vivy and Christian stared at each other.
“Wait, am I supposed to act like a lion?” Christian asked in confusion. Mr. O’Dell sucked in his breath. I was sure he was about to launch into one of his lectures when I heard a loud creaking noise coming from the roof.
Someone gasped.
Christian and Vivy nervously looked up.
Mr. O’Dell slammed his binder shut in frustration and hopped onstage.
“Seriously?” he asked rhetorically, huffing out his cheeks. “This is Maine. It snows. Snow piles up on tree branches, then falls on the roof. That’s all it was.”
“Sorry,” Vivy said. Her lower lip trembled. Even from my perch all the way in the back of the theater, it was clear she was about to cry.
“Get back to work!” Mr. O’Dell barked.
* * *
Afternoon turned to evening as the play slowly took form onstage. And I had to admit it was good. The lights were moody and uneven, making the stage look like a cavernous castle lit by candlelight. Eric’s voice sounded hollow and that, coupled with his unnaturally pale skin and the dark circles under his eyes, made him look like a man on the brink of madness. At several points, I sat on the edge of my seat, wondering what would happen next, even though I knew.
At least I knew in the play. I had no idea what would happen next in my life.
Finally, at ten o’clock, three hours after rehearsal was supposed to have finished, Mr. O’Dell nodded. We were still one act from the end, but ten p.m. marked curfew, and even Mr. O’Dell couldn’t mess with that.
“That’s a wrap for now. I’ll see you all tomorrow at three o’clock sharp. Bree?”
“Yes?” I called from my perch in the back.
“Good, you’re here. Haven’t heard much from you online. Keep up the social media stuff, okay? Have you and Eric had a chance to rehearse? I want you in tech tomorrow.”
“No.” I shook my head.
“Why not?”
Because Eric thinks I murdered his ex. “Just … busy.”
Mr. O’Dell rolled his eyes skyward, obviously annoyed. “All right. Then the two of you hang back. I expect you both to at least get some work done on your scenes tonight.”
“It’s curfew,” Eric said sharply.
“I will speak to your house monitors and let them know the situation. We’re in tech week. We can’t have curfew interfering with that. They’ll just have to understand. Everyone else, you may go.”
Wordlessly, people began packing up and filing out. I noticed that Kennedy stayed glued to her spot next to Eric.
“Ms. Clifford?” Mr. O’Dell asked, as he packed his own battered leather briefcase.
“What?” she asked.
“Why are you still here? Don’t you have curfew?”
“I don’t. I go to Forsyth. I want to stay.”
Mr. O’Dell shook his head. “No. Just Eric and Bree.”
“But …” Kennedy protested.
Eric tightened his jaw. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Kennedy finally nodded. She swung her bag over her shoulder and marched up the aisle, giving me a death glare as she walked by.
“All right,” Mr. O’Dell said, satisfied when she’d left. “Just lock up when you’re done.”
“You’re not staying?” Eric asked, the tremor in his voice making it obvious he was terrified. He wasn’t the only one.
“Nope. Trivia night at the Trusty Ax.” Mr. O’Dell grinned, then glanced between the two of us. “Don’t tell me you two are nervous, are you? It was bad luck. Could have happened anywhere. You’ll both be fine. If anything, think of this as character building.” Grinning at us, Mr. O’Dell left the theater.
“And then there were two,” Eric murmured.
I clambered toward the stage. As soon as my feet hit the wood, I relaxed. No matter how tense I was, the stage never failed me: I always felt better standing on it.
“I guess we should get this done, right?” Eric asked, not looking me in the eyes.
“We don’t have to rehearse if you don’t want.”
“No, let’s just do it. I mean, that’s what you want, right?” There was a hard edge to his voice. “I guess this is, like, your dream, isn’t it? Being able to play Ophelia. You don’t care who it might hurt.” He paced back and forth onstage as if he was performing a monologue. Each word sliced to the core of my being. I wanted to match his level of passion and scream at him, asking him how he dare think I had anything to do with the murders. But it didn’t matter how he could think that about me. He did think that about me.
“Let’s just rehearse,” I said quietly.
“Okay. Act three, scene one?” he asked gruffly.
“Sure.”
“Just wait backstage. I’ll go through my monologue, then you enter from stage left.”
I wordlessly headed toward the wings as Eric stood in the middle of the stage, performing the “To be, or not to be” monologue. I sat offstage and hugged my knees to my chest, allowing myself to get swept up in his words. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow shift in the wings across from where I sat.
I squinted. It wasn’t a trick of the light. The shadow was crouching in the corner. Meanwhile, Eric was oblivious, his voice getting louder and more sure as he got caught up in the words of the monologue.
I tore my eyes away from Eric. Someone was
there, in the wings. Someone was watching. I needed to do something. I would not have Eric die. Not here. Not now.
My gaze landed on the prop table, where swords of varying lengths were laid out for a sword fight.
I stealthily moved toward the table, then grabbed a sword. Of course it wasn’t real. I tested its weight. But it was heavy.
Eric’s monologue was winding down. I had to move quickly. My back hugging the black velvet curtain, I quickly edged my way around the perimeter of backstage, hoping that I would get there before the shadow did anything.
“The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered.”
One step. Two steps. I was coming to the corner that would bring me only feet from the shadow.
“Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!” Eric said again, enunciating each word. “Briana, that’s you. Where are … ?”
I turned the corner. The shadow crouched, half-hidden in the curtains. It was either now or never.
I squeezed my eyes shut, held the sword above my head, and slammed it down as hard as I could against the head of the shadow.
“Bree!” Eric yelled.
The shadow groaned, falling onto the dimly lit stage. Blood poured into his reddish hair.
“It’s not me! Mr. O’Dell … Trying … Look backstage,” the figure burbled onstage.
It was Zach.
Of course.
Zach lay writhing on the ground as I raced onto the stage. Eric blinked in bewilderment.
“He was watching you. I saw him. And then I found the sword and then …” The sword fell to the ground with a clatter, and I realized that my arms and legs were shaking. Eric threw his arms around me, and I allowed my face to rest on his shoulder. When I pulled away, I realized that his shirt was damp with my tears.
I glanced down at Zach. He was curled into a ball, making guttural groaning noises.
“We need to call the police. Now. Before he gets up.”
Eric broke out of his reverie and nodded. Then he looked back at me.
“I am so sorry, Bree. I just thought …”
“We need to call the police!” I roughly shoved Eric’s shoulders.
“Right.” Eric pulled out his cell and called 9-1-1 as I glanced down at Zach, still writhing in pain. Of course he’d been the killer. And he’d almost killed Eric. Why hadn’t I called the police right after my meeting with him at the diner?
I knew why, of course. Because even now, after everything, I’d wanted a chance at playing Ophelia.
The wail of police sirens interrupted my thoughts. As the police and paramedics swarmed in, I sank back in Eric’s arms, feeling more relieved and at home than I had in a long time.
Look, I’m really sorry about everything,” Willow said.
“It’s all right.”
She’d been saying she was sorry since the moment that the police had come to take Zach away a week ago. But the police hadn’t been able to prove anything. They’d confiscated his iPhone and laptop, but it would take weeks before they’d be able to dig through the data. And even though Hamlet’s Ghost hadn’t Tweeted recently, it didn’t mean that he was gone.
Meanwhile, life at MacHale went on, with few of the students who hadn’t been there over winter break aware of the terror that had struck the campus. Sure, they’d read about the murders, but the MacHale PR team had made the three deaths sound more like an unfortunate series of accidents than anything. And while one or two kids had decided to transfer to another school, the full dorms, class schedule, and extracurriculars every night of the week made it feel like the #machaledrama was over.
For most people, at least.
“So, are you excited for tomorrow?” Willow continued, oblivious to my mood. “You’re going to be amazing!”
“We have to get through tonight first.”
“Right, but that’ll be awesome, too! I’m really glad that you’re in the play. The sheer dress looks great on you. I mean, I knew it would.” Willow narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” I responded testily. Just last week, Willow had been so sure that I was a serial killer that she’d moved out of our room, without ever even trying to listen to my side. And now, everything was fine? It wasn’t that simple. After all, I was the same person I’d been the whole time. Only now, I’d just been launched into the popularity stratosphere. And while it was a million times better than notoriety, at the end of the day, it was still people making snap judgments about things I had very little control over.
Yes, I’d discovered Zach sneaking around backstage, likely getting ready to cause another “accident.” Yes, I’d saved Eric. But I hadn’t saved Andi, or Skye, or Tristan. Their deaths were never officially ruled as murders. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that Hamlet’s Ghost was somewhere out there, even now, when the entire campus looked postcard perfect, complete with snow dusting the paths and the winter sun glimmering off the pond.
Wordlessly, I walked through the stage door and into the backstage bustle.
I held my phone in my hand, prepared to take any pictures, Tweet any last-minute backstage observations, or respond to any questions that the ticket-buying public out front may have.
“Hey, can you take a picture of the two of us?” Kennedy tugged my elbow toward a corner where Eric was standing. He wore a black suit and loafers with a red tie, suitable for Mr. O’Dell’s vision of Hamlet as a young and privileged son of a corporate CEO. Kennedy wore a knee-length ivory white slip. One of its straps kept falling down her shoulder. She was barefoot. Mr. O’Dell wanted Ophelia to look like a selfie-obsessed girl lounging around her parents’ home during a break from college.
Despite the sadness surrounding the production, I felt a glimmer of excitement that tomorrow, I would be the one in the costume next to Eric.
“You look great,” I said to Kennedy, a lump in my throat. Eric had been nothing but friendly to me since the night of our rehearsal, and he’d even sent a dozen roses to my dorm the morning after. But that was all he was: friendly. It seemed like realizing Zach had been the murderer had made him let go of his guilt over Skye. Or maybe it was because Kennedy was Zach’s ex, and she was legitimately freaked out over his entire unsavory past and needed a shoulder to cry on. Whatever the reason, the two of them had been virtually inseparable. There was no way I could come between them. Onstage, Eric would cup Kennedy’s chin in his hand in a way that was so tender that I felt my heart melt a bit. They belonged together.
Eric and Kennedy smiled, and I took the photo.
“All right, let’s circle up!” Mr. O’Dell shouted. He was clad all in black leather pants and a tight black t-shirt. A fedora was cocked at a jaunty angle on his head. One by one, everyone shuffled into a circle around him.
“Good. Now, I know we’ve had a hard few weeks. But we’ve emerged stronger than ever. So let’s show everyone what a force MacHale and Forsyth can be and give the audience a performance they’ll never forget!” he said to enthusiastic cheers.
I Tweeted a picture of him giving his Let’s do this! speech, then took my place in the wings to watch the show.
Seconds after Kennedy made her first appearance, she staggered toward me, her face white.
“Are you all right?” I asked, terror already clutching my heart.
“I don’t feel that great,” she whispered. She took a few more steps before leaning against the concrete wall. Eric was standing center stage, and I could just make out the audience leaning toward him in rapt attention.
“Maybe it’s nerves?”
“Maybe. It’s just my stomach kills.” Kennedy patted her abdomen. “Like, I feel like I’m being sliced with knives from the inside.”
“Maybe get some water?” I whispered, shrugging helplessly. I was backstage to Tweet amusing anecdotes in real time, not to get distracted by a stage fright crisis.
“Right. Good idea.”
I turned my attention back to the show. Three scenes later, I felt a hand on my shou
lder. It was Sabrina Stokes, one of the stage crew members.
“You’re on!” She whispered.
“What?”
“Kennedy feels really sick. She doesn’t think she can go on. We’re trying to find Mr. O’Dell to let him know, but in the meantime, you need to get into costume. Now. You don’t have much time.”
“I’m on?” I repeated.
“Yeah. Soon. I think you’ve got about two scenes, but they go by fast. Hurry up.”
I raced from the wings and into the backstage area, shrugging off my cardigan along the way.
“Willow?” I called. “Anyone know where Willow is?” I asked a few of the cast members who were milling around. Kennedy lay on a big green couch at the far end of the space, groaning. Her hand rested on her forehead.
“I think she’s up in the loft with the costumes,” Leah offered.
Kennedy struggled to sit up. “Wait … I might be okay …” She said weakly, flopping back down. My heart twisted. I felt disloyal going onstage when she was sick, but the show had to go on. And I was her understudy. It wasn’t like I’d poisoned her. It wasn’t like she was poisoned at all. It was nerves, plain and simple. And I needed to stop worrying about Hamlet’s Ghost and start thinking about my performance.
I hurried up the stairs, feeling a vague stirring of excitement beneath my guilt. I also wished my mom were there to see my star turn.
The perimeter of the already dim loft was filled with rollaway iron clothing racks that held the costumes. I knew my dress was somewhere, but I needed Willow to help me sort through the racks and find it.
“Willow?” I called again, deeper in the racks, which extended from the costume cage. I took a few steps forward before my foot got caught on a piece of crushed black velvet. I stumbled, catching myself with my hands as my knees landed on something hard.
I tugged at the fabric, looked down, and gasped.
It was a piece of plywood, painted gray. The words KENNEDY CLIFFORD were written in red ink, deliberately drippy to look like blood.
And then, all of a sudden, everything clicked into place. The BRECKIN O’DELL gravestone. Zach’s nonsensical ramblings. Mr. O’Dell’s insistence we act as though we had life-and-death stakes in the performance. Because we did. He was killing his performers. He was staging the ultimate tragedy.