The words come out timid and hesitant, but Zoe says, “Sure, sounds good,” and when she and Livvy and Kenji and Todd start listing Midsummer plot points on the whiteboard, I start to relax. When we’re done listening to the sound track, Russell and I lead a discussion on which parts of the Midsummer story we should keep and where we should insert our parody songs, fitting the text and the music together like a puzzle. It’s challenging, but it’s really fun, too, and it occurs to me that this is the first Allerdale-sanctioned activity that hasn’t felt like work. I can totally do this.
We agree that Zoe, Livvy, Kenji, and Todd should play the four confused, manipulated Midsummer lovers. Zoe will double as Titania, queen of the fairies, and Russell will make a brief appearance as Puck, who just has to run across the stage and administer a love potion. Jessa will play Bottom, the actor who gets his head swapped for a donkey’s and gets drawn into a brief love affair with Titania. I’ll be the accompanist instead of appearing onstage, but for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m trying to hide behind the piano. I’m excited to show the whole company how well I can play.
When it’s time to start working out the parody lyrics, Russell and I sit down on the bench side by side, but it’s hard to fall into our usual rhythm with so many people watching us. I never think twice about singing when I’m alone with him, but performing even the smallest snippets in front of the other apprentices makes me feel sick with nerves. My back is to Jessa, but I imagine the triumphant looks she’s probably exchanging with Livvy and Zoe every time I open my mouth—See, I told you she didn’t deserve to be here. No wonder her mom didn’t let her perform in class.
I stop singing and clear my throat, and Russell breaks off in the middle of a phrase. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “My allergies are acting up. You’ll have to forgive my voice tonight.”
“I think you sound fine,” he says.
“Thanks, but I really don’t.” Behind me, Jessa coughs, and I can’t tell if it’s a subtext-laden cough or a genuine one.
“Well, I don’t exactly sound like Beyoncé, either, but it doesn’t really matter as long as we write some great lyrics, right?” Russell starts playing again and sings another little snippet. “What do you think about that?”
I know he’s probably just trying to make me feel better, but he’s totally right. Tonight I’m a songwriter, not a performer, and the only thing that matters is how funny and clever I can be. Aside from the people in this room, nobody will ever hear me sing our lyrics. I shoot him a grateful smile, and I dive back in.
Soon Russell and I are working together like a machine, caught up in our own little world as we toss ideas back and forth and try to outdo each other. Though we’ve encouraged the rest of the group to contribute, they all keep quiet, and pretty soon I completely forget they’re here. Writing with Russell is even more fun than writing with Uncle Harrison, and the process feels so completely right that the time flies by. When I glance at my phone after we’ve finished our third song, I’m shocked to see that it’s five in the morning.
I turn around to check on the cast and find them sprawled on the floor, their heads pillowed on each other’s stomachs. Kenji and Todd are spooning, both fast asleep, and everyone else seems to be struggling to stay awake. “You guys should go home and nap,” I tell them. “Meet back here at eight?” They all nod blearily, struggle to their feet, and shamble off. When Jessa pats my shoulder on her way out and says, “Good stuff, girl,” I feel way more validated than I probably should.
Zoe comes up next to the piano. “You ready to go?”
There’s no way I’d be able to sleep right now; my mind is overflowing with ideas, and I want to get them all down before they float away. “I’m not actually that tired,” I say. “I think I might keep working. How’re you feeling, Russell?”
He rubs his eyes. “We can probably knock out one more song before I crash.”
Zoe looks disappointed. “Well, at least come outside with me for a second?”
A sliver of sunlight is starting to peek over the horizon when we step out the front door of Haydu. Even though I know everyone is up and working, it’s quiet enough that it feels like the whole campus belongs only to us. Zoe laces her fingers through mine and stands so close that our arms touch all the way up to the shoulders. The air is cool, but her skin is warm, and I hold on to her as I listen to the sounds of the birds waking up.
“You were awesome in there,” she says. “Totally in charge. It was so sexy.”
“It was?”
She turns me to face her and wraps her arms tight around my waist. “Absolutely. You’re suuuuure you don’t want to come back to the room and nap with me?”
“I should really keep working,” I say. I try to sound resigned to it, and I hope she can’t tell that I’d honestly rather be at the piano than in bed with her right now.
She sighs and makes a pouty face. “It’s no fair that Russell gets to hang out with you all night and I don’t.”
“Night’s already over. And if I don’t write, you guys will have nothing to sing.” I touch her cheek. “Get some sleep, okay? And bring me some coffee when you come back? And maybe a doughnut?”
“If you want a doughnut, you better earn it, Shepard.”
“Later,” I tell her.
She gives me a quick kiss. “Fine. Later. I definitely won’t be lying naked in your bed while you’re doing boring work, so don’t think about that. It would only be distracting.”
I smile, but my stomach is twisting uncomfortably. I want Zoe to say the perfect thing right now—that I’m a talented songwriter, that our parodies are hilarious, that my work makes her respect me and proves I belong at Allerdale. I want to go back to the way we connected earlier today. But now she’s focusing on all the wrong stuff, and it makes her seem so disappointingly normal. I know everything she does can’t be new and sparkly and endlessly fascinating, but I hate that she doesn’t surprise and delight me every time we talk anymore. I hate that I care.
She gives me a mischievous smile back, and then she turns and heads toward Ramsey, hips swinging. She doesn’t turn around, but I can tell she knows I’m watching her. She’s as beautiful and sexy as ever, but as much as I hate to admit it, I’m a little relieved to see her walking away from me.
By the time we gather in Haydu that evening to perform our short plays, I’m running solely on caffeine and adrenaline. I napped this afternoon while the cast worked on their lines, but I kept waking up to jot down more ideas, so it wasn’t exactly restful. I could really use more coffee, but I know my hands will shake if I have any, and then I won’t be able to play the piano. The whole company looks to be in the same exhausted-manic state as me; everywhere I turn, I meet too-wide smiles and glassy, crazed eyes. Even though I feel pretty awful, it’s kind of cool to be as wrung out as the rest of them—it proves I’ve worked as hard as they have. This is exactly the kind of Allerdale experience my family has been talking about my whole life, and now I’m here, right in the middle of everything.
Our group is scheduled to perform last, and I’m pretty sure everyone’s going to be asleep by the time we get up onstage. “Pinch me if I start to snore,” I tell Zoe, who’s sitting next to me dressed in a bedsheet toga. A few seats away, Jessa holds the donkey head from Midsummer on her lap and idly strokes its nose.
“Do I get to choose where I pinch you?” Zoe asks.
Russell sits down in the empty seat on my other side. “You ready for this?” he asks.
“I think so.” I want to express how much it means to me that we got to create this show together—the one truly creative moment of my summer—but I’m too tired to organize those ideas into coherent sentences. So instead I nudge him with my shoulder and say, “Thanks. Seriously.”
“Thank you,” he says back, and I know he gets it.
The lights go down, and Bob bounds onto the stage in a bright yellow bow tie, looking so fresh and rested that it’s hard not to hate him. He explains t
he rules of the festival to our audience, and then the first group of non-eqs gets up and performs a singsongy, rhyming chant accompanied by a lot of stomping and clapping and body-slapping. I think it’s about a truck stop, but I’m not totally sure. Three apprentices do a play about a stripper who accidentally gets sent back in time to the home of Sylvia Plath. Pandora’s group does a moody piece about a breakup, heavy on keening and garment-rending and light on dialogue. Most of the plays aren’t good, exactly, but they’re all pretty entertaining, and watching them makes me even more frustrated with Señor Hidalgo. Every single group has come up with something more cohesive in the last twenty-four hours than Alberto has in six weeks.
By the time it’s our turn, I’m so exhausted, I don’t even have the energy to be nervous. We get a huge round of applause as we make our way up to the stage, but I can’t tell if it’s because our cast is popular or because everyone’s glad the night is almost over. I take my place at the piano, and as Zoe, Livvy, Kenji, and Todd group together center stage for our opening number, I feel a surge of love for my cast. Part of me can’t even believe how much we’ve accomplished today.
Our show starts with the lovers singing a parody of “Steppin’ to the Bad Side” as they head off into the magical woods, represented by the fog pouring out of the hazers. Russell does his brief cameo as Puck, poisoning Titania’s and Lysander’s eyes so they’ll fall in love with the first living creatures they see. He also turns Bottom’s head into a donkey head, and Jessa sings a parody of “I Am Changing” as she makes her transformation. The lovers fall for the wrong people and sing our parody of “Love Love You Baby” before eventually sorting themselves out. Bottom gets her normal head back and sings our version of “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going” to Titania. When I look up from the piano, I see Bob in the front row, laughing so hard, there are tears running down his cheeks.
Our cast finishes up with a parody of “One Night Only,” and then Zoe pulls me out from behind the piano for a full-group bow. I grip her hand on one side and Russell’s on the other as a wave of applause breaks over us, and it’s insanely satisfying to know that I created something everyone loved. I know this is probably the only time in my life I’ll get to bow on the Haydu stage, and I stare out into the audience’s smiling faces and soak it all up. I wish my family were here to see me succeed at something. Uncle Harrison really would’ve appreciated this.
The houselights come up, and the seven of us stumble into the wings, where we crush into a group hug with the donkey head squished in the middle. Jessa’s arm is tight around my shoulders, and even though I know her affection is probably temporary, I hold out hope that we can at least be friendly again, now that she sees I’m actually good at something. Everyone’s talking at the same time, and I close my eyes and stay very quiet, trying to fix this perfect feeling of belonging in my memory.
Bob comes bounding backstage and claps us on the shoulders, and we break apart. “The stars of our evening!” he cries. “That was absolutely brilliant! I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. How did you come up with the idea?”
“It was all Brooklyn,” Zoe says.
I smile and look at the floor. “Russell and I wrote most of it together.”
“Well, it was fantastic. I’d love to see a full-length show in this format one day.”
“Thanks,” Russell says. “We’d be happy to write you one anytime. Have your people call our people.”
Bob laughs. “I will, I will,” he says. “Congratulations to all of you.” As he walks away, he pumps his fist in the air and shouts, “Warriors for art!”
There’s a formal reception set up in a tent outside, and everyone heads in that direction. But when Zoe tries to steer me into the crowd, I resist. “I think I might go back to the room and sleep,” I say.
“What? No, you can’t leave! We need to celebrate!”
“I can’t think of anything more celebratory than being unconscious right now,” I say. “You should go to the reception, though. Have some champagne for me.”
She plants her hands on her hips like a defiant six-year-old. “Absolutely not. You wrote a brilliant short play, and I am not letting you leave until you’ve celebrated.”
“Zoe, I really can’t deal with all those people—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Wait here, okay? I’ll be right back.”
I’m too tired to fight with her, so I sit down in the wings, lean against the wall, and wait. My eyelids feel very heavy, so I decide to rest them for a few seconds, but I’ve barely had time to blink before Zoe’s shaking my shoulder.
“Brooklyn,” she whispers. “Wake up. I got us dessert.”
I open my eyes and see her holding up a napkin-wrapped bundle. Everyone’s gone, and the theater around us is completely silent. The ghost light sits in the center of the stage, casting its eerie blue-white glow onto the side of Zoe’s face. “Did I fall asleep?” I ask. “How long have I been sitting here?”
“I don’t know, fifteen minutes? You looked so peaceful, I almost didn’t wake you.” She sits down next to me, her shoulder pressed to mine, and I feel her shiver. “It’s cold in here. I wish they wouldn’t crank up the AC so high.”
“I know somewhere warmer,” I say. It’s a Herculean effort to struggle to my feet, but if we’re going to celebrate, we might as well do it right. “Follow me.”
I lead her to the back of the stage and up the metal spiral staircase to the catwalks. The air is filled with that burning dust smell I’ve come to associate with stage lights, but it’s toasty-warm, and I love being up here alone with Zoe. We settle down directly above the first row of seats, and she unwraps her napkin bundle, which is full of fancy little chocolate brownies and lemon squares and pecan rolls. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything besides Doritos, and I stuff one into my mouth. “Oh my God, this is so freaking delicious,” I say.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been up here before.” Zoe grabs the plug of the light above her head and looks at the piece of gaffer’s tape holding it together. “J5,” she reads. “What does that mean? What do you think would happen if I unplugged it?”
“Nothing would happen, except this light wouldn’t turn on during the show tomorrow. J5 is the circuit number.” I grab her hand. “Leave it alone.”
“Oooh, the circuit number. Look at you, Little Miss Technical.” Zoe pokes me in the side, and I giggle, but I’m kind of proud that I knew something she didn’t.
We’re both quiet for a minute, and I nibble on a tiny brownie and listen to the soft, comforting hum of the dimmer rack. “I love theaters when they’re dark and empty like this,” I say.
“I love theaters more when they’re full of people cheering for us,” Zoe says.
“I love theaters even more when they’re full of you and me eating tiny delicious brownies after people cheered for us.”
“I love theaters most when they’re full of you and me eating brownies and making out,” Zoe says, and she leans over and kisses me softly. There’s more I love you than I want you in it, and it feels perfect.
I’m reaching out to pull her closer when I notice that the acrid smell of burning dust seems to be getting stronger. “Do you smell something weird?” I ask.
Zoe laughs. “Are you trying to tell me I need a shower?”
“No, I’m serious. It kind of smells like something’s burning. But maybe it’s—”
I don’t even get to finish my sentence before the fire alarm goes off.
“Oh shit,” Zoe shouts over the deafening buzzer, and we both leap to our feet and run for the spiral staircase. The smell gets worse as we near the ground, and as we dash down the center aisle toward the lobby, I notice smoke pouring out from under the black velour curtain at the back of the stage. I cover my mouth with my shirt and try to get a better look at where it’s coming from, but Zoe pulls me forward.
“Should we call 911?” I yell.
“We need to get out!”
We burst into t
he cool night air and run for the tent full of patrons, looking for Bob or Marcus, but everyone has heard the alarm and is already stampeding in our direction. Barb stalks toward us like an angry bull, and Bob scurries behind her, shouting into his phone.
“Were you two inside?” Barb bellows when she spots us.
Zoe looks terrified. “Yes, but we didn’t do anything, I swear!”
“Is there anyone else in the building?”
I shake my head. “Not that we saw, but we were only in the auditorium.”
“Did you see smoke or flames?”
“There was a lot of smoke. It was coming from upstage left.”
“Smoke upstage left!” Barb yells to Bob, and he repeats it into the phone.
The whole company and most of the donors have caught up with us now, and everyone’s talking at once. “Back up!” Barb shouts, her voice like a megaphone. “Move away from the building! This is not a drill! The fire department is on the way. Seriously, guys, move away from the building!”
We back across the lawn and gather together in a tight knot. “That’s our stage for Birdie,” Zoe says. “What are we going to do?”
“Maybe they’ll put it out quickly,” I say. “It probably looked worse than it is. The theater will probably be fine.”
But the glassed-in lobby is growing hazy with smoke by the time the police arrive a few minutes later, and it doesn’t look like everything is going to be fine. In the next few minutes, two fire engines and two ambulances arrive and drive straight up onto the lawn, digging deep ruts into the perfectly manicured grass. The way the spinning blue and red lights wash over the company reminds me of Pandemonium. Firefighters spill off the trucks and surround the theater, shouting things like “working structure fire” and “flake the line out” and “upgrade to next alarm,” and then they start unrolling hoses and strapping on masks and air tanks. Even from here, I can see flickers of flame when they open the theater doors and charge inside. Almost the entire company is taking photos and video on their phones, but I don’t want to document this. I stand very still with my arms wrapped tight around me, watching the theater burn.
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