by Robin Talley
A few of the actors start to ham it up. Julio and Beth do a jaunty little jig, with her swinging him around like they’re on one of those shows where dancers wear sequins and spandex and get voted off. David waves a crutch in the air, and there’s a wave of laughter along with the cheers as the lights over the stage shift.
That was the second to last light cue of the show. My headset’s still hanging around my neck, so I didn’t hear Gabby call it, but the stage is washed in a full, wide light.
That’s our sign.
I turn back toward the platform at upstage center. Dom’s already climbing onto it, the flag gripped tightly in his fists. He’s still in his red-and-gold barricade vest, but he washed the fake blood off his face, and as he climbs up above the rest of the cast it looks like his character’s coming back to life.
The crowd’s laughter fades, awe surfacing in its place. Something new is happening, and they know it.
The cast is starting to figure it out, too. Some have already turned around. A few of the actors know what’s happening, but the rest are looking back at Dom in confusion.
I crane my neck for another glimpse of Odile. She looks as puzzled as the others, but she’s smiling at Dom anyway.
Then Nick starts to sing again, and everyone—cast, crew, and audience alike—lets out a collective gasp.
“One thing mooorrrrre!” he bellows, just like he did in the real song, but a cappella. His voice sounds better than it has all night, now that the show’s over and the pressure’s off.
But it’s funny, too, and it’s meant to be; the audience laughs, and the cast joins in. I even hear a couple of chuckles from behind me—the crew, genuinely amused by Nick the Dick for the first time ever.
Odile is still right beside him, and she gives him a quizzical look, but Nick manages not to give it away. He just claps his hands in front of him and says solemnly, the mic taped to his cheek carrying out his words to the entire auditorium, “We’ve received an urgent message from our stage manager. It’s for Fantine.”
He says it in his vaguely British-y Valjean voice, and for a second the audience seems to think he’s serious. They get quieter, creating exactly the hush we were hoping for.
That’s when Dom waves his arm, exactly the way he does when he gives the signal in the first barricade scene in act two. The cast onstage splits in half, the actors who know what’s happening pulling the others aside. When the path is clear Dom jumps off the platform and runs downstage, still waving that flag. It’s started to unfurl, but he’s moving too fast for anyone to read it.
That’s when I step onto the stage, and everyone suddenly turns to look at me.
I’m not supposed to be here. I’m in rumpled show blacks and frizzy hair. My headset’s still hanging anachronistically around my neck, and my face is sweaty and makeup-free.
I’m the exact opposite of angelic Odile Rose. But her eyes latch on to me, her lips parted slightly, and she doesn’t seem to mind.
Dom runs toward where she’s standing at downstage center, waving the flag more slowly. I never would’ve been able to get the flag done if it hadn’t been for Rachel. I didn’t plan to ask her for help—when I ran to the makeshift costume area backstage at the start of intermission, I was aiming to throw something together myself with fabric scraps and Sharpies in the couple of minutes I had free before I needed to be back in the booth for act two. But Rachel saw what I was doing, came straight over, took the biggest piece of white fabric out of the scraps basket, and set up the sewing machine without even asking if I needed help. I told her what I was trying to do, and she told me the story of how she’d dumped Nick after she heard the way he talked about the crew. She apologized for telling him about the curse, too. I resisted the urge to ask why she’d ever gone out with him in the first place.
Either way, it’s thanks to her that the flag looks so amazing, especially for something made out of scraps in minutes. It’s very appropriate for this show, come to think of it.
Dom crosses the stage and passes the flag to me with a flourish. I take it, nodding at him in thanks, and he gives me a sweeping bow, earning another round of cheers from the crowd before he steps off to the side. I can’t believe it took me years to realize he was such a freaking actor.
I take a deep breath. I know what I have to do, but every cell in my body is resisting it. Even so, I step forward, passing the rest of the cast until I’ve joined Odile at downstage center, right in front of everyone, as the voices in my head shout Stop! and Hide! and Don’t you realize THIS GIANT INDISTINGUISHABLE MASS OF PEOPLE IS LOOKING AT YOU RIGHT NOW???
I order the voices to shut up and I hold out the flag so Odile can read it.
She smiles at me, then turns to stare at the flag. Her eyes go wide. Then she covers her mouth with her hand. Her shoulders begin to shake, like she’s laughing and crying all at once.
The audience can see the flag now, too. There’s a chorus of “aww”s and cheers, but I ignore them. I only have eyes for her.
“Odile . . .” I have to fight to get the words out, because I’m laughing and crying at the same time, too.
I can barely speak above a whisper. Odile has to step forward to hear. I considered using the mic, but decided against it. I’m not doing this for anyone but her.
As she closes the distance between us, though, the crowd’s cheers swell up even louder. Complete strangers are whistling at us. Whistles from the audience aren’t bad luck, but they’re embarrassing, and I can’t help blushing. Odile’s cheeks are pink, too, as she reaches around and turns off her mic pack.
The flag is made of white muslin left over from Fiddler. Rachel and I hemmed it to put in loops and painted “PROM WOULD BE MISÉRABLE WITHOUT YOU” in red glitter, then attached it to the backup flagpole from the prop closet.
In my opinion, the occasion called for something theatrical.
“Odile, I . . .” I hold up my hands to either side of my face like blinders, trying to tune out everyone else in the room. “I’m sorry. You were right, about all of it. You’re so much more important to me than trying to put on a perfect anything. And I . . .” I swallow again. My bright-red cheeks are probably visible from space. “And I love you. Would you be my prom date?”
There’s shouting and jostling in the house and on the stage as the cast crowds around us, craning in to hear. Everyone’s looking at Odile, waiting for her to answer. Even some of the orchestra members are standing up, leaning back to watch from the pit with their instruments tucked under their arms.
Odile finally pulls her hands away from her face. She’s laughing that genuine laugh I love so much.
She nods, and then she’s throwing her arms around me, and I’m not sure my life has ever been better than it is in this moment.
The next thing I know the whole cast is on us and we’re all hugging at once, Odile and me at the center of it, both of us cherry-red and grinning. Even some black-clad run crew members are laughing in the back of the giant hug pile. They must’ve come in from the wings, too.
I shut my eyes and collapse against Odile. She’s holding me, and I’m holding her, and it’s exactly what I need. The only thing I’ll ever need.
“Mel!” Gabby’s voice echoes up from the headset around my neck. She’s shouting so loud I could probably hear her from the booth itself if the audience wasn’t cheering so loudly. “Get back on headset! I’m glad she said yes and everything but the theater’s about to—”
That’s when the lights go out.
I leap back, panicking. Is it a power outage? What the hell? It’s a gorgeous day, there’s no reason for the power to—
The curse, the curse, the curse! It’s real after all!
I pull the headset back up around my ears and frantically switch on the mic. “Gabby? What’s going on? Do we need to evacuate?”
But the crowd is still laughing. That’s when I realize the power can’t be out, not completely—a few lights are still shining upstage. I was so overwhelmed I didn’t even notice.
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When I catch my breath and look up at the booth, Gabby, Will, and Jasmin are all pointing down at me through the glass, smirking.
They pranked me. Oh my God. I want to flip them off, but there are kids in the audience.
They bring the lights back up to a full stage wash, and the audience lets out another roar. Now that I’m seeing them straight-on, the giant mass of people isn’t quite so scary. Just faces, beaming at us. My dads are in the second row, both of them holding out their phones to take pictures. That’s against the rules and also mortifying, but I don’t even care because I’m just so happy right now.
The curtain comes down, slowly, with the audience still cheering on the other side. And when I look down, Odile’s hand is linked in mine.
I squeeze it and pull her toward the wings, and she follows, still smiling.
Epilogue
One Year Later
Good evening, and welcome to the Beaconville High School production of The Phantom of the Opera.
You are now entering nineteenth-century France, so please take a moment to turn off any devices that haven’t been invented yet.
There will be one fifteen-minute intermission following the first act. In case of emergency, exit through the marked doors.
Now—to the opera!
—Preshow script recorded by Malik Sexton with Melody McIntyre assisting, to be played before all dress rehearsals and performances.
Also stored on BHS performing arts department shared drive.
Created by: Melody McIntyre, stage manager, class of 2021
Viewable to: All cast, crew, and directors
Editable by: Current SM ONLY
Tech Booth, Beaconville High School Theater
MINUTES UNTIL INTERMISSION: 1
The lights spark. The audience gasps. And, right on cue, the chandelier crashes down.
Or, rather, it flies down, looking fast and dangerous, even though it’s precisely controlled. We know it’s precisely controlled, because we’ve run this cue at least a hundred times in the past two weeks, but I still hold my breath every time. That chandelier cost more than our entire budget for Little Women in the fall.
As always, the cables hold. The chandelier “crashes” onto the stage, a horrified-looking Alejandra darts out from beneath it just in time, and the audience explodes with cheers.
I stop holding my breath and bark out the cues.
“Stand by, curtain and lights to blackout. Blackout—go. Curtain—go. Stand by, house lights. House lights—go.”
The lights fade up slowly, but the applause keeps going even with the curtain down.
“We did it!” Bryce bellows into my headset. “Oh my God, we did it!”
“Well done, Bryce and team.” I smile into my headset. “Imani, tell the actors to take ten. And you can take ten, too.”
“Maybe I’ll take eleven just to see what happens,” Imani chirps back.
I laugh. “Do it.”
“Thanks, boss.” Imani’s been calling me “boss” ever since tech week. Despite her stellar singing voice, she decided the best way to deal with her intense stage fright during Les Mis was to switch to crew, and she’s the new ASM now that Gabby’s been promoted to assistant costumes head. Imani’s good at this, too, even with her weirdly formal headset etiquette. “Signing off.”
“Same here. This is Mel, going off headset.”
I’m exhausted as I stand up to stretch, but mostly, I’m delighted. It’s opening night of Phantom, and we hit almost every cue in the first act. Aaron’s mic stopped working on the first line of “Notes . . . ,” so the assistant sound head ran out onstage to give him a handheld mic, but it wound up being cool. The audience laughed, and Aaron swung the mic around and hammed it up like a lounge singer.
It hasn’t been a perfect show, but that’s okay, because it’s been fun.
We agonized over every detail of how to stage it for three months, but tonight the acting, the music, the sets, the lights, the sound, and all the rest of it came together exactly as we’d hoped. More or less, anyway. Plus, Malik and Alejandra have serious chemistry onstage, and off, too. We’d already decided not to run the actor hookup pool anymore, since it turns out actors are real people and not semi-entertaining Barbie dolls, but even if we’d kept it up, we would’ve had to call it off for this show anyway since the winners would’ve been way too obvious. There were several polite coughs over the headset when Phantom and Christine came way closer to kissing than my blocking notes said they were supposed to during “The Music of the Night.”
But I don’t have time to worry about actor drama tonight. There’s something I have to do.
I leave my headset on the desk and reach for the doorknob, ready to yank it open. As usual, I’m in my show blacks, and I’m rumpled and sweaty and my hair’s a mess, but I don’t care. I’m going down into the house, to where I last saw her in row C, and—
But when I fling open the door, Odile’s already flinging herself on me.
“Do you hear that?” Her voice is muffled against my hair, and her arms are tight around my neck. She’s wearing her old Les Mis T-shirt, and her hair’s flowing down her back in messy waves. She’s never looked better. “They’re still cheering for that effect. This show is everything you wanted it to be.”
“Uh . . .” Jasmin gives us a slightly amused head shake. “Be back in three, Mel.”
“Take five.”
Jasmin laughs as she edges past us. I wrap my arms around Odile’s waist and squeeze her tight. “You know very well this show’s ridiculous. It’s got more melodrama than Titanic.”
“Who cares? The cast sounds amazing. And that set, and the costumes—and the chandelier! Seriously, I’ve seen Phantom on Broadway and the West End, and this chandelier crash was the scariest one yet.”
I try to keep a straight face, but a giggle bursts out. Odile’s still the only one who’s ever been able to make me giggle. “Thank you for saying that. I don’t believe you at all, but it was really sweet.”
I lead her deeper into the empty booth, collapse onto a beanbag, and pull her down beside me.
I kiss her. She kisses me back. And for a few precious seconds I don’t think about my intermission task list, or the staircase the run crew is carefully maneuvering into place right now, or whether anyone’s trying to reach me on the headset that’s still lying on my desk, because in this moment, she’s my entire world.
“Listen . . .” I haven’t planned what I want to say, but that’s probably a good thing. These days, the more I just let things happen, the more I relish every moment. “Thanks for coming tonight.”
“Are you kidding?” She sweeps her hand around at the booth, the auditorium, the stage below with the heavy curtain hanging. “This is my favorite place.”
“Still?” I prop myself up on my elbows. “What about that black box at Tisch where you did that play with the glitter masks?”
She laughs. She’s been doing that a lot more since she came back from London. “That show was so stupid.”
“It was awesome. I love experimental theater. Especially when it involves you doing pantomime in a catsuit.”
“I’ll bet you do.” She laughs again.
Odile finally worked up the nerve to tell her agent she didn’t want to do the Netflix show—and that she wanted to go to college once the Scorsese movie wrapped. Her agent wasn’t thrilled, but as far as I can tell, Odile’s been in heaven all semester.
I took the train down to visit her over spring break, and it was quite possibly the most awesome two days of my life. I think Pops was hoping I’d decide to join Odile at NYU, but I convinced my parents to compromise and we agreed on SUNY Purchase. With a double major in stage management and psychology, partly to shut Pops up, but also because I’ve realized stage management is equal parts technical expertise, organizational skill, and managing other people’s moods.
Plus, Purchase is just an hour north of New York. Which means next year I can swing by and watch more of Odile’s experi
mental theater productions, and she can come up and watch me scurry around the stage with the rest of the freshman run crew.
We never officially said we were going to do the long-distance-relationship thing. It just sort of . . . happened. When Odile left for the airport last June, we hugged goodbye for ten straight minutes, but we never actually made any out-loud promises. Even so, she emailed me as soon as she got to her hotel that night, and I wrote back the instant I woke up in the morning.
We wrote to each other every day from then on. We still write every day, even when we’re in the same city. There have been mornings when I typed out my message to her, silently smiling into my phone while she slept just a few feet away. Even when she sleeps, she looks like she’s posing for some glamorous photo shoot. That’s just who she is.
I love who she is.
When her movie wrapped, she flew back to the US, did a play down in DC for two months—she’d asked her agent to find her theater work during her school breaks—then came back to Beaconville before she left to start college in January. By then Little Women had ended and my college applications were in, and I had a few weeks to actually spend being lazy with her, cuddling in the den and watching movies we didn’t pay attention to and talking so late into the night we earned occasional half-hearted reprimands from my dads.
They definitely like having her around, though. Her movie’s coming out this November, and Pops has already made elaborate plans to take me shopping on Newbury Street for a dress that’s “red-carpet appropriate” so I can be her date to the New York premiere.
“Okay, so it’s possible I’ve seen scarier chandelier crashes,” she says now, glancing over at me across our beanbags with a soft smile. Her real one. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Odile smile anything but her real smile. “But not on a high school budget. And I swear, it was really and truly scary.”
“Do you think we timed it right with the light cues? Jasmin and Will were having a debate about whether to use a special, but I said—”