The juggler—a teenage black girl named Tanisha, with a shy smile and a short, tight braid—reached out to shake Olive’s hand. She was promptly elbowed in the head by an impossibly muscular guy with spiky, bright red hair that contrasted sharply with his pale face. He apologized to Tanisha profusely before introducing himself to Olive as Mickey—the fire-eater, judging by the torch swinging at his side. Next came Valentine the magician, a young woman—or a young man? Olive wasn’t quite sure—with light brown skin, straight black hair that fell to his (or her) shoulders, and a red button-down shirt with a pattern of winking eyes. Eli the aerialist followed, a petite blond man with a neatly trimmed beard and round, rosy cheeks. Though he was the shortest of the group, Olive thought he looked the oldest, maybe in his upper twenties.
The youngest stepped forward last. Olive’s spine stiffened instinctively at the sight of a girl around her own age. “My assistant, Juliana,” Valentine told Olive, who attempted a polite but indifferent smile. “Most talented girl I’ve ever sawed in half.” Juliana grinned at the floor, toying with her long, dark ponytail.
“Hang on—where’re Aidan and Nadia?” Mickey squinted around the rehearsal space, twirling his torch absent-mindedly.
“Costume malfunction, I think. They’re with the seamstresses.” Tanisha smiled at Olive. “You still haven’t told us your name!”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Olive felt her face heat up. “I’m—”
But the mime stepped forward again, clearing his throat. Nose in the air, he stirred an imaginary drink before taking a sip with a haughty expression.
Mickey was the first to guess. “Martini?”
Giving him an exasperated look, the mime pretended to fish something out of the drink. He waved it at Mickey before popping it into his mouth. Mickey’s brow furrowed. “Wait…your name’s Onion?” he wondered, and Tanisha hid a grin behind her hand.
“I think Olive might suit her better,” Eli said with a wink, and Olive nodded.
“That’s right.”
“Are you going to be in the show with us, Olive?” Valentine asked.
A familiar throaty voice behind Olive responded first.
“She’s going to star in it.”
Olive spun around to find Maude Devore behind her, smiling as broadly as ever. She felt a rush of pride as Maude moved to stand next to her. The other cast members stood up a little straighter, and Mickey’s torch fell still at his side.
“Olive had an impromptu audition yesterday,” Maude continued, winking at Olive. “We’ll be working on her part in private today—full-cast rehearsals will begin next week. But believe me, Olive is just what we’ve been looking for since Finley’s unfortunate departure.”
The shift was immediate. A somber mood descended like fog, and everyone nodded solemnly. Olive noticed that Juliana was blinking rapidly, eyes downcast, and an uneasy feeling of recognition settled over her. The girl’s expression reflected a certain type of sadness with which Olive was well acquainted. Juliana caught her staring and, after a moment, gave her a small smile, which Olive returned.
A sudden, particular kind of hope took root in the pit of her stomach, one Olive hadn’t felt in a long time. It was the magical feeling that happens when you see a bit of yourself in someone else and realize this might just be a person who will make you laugh and comfort you and keep your secrets. Even the deepest, darkest ones.
Olive looked away quickly. Ever since her father died last summer, she had been friendless by choice. The fewer people you loved, the less chance you would be abandoned.
So she just listened as Maude continued to discuss the upcoming rehearsals. And she tried not to notice the way Tanisha slipped a comforting arm around Juliana, how Mickey offered her a (slightly scorched) handkerchief, how Valentine and Eli pressed closer together, shoulders touching. She tried not to notice that they looked like a grieving family, because she was an outsider, and grief was a private thing.
But Olive couldn’t help wondering what exactly had happened to the star she was replacing.
Maude Devore’s private studio was like the woman herself—beautiful and imposing. Olive perched nervously on the edge of a high-backed chair facing a mahogany desk even wider than her father’s. Another chandelier hung overhead, slightly smaller than those in the lobby, but with seemingly twice the number of delicate, shimmering crystal strands. The thick velvety rug beneath Olive’s feet was woven in a pattern of turquoise, black, and gold similar to the mosaic outside the theater, and a grand piano sat in the corner. A large black-and-white photograph hung on the wall behind the desk, featuring a dark-haired woman standing in the spotlight on a stage, head bowed. The photo was taken from a distance—the highest balcony, Olive thought—and all the seats below were filled.
“My final performance,” Maude told her. “This was years and years ago, back when this theater had a different name. There was a fire that night, a terrible tragedy.”
Olive’s heart stuttered. “After the show?”
“During,” Maude said sadly. “It started backstage and spread so quickly….I took refuge in the trap room beneath the stage. But the rest of the cast, and the audience…” She paused, shaking her head. “It was a packed house, and there were too few exits. With all the panic, very few made it out alive.”
“How horrible,” Olive breathed, staring at the photo again. She tried to imagine the chaos and shuddered.
“Indeed,” Maude agreed. “The auditorium was nearly destroyed, and the theater was closed for many years after that. But that’s its own tragedy, isn’t it? A hollow theater, an empty stage with no one to bring its stories to life. But a lowered curtain isn’t content to remain that way forever, Olive. It’s just waiting to rise again.”
Her dark eyes locked onto Olive’s and wouldn’t let go.
“So I opened its doors once more. And now it’s home to the most incredible show in the city. In my humble opinion,” she added with a wink. “Have you ever seen a vaudeville show?” Olive sat up straighter and nodded. “So what would you say vaudeville is, exactly?”
Olive frowned. “The one I saw had dancers, and a comedian, an acrobat…oh, a magic act…”
“Exactly,” Maude said. “A vaudeville show is a collection of different acts, which is what makes it so exciting. Rather than casting new members into the same old roles over and over, my show changes depending on the talent I find. Much more effective that way, as it allows everyone to play to their strengths. Before Tanisha, for example, I never had a juggler in my show. But once I saw what she could do, well…I simply had no choice but to create an act around her marvelous skills.”
Olive shivered in anticipation. “What’s the show called?” she asked eagerly, and Maude closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was full of reverence.
“Eidola.”
“Eidola,” Olive echoed. “What does that mean?”
Maude studied her for a long moment. “Eidola is…a place,” she said at last. “A fantasy world I invented during my miserable childhood. Eidola was my escape, where I went in my mind when the real world was too unbearable. And everyone you just met, my wonderful cast—they are a part of this show not just because of their extraordinary talents but because they all know what it feels like to be alone, or outcast, or unloved. That is the one thing about this show that never changes, no matter what the acts are. Eidola is about escape, about being a part of something better. Something amazing.” She paused, her eyes searching Olive’s face. “That’s what brought you here yesterday, isn’t it? You needed an escape as well.”
“Yes,” Olive whispered.
“And why is that?” Maude asked gently. “What is it you’re running away from?”
Olive hesitated before answering.
“My mother…” She paused, and Maude waited silently. “She’s always pushed me to do my best at everything because she wants me to be as successful as she was. But after last summer, when my dad…when he died, it got worse. No,” Olive corrected herself. “No
t worse. It changed. Before, when she’d lecture me for messing up an audition or singing off-key, it felt like she just wanted me to do well because she cared about me. But now she just expects me to fail. It’s almost like she wants me to. Sometimes I…”
She tried to press her lips together. But the words came out anyway.
“Sometimes I think she hates me. And sometimes I—I hate her too.”
It was an awful, awful thing to say. But maybe it was true.
Maude’s eyes were closed as if she were absorbing Olive’s words; the ones she’d said, but also the ones she hadn’t said, because they were buried too deep and Olive did not wish to unearth them. Even though Olive was no longer speaking, Maude continued to nod slowly. And when she opened her eyes, Olive had the distinct impression Maude somehow knew more than what Olive had confessed out loud.
“We can all relate to Eidola,” Maude said. “That’s what makes this show so wonderful—it’s more than just a show. It’s an escape, a home, for all of us. Including you.”
Olive’s throat was too tight to respond, so she merely nodded. Smiling, Maude stood and gestured to the piano.
“Let’s begin.”
The sun was just beginning to set behind the city’s towering skyline when Olive finally left Maudeville. Her throat felt raw and open, and her head had that fuzzy, just-woke-up sensation. The boy in the alley poked his head up from behind the dumpster and watched her go, his expression dark. Olive barely noticed him. She practically floated down the street, still humming under her breath.
She couldn’t remember ever being this happy. The songs in Eidola seemed to be written just for her; every word, every note, resonated deep inside her like plucking strings. And lessons with Maude were far more effective than with her mother. Laurel encouraged Olive to sing like Laurel. Maude encouraged Olive to sing like Olive, a better Olive. It was almost as if Maude could draw beautiful music from her—a physical feeling, like a thread tugging in her lungs.
Humming turned to flat-out singing as Olive left the theater district. A few pedestrians smiled as she passed, and a popcorn vendor rolled his eyes, but Olive didn’t care. Her voice grew even louder when she saw the library up ahead. She sang until she saw her building, and then the song died in her throat.
The doorman would still be on the lookout for her. If he saw Olive come in, he’d tell her mother. And Mrs. Preiss would know exactly how Olive had snuck out. She’d never make it back to Maudeville again.
Her only choice was to go back the way she had come—the fire escape. But the ladder dangled several inches above Olive’s fingers, too high to reach even when she jumped.
Olive turned in a slow circle, examining the alley. Trash cans lined the walls, overflowing with stuffed garbage bags. And there, on the corner facing the street, was a chair.
The coffee shop, Olive realized. She edged her way closer, keeping to the wall. The Marinos always added a few tables and chairs outside during the summer months. Mr. Preiss used to joke that having a coffee shop next door was the sole reason they had bought this particular penthouse. And the Marinos joked in turn that they only stayed in business because of Mr. Preiss. The café had been struggling lately, although Mr. Preiss’s death wasn’t to blame for that. Most businesses were desperate for customers these days.
Still, the Marinos were very nice, and Mrs. Marino gave Olive a free muffin every time she dropped by. Olive was sure they wouldn’t mind her borrowing a chair.
Glancing up and down the street, Olive grabbed the chair and hurried back to the fire escape. She set the chair beneath the hanging ladder and stepped up. By standing on her tiptoes and stretching as high as she could, she just managed to grip the bottom rung.
It took Olive nearly a full minute to pull herself up enough to grab the second rung, then the third. She hooked her leg around the ladder and paused to catch her breath.
With one last glance at the coffee shop chair beneath her, Olive began to climb. She climbed from one balcony to the next, moving so quietly that not even Tinkerbell the shih tzu heard her on the sixth floor. At last she made it to the landing outside her father’s study. She’d already swung one leg over the windowsill before noticing the door.
It was open.
Olive froze, half inside, half out. She’d shut that door behind her, she was certain. Hardly daring to breathe, Olive listened carefully. The penthouse was silent. After several long seconds, Olive pulled herself the rest of the way inside and slowly, slowly closed the window, accidentally nudging the telescope with her elbow. She crept across the room, her heart constricting painfully when she saw her father’s desk. All the items were still there—map, papers, pens. But now they were organized, tidy.
Mrs. Preiss had been in the study.
Heart pounding in her ears, Olive left the room and closed the door behind her. She glanced at her bedroom door—also closed, just as she’d left it. Smoothing her windblown hair with her fingers, Olive squared her shoulders and marched down the hall. She would simply pretend that she’d been in her room this whole time and hope against hope her mother hadn’t bothered to check.
Crossing the living room, Olive peered into the kitchen. Her mother sat at the table, head bowed over the mail. She didn’t look up when Olive stepped inside.
“You can make a sandwich for dinner,” Mrs. Preiss said shortly. “I bought groceries today.”
“Okay.” Olive hurried over to the pantry and examined its contents: a bag of lentils, a box of oatmeal, a jar of peanut butter, a loaf of bread. Her stomach rumbled with displeasure. It felt like ages since Olive had last had a truly good meal. Pot roast with buttery red potatoes, crispy fried artichokes with lemon, meatballs in spicy tomato sauce…
As if she could hear Olive’s thoughts—or perhaps her stomach—Mrs. Preiss scowled. “This electricity bill is even higher than last month’s. If I can’t convince the arts center to refund that check for theater camp, I’m not sure what we’re going to do.”
The jar of peanut butter slipped from Olive’s hand. She caught it just before it hit the tiled floor, her face burning. Guilt writhed around her insides like a snake. Maybe her mother was a bit overbearing, but she’d scrimped and saved for Olive to attend that camp in the hope that it would finally lead to a career for her daughter—not to mention an end to their financial woes. And Olive had just run away. She might as well have thrown the last of their cash into the fireplace.
Although…
Anger slowly began to eat up Olive’s guilt. Maybe she’d run away from camp, but that had been her mother’s fault. Parents weren’t supposed to watch the auditions, and Olive would have done well if Mrs. Preiss had just let her sing her own song. Besides, now Olive had been cast in a show—a real show, a professional one, just like Mrs. Preiss wanted. Proof that Olive was destined for the spotlight after all.
For the briefest of seconds, Olive considered telling her mother all about Maudeville. Then, just as quickly, she decided not to. Mrs. Preiss was so short-tempered these days—and had so little faith in her daughter—that she was likely to snap at Olive for making things up. No way would she believe that Olive had successfully auditioned for anything. And if she knew Olive had snuck out, she’d probably lock her in her room for the rest of the summer.
Not worth the risk. Eidola would be Olive’s secret until opening night. In the meantime, Mrs. Preiss could just keep selling their belongings, emptying their home. It didn’t matter. Olive had Maudeville now.
Olive pulled a knife out of the drawer, unscrewed the lid of the peanut butter jar, and began making her dull supper. Under her breath she hummed the songs Maude had taught her, and she tried to imagine what the other acts would be like—the magic, the juggling, the fire-eating.
She was so distracted by these happy thoughts that she forgot to wonder why Mrs. Preiss had been in her husband’s study for the first time in nearly a year.
The rest of the week passed in an exhilarating blur. Olive and her mother were like opposing magnets, c
ircling around some invisible force that kept them from direct contact. After breakfast each morning, Olive would sit in the living room, pretending to read a book, until Mrs. Preiss left for the day. Then she’d crawl down the fire escape and hurry to the theater for lessons with Maude. She returned home before the sun set, borrowing the coffee shop chair and climbing back up to her father’s study. She would create some pretense—taking out the trash, checking the mail—to get past the doorman and slip into the alley, then move the chair back to the coffee shop before Mrs. Marino noticed it was missing.
Mrs. Preiss stayed out later each evening. Where she was and what she was doing, Olive wasn’t sure. Selling more of their belongings, she figured. She didn’t much care either way.
Eidola was all Olive could think about. Maude had a way of coaxing the most beautiful music from Olive—already, she was singing far better than she ever had after countless vocal exercises with her mother. Memorizing music had never been this easy—by Friday, Olive knew the lyrics backward and forward. But it wasn’t just that. She understood these songs, the purpose of every word, every note. It was as if they had been written for her specifically, and she’d been waiting her whole life to find them.
Olive saw the other cast members only in passing during breaks; she was too busy learning her part to watch them practice their acts. Tanisha often wandered the corridors, shoulders hunched, nose buried in a book Olive vaguely recognized from her father’s collection, though Tanisha’s copy looked much newer. She would smile and wave timidly at Olive but never said more than a few words. Mickey, in contrast, had a presence that could likely be felt on the moon. When he laughed, no matter where he was, the jovial sound seemed to rattle the whole theater. Valentine and Eli were usually in the kitchen when Olive went for a glass of water. Each time, Olive would almost ask Val where her (or his? Olive still couldn’t quite tell) assistant was during breaks. But she stopped herself every time. Juliana seemed nice, but Olive didn’t need friends—not when she had a show to focus on.
Olive and the Backstage Ghost Page 4