Olive gazed at Maude’s retreating form. It wasn’t until Val gave her a gentle push that she realized she was supposed to follow.
Time to sing.
Olive hurried down the aisle and onto the stage, tripping a little on the steps. This was nothing like the first time she’d climbed up on this stage, in an empty and silent hall. This was more exciting—and more terrifying. Olive was itching to show everyone, including herself, what she was capable of when her mother wasn’t present. But what if she wasn’t capable? The rest of the cast was so extraordinarily talented and so effortlessly confident. What if Olive’s mother fright really was just stage fright? What if she simply wasn’t meant to be in the spotlight at all?
Taking a deep breath, Olive noticed the mime in the first row. She was fairly certain he hadn’t been there a few seconds ago.
“Astaire, if you will…” Maude beckoned for him to join them, and he hurried forward with an eager expression. He gave Olive a tiny smile, and she found herself smiling back.
“Your name’s Astaire?” she asked softly. The mime did a few halfhearted tap steps and lifted his imaginary top hat, and Olive laughed. “Right, sorry. I should’ve figured it out.” Mr. Preiss loved Fred Astaire’s movies; they had been among the many films Olive and her father would watch together on lazy Sunday afternoons.
She edged closer to Astaire as Tanisha and Mickey left the stage to join Valentine in the seats, Mickey still swinging his torch about carelessly (although it was no longer burning). Giant boulder props slid toward center stage from both sides. Olive craned her neck to see who was moving them but saw no one.
“Shall we try the opening number?” Maude gave Olive an encouraging smile. Her hands twitched, but she nodded bravely. When Maude leaned closer, she tensed, bracing herself for the criticism.
“Don’t worry,” Maude whispered. “I know you’ll be amazing.”
Olive glowed.
And then Maude was gliding down the steps and into the aisle, and the lights were dimming until Olive could no longer see the seats. Astaire placed a cool hand briefly on her shoulder before hurrying offstage to await his cue. Olive sank down cross-legged in front of the boulders and hugged her knees to her chest. Squinting at the piano, she saw a pair of floating severed hands hovering over the keys. One gave her a quick thumbs-up, and she nearly laughed, despite her nerves. The hall went pitch black and she waited, Maude’s praise still ringing in her ears. Olive gazed up at the massive white cocoon hanging overhead, the only thing visible in the darkness. Calm settled into her bones, and she relaxed completely.
Then the spotlight hit and the world shifted.
In the spotlight world, nothing existed but a pit. It was a deep, dark pit, the kind of deep that’s just short of bottomless, the kind of dark that’s just a shade lighter than nothing at all. It would have been a silent pit too, if it weren’t for the singing.
The melody was sad but sweet, echoing off the rocks and rising higher and higher into the perpetual gloom. It came from the child huddled at the bottom.
She hadn’t always been in this pit. Once upon a time, she’d had a home with a father who wanted her to see the stars, and a mother who wanted her to become one. But now the girl was alone, and stars were just a distant memory. That was why her song was sad. The sweetness came from her escape—her dreamland. She built this place with notes and lyrics: the mountains that toppled and then rebuilt themselves even higher; the seas that surged yet never found a shore; the golden trees that stretched endlessly into the clouds; the frozen lake surrounded by white lilies that bloomed eternally. Only the girl could find this place. It lay outside the reach of a compass.
And yet she believed her dreamland had life—for how wonderful can a place be if there is no companionship to be found? Just as the girl asked this in her song, a companion appeared.
He hung upside down in front of her, clinging to an invisible rope like a spider on a thread. The girl laughed in delight as he landed nimbly on his feet and began to entertain her with pantomimes. He walked into a strong wind that the girl could not feel but that nonetheless blew the beret right off his head. He cast a fishing line into her imaginary ocean and wrestled with a whale. He threw a lasso around the moon and tugged it down as a gift. And then he tied the end of his invisible rope around the girl’s waist.
She stood motionless as he began to climb the rope. When he vanished in the gloom, she cried out in fear, because she had been abandoned before and could not find her way out of this pit alone. The grief she’d worked so hard to push down rose up her throat and choked off her pleas for help. She patted her waist and groped the air desperately, but her fingers found nothing. Just when the girl was ready to collapse in defeat…her feet left the ground.
Gasping, she gazed down as the bottom of the pit fell farther and farther away. She sang to it until it disappeared, and then she sang up to whatever was coming next. And soon a pair of hands, so real and so warm, took hold of her arms and lifted her out. The girl’s relief quickly gave way to astonishment as the mime set her down. Hot tears blurred her vision, and a once-dead ember flared to life, filling her heart with hope. The girl blinked frantically, gazing around in awe.
Impossibly, her dreamland was spread out before her, all fiery skies and frozen lakes, boundless mountains that never stopped crumbling and radiant trees that never stopped reaching. And overhead was a black sky filled with infinite stars that could show any picture, tell any story, that she wanted them to. The mime stood in silence while the girl sang her gratitude and relief at having reached this place at last.
Eidola was real.
The next morning was insufferable. Olive could barely sit still throughout breakfast. She picked at her flavorless oatmeal, silently willing her mother to leave. But Mrs. Preiss seemed in no hurry, mindlessly stirring her coffee with one hand and turning the newspaper pages with the other.
Before the downturn, the Preiss family used to split the newspaper during breakfast. Mr. Preiss would whip up French toast with powdered sugar, or poached eggs and grits, while Mrs. Preiss divvied up the sections—editorials for Mr. Preiss, entertainment for Mrs. Preiss, and cartoons for Olive. Olive’s mother hadn’t offered her the funny pages in a long time, but it didn’t matter. Olive didn’t find them funny anymore.
Fidgeting, she glared at her mother’s hand and listened to the sound of the spoon clanking against the inside of the mug.
Clank.
Her manicure was rubbing off, little flecks of polish missing.
Clink.
A shiny pink callus had begun on the side of her finger.
Clank.
Her wedding ring was gone.
Olive stopped fidgeting. She sat very, very still, staring at the imprint still circling her mother’s ring finger. With a jolt, she remembered returning to the penthouse yesterday to find Mrs. Preiss in the living room talking with someone. Olive had peeked around the corner and seen a handsome young man in a worn and ill-fitting but impeccably clean suit. Another buyer, she’d realized when he handed Mrs. Preiss a wad of neatly folded bills. Then he’d patted his breast pocket and smiled and thanked Mrs. Preiss profusely before leaving. Olive had briefly wondered what he’d bought, but she hadn’t dwelled on it. Now, however, she knew the truth.
Her mother had sold her wedding ring.
Setting the newspaper down, Mrs. Preiss stood and took her dishes to the sink. Olive gazed at the back of her head, her hair pulled into a neat, frizzless bun. That ring had never left her finger, and now it was gone, swapped for electricity and oatmeal.
“School starts in less than a month,” Mrs. Preiss announced abruptly, patting a short stack of library books on the counter that Olive hadn’t noticed. “I’ve had a look at your summer reading list. Start with The Cabinetmaker’s Apprentice and be prepared for me to quiz you on Friday.”
Swallowing, Olive nodded. She remained in her chair while her mother gathered up her keys and her purse. It wasn’t until Olive heard the front door c
lose that she shot to her feet, grabbed The Cabinetmaker’s Apprentice, and sprinted out of the kitchen. She shoved the book into her satchel with her music folder and made a beeline for the fire escape.
The alley was empty, and Olive snuck past the coffee shop before breaking into a run. She had never been so desperate to get away from the penthouse. In the theater district, she dodged tourists and bicyclists, nearly crashing into a haggard-looking boy walking at least a dozen dogs. It took almost half a minute to untangle herself from the leashes, and when she arrived at Maudeville at last, she was in a state of great irritation and sweatiness. She was pleased to see Felix waiting for her on the steps, as she now had someone on whom to unleash her foul mood.
“You can stop wasting your time,” she said shortly, heading up the stairs without pausing. “I’m going to keep coming here whether you like it or not.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured.” Felix jumped two steps, blocking Olive’s path to the entrance. “So I need your help.”
Olive opened her mouth to tell him off, then realized with an unpleasant lurch that his eyes were red and watery. “What is it?” she asked in the kindest tone she could manage.
Felix took a deep breath. “Tell Juliana to leave.”
Goose bumps broke out on Olive’s arms despite the heat. “What?”
“Just tell her to leave the theater. Please.”
Olive’s heart was pounding too fast. “Is she in trouble?” she whispered, thinking of Knuckles the ghost. “Wait—how do you know her?”
“She’s my sister.”
Olive stared at him. “Your sister,” she repeated. She could now see the resemblance so clearly—she felt foolish for having missed it before. “Why don’t you just talk to her yourself?”
“I’ve tried.” Felix’s voice broke a bit. “She won’t listen to me, but maybe she’ll listen to you. I can’t…” Pausing, he ducked his head. “Just try, please. Tell her to leave.”
“But why?” Olive asked insistently. “Can’t you at least tell me why?”
“Because this place isn’t what any of you think it is.” Felix gave the theater a contemptuous glance over his shoulder. “But you can’t see it.”
“What does that even mean?” Olive cried in exasperation. “It’s a theater—what else could it be?”
Felix grimaced. “I don’t know. I’d tell you if I did. All I know is when you look at this place, you don’t see the same thing I do.”
He slipped past her, heading down the stairs and toward the alley. Olive studied the granite columns, the glittering mural, the bright marquee. “What do you see?” she called after Felix. He turned around, his eyes traveling over the entrance before coming to rest on Olive.
“I see a theater too. But it’s horrible,” he said quietly. “Ugly and horrible and just…wrong.”
And with that, Felix disappeared into the alley, leaving Olive alone on the stairs. She walked slowly up the last few steps and entered the theater. The lobby was as magnificent as ever, with its white columns and shimmering chandeliers. Olive craned her neck to stare up at them as she headed toward the auditorium, remembering how she’d first thought they were covered in cobwebs instead of strands of crystals. She squinted, and they sparkled even more dazzlingly.
Olive pulled open the auditorium doors, vowing to put Felix out of her mind until she could talk to Juliana. Right now, Eidola was waiting for her.
Rehearsal was a weird and wonderful blur. Every time the spotlight hit her, Olive was transported—the hall, the seats, the stage, all seemed to melt away. She had heard of actors “losing themselves” in their performances, and she marveled at how true that statement was. But she was, at times, dimly aware that this was only a performance. It was like being trapped in a shiny bubble and getting the occasional warped glimpse of reality through the sheen.
After practicing the opening number, they moved on to the next act. Olive’s skin tingled with excitement. Maude had not explained the details of the acts besides Olive’s songs. It was intentional, she’d told Olive after yesterday’s rehearsal. Olive’s reaction of surprise and wonder to the invisible rope had been genuine, and now she could use that in her performance.
The first few chords of the reprise began, and when Olive sang, the boulder prop on which she and Astaire stood began to slide backward. Olive watched as a silver ring about the size of a dinner plate rolled out onto the stage…and then another…and another. The first ring curved around, and the others followed like a line of ducklings after their mother. Soon a dozen rings were spinning in a perfect circle in front of the boulder.
Tanisha strode out onto the stage and through the circle. Olive stared in amazement. Gone was the shy smile, the slightly hunched shoulders. This girl had the confident posture of a ballerina.
There was a flash of silver as Tanisha caught one of the rings around her ankle. With another quick dip, she scooped up a second ring and twirled it around her wrist. The circle of rings closed in on her with each one she grabbed up, and soon she was tossing them in the air while spinning others around her wrists, ankles, and neck. The rings flew higher and higher, flashing under the bright lights. One hovered briefly at Olive’s eye level, and she blinked—perhaps she was imagining it, but the ring seemed bigger. A few seconds later another ring sailed past, now the size of a tire.
Olive edged closer to Astaire as the rings swelled to the size of hula hoops, soaring up into the rafters before plummeting back down. Tanisha was a blur, spinning and ducking and catching and flinging the now-giant rings. At last, with a warrior-like cry, she flung one, two, three, all twelve in rapid succession, past the massive cocoon and high up into the rafters. For a second or two, Olive gaped at the darkness, wondering where they’d gone. Then there was a whoosh, and Olive screamed and ducked.
The giant silver rings fell one after the other around her and Astaire. Dumbfounded, Olive blinked a few times. The rings were floating. They hovered around the boulder, starting with the smallest at the top and moving down to the largest, creating a sort of staircase. Astaire held out his hand, and Olive took it tentatively. She touched her toe to the top ring and was amazed to find it perfectly sturdy. Together, she and Astaire descended the steps. The moment they reached the stage, there was a loud crack.
Astaire pulled Olive out of the way as the boulder split straight down the middle. The two halves slid apart to reveal Tanisha, standing calmly in the hollow center with a snow globe in each hand. She tossed them one after the other in the air, holding one hand behind her back while easily juggling with the other. After a few seconds, she switched hands, tossing a third globe into the mix. Back and forth went her hands, one juggling while the other pulled more globes seemingly out of thin air from behind her back, until dozens of globes flew overhead in an elaborate pattern.
In the orchestra pit, other sounds had begun creeping in to join the piano: an ominous low brass drone, a cello’s mournful countermelody, the tinkling of wind chimes, the trill of a flute. They crescendoed, the chords becoming increasingly dissonant, the notes huddling closer together as if they were afraid. But Olive was so captivated by Tanisha’s performance she didn’t notice the gradual swell of sound until—
Gong!
Olive shrieked, gripping Astaire’s cool hand when the auditorium momentarily went black. The mime squeezed back just as what looked like lightning flashed overhead. The stage lights returned, blue now instead of white. It took Olive a moment to register what she was seeing.
Tanisha spun, ducked, twisted, always catching each globe before it hit the ground. Only now…Olive squinted to be sure.
They were empty. Hollow glass globes soaring in a pattern that defied gravity.
No sooner had Olive wondered where the snow had gone than she felt something tickle her neck. She touched the spot, and her hand came away cold and wet. Another tiny something tickled her arm, then her cheek. Soon dozens, hundreds, thousands of snowflakes were falling across the stage, gently twirling in the wind created by Tanish
a’s ferocious juggling.
A minor arpeggio reached Olive’s ears—her cue—and she drew a deep breath. Then she glanced down into the orchestra pit and faltered. A pianist sat on the bench, fingers moving over the keys. An elderly man with a receding hairline and bib overalls—and a decided lack of solidness.
Olive gazed at the ghost, her mouth still hanging open. She’d only spotted glimpses and glimmers of ghosts before, but nothing like this…this person, this transparent-yet-very-real person, playing minor arpeggios as if it were a perfectly normal thing for a spirit of the deceased to do. He glanced up at Olive and smiled, lifting one hand to waggle his fingers in greeting. Olive stifled a cry—the hand had separated from his arm at the wrist. It scratched his head and brushed off his collar before rejoining its limb. Both hands fell heavily on a dark, dramatic chord…and stopped.
Astaire gently nudged Olive’s elbow, and her face went hot. She’d missed her cue. Instinctively, Olive looked out into the crowd for her mother’s sharp, disapproving gaze. Her knees started to wobble, and her stomach flipped over, and she felt with absolute certainty that the only thing left to do was to flee the stage before it was spattered with oatmeal.
But before she could take one shaky step, the pianist caught her eye and gave her an encouraging smile. His transparency flickered in an almost teasing way, as though daring her to really see him. His fingers began pressing the keys at a slower, more deliberate tempo, severed hands moving slightly out of sync with his arms.
Olive smiled back. Taking a deep breath, she sang.
The second number was more upbeat than the first, pushed along by a bouncy bass pulse and staccato sleigh bells. Though her voice trembled over the first few notes, Olive quickly recovered. She spread her arms wide and tilted her head back, snowflakes dotting her cheeks and sticking to her eyelashes. With a wicked grin, Tanisha began to hurl the globes at Astaire. He dodged each one with that same controlled sort of flailing as his tap dancing. Olive’s voice warbled again over the lyrics, but this time it was from trying to hold back laughter at Astaire’s expression of exaggerated mock terror.
Olive and the Backstage Ghost Page 6