“Where,” Mrs. Preiss said sharply. “Tell me where you’ve been.”
Olive’s spine stiffened. This was it—not the ideal circumstances, certainly, but the time had come for her to tell her mother the truth. And maybe there was a chance, however small, that she would finally be proud.
“I’m in a show.”
Her mother’s expression didn’t even flicker. “A show.”
“Yes.” Olive’s voice quaked a bit. “It’s called Eidola, and…I have the lead role.” When Mrs. Preiss didn’t respond, Olive continued. “It happened after I ran away from theater camp. It started raining and I went inside this theater, and the owner heard me singing and she…um, she asked me to be in her show.”
Tick. Tick. Tick. The clock hanging on the wall sounded louder in the silence after Olive finished. She swallowed and found that her mouth was dry. “It’s a really good show,” she added lamely. Her mother closed her eyes and exhaled sharply through her nostrils. For a moment, she looked and sounded so dragonlike that Olive half expected to see sparks.
“Try again,” Mrs. Preiss said through gritted teeth. “And this time, the truth.”
“It is the truth!” Olive exclaimed. “It’s Maude Devore’s theater. She used to be—”
“Olive,” her mother snapped. “Stop.”
Olive closed her mouth and clenched her fists. Mrs. Preiss stood slowly.
“Until you decide to tell me where you’ve been going, you’re not to leave this house. No checking the mail,” she said, louder now over Olive’s cry of protest. “No taking out the garbage, no visiting the coffee shop. I’m going to ask Mrs. Marino to look in on you while I’m gone during the day.”
Hot tears prickled Olive’s eyes. “But I’m in a show,” she whispered. “I know I should’ve told you, but—can’t you at least check the theater? It’s right by the Alcazar. Talk to Maude—she’ll tell you….” Her mother shook her head, and Olive swallowed hard. “Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because I’ve done my best to get you into countless school plays,” her mother snapped. “Musicals at the community center, acting lessons, that talent show at the synagogue last spring, summer theater camp. And it’s the same story every single time, Olive. You say you want to perform, I do everything I can to help you, and then when the time comes, you panic.”
“But I didn’t this time!” Olive cried. “I didn’t panic, I didn’t run away, and I didn’t mess up—I did well. And it’s because you weren’t there!”
She stopped, breathing hard. Her mother’s face contorted, but not with anger, as Olive had expected. In fact, this expression was so foreign to her features that it took Olive a moment to comprehend the emotion.
Pity.
“Stop living in a fantasy world, Olive,” Mrs. Preiss said at last. “We both know you couldn’t possibly be in a show. You’re simply not capable.”
Olive’s tears spilled over, and she made her way blindly out of her father’s study. She stumbled down the hall and into her bedroom, slamming her door so hard it would have shaken the pictures right off her walls if there were any left to shake.
The curtains were drawn in Olive’s bedroom all weekend, cocooning her in the dark. She ventured out only for meals, forcing down watery soup or lumpy oatmeal while avoiding eye contact with her mother, then returning to her bed. Nighttime was the worst because Olive couldn’t sleep. She dreamed with her eyes open instead, watching glass globes and aerialists soar across her ceiling through rings of fire, dancing with puppets come to life. And every so often, she thought her door cracked open, just a bit, to reveal a pair of eyes glinting at her from the blackness of the hall. But when she turned on her lamp, her door was always closed.
Olive plotted her escape.
She plotted, but she didn’t act. Because her mother watched her like a hawk. And also because the longer Olive was away from the theater, the more she lost her nerve. At Maudeville, Olive was the kind of girl who dared to chase her dreams. But trapped at home, her mother fright had returned, and she was meek once again.
Until Monday morning, when Olive found courage through fury.
The movers arrived before breakfast, thumping and bumping down the hall. Olive, who had been awake-dreaming about the juggling act again, briefly thought it was the sound of glass globes plopping onto the carpet. She blinked several times, imagining tiny grains of glass scratching behind her heavy lids. Then she shuffled to her door and peered out to see a short, thick-armed man back out of her father’s study carrying one end of his desk, the telescope case balanced on top.
“What are you doing?” Olive croaked, but he didn’t hear. The other end of the desk appeared, supported by another burly man. Next came a dolly stacked with boxes labeled BOOKS, then the empty bookshelf. The leather chair followed, along with the now-uncovered mirror, a sheet draped over the mover’s shoulder. Olive caught a glimpse of her own horrified reflection and retreated into her room.
Her mother was selling her father’s belongings.
His messy study, all that wonderful clutter, the maps and books and History Haunts Us coffee mug and shiny silver telescope. Gone. Now there would be no trace of Olive’s father in the penthouse, no reminder of his existence, no reason for Olive to search the stars for stories.
The hole Olive had stitched up in her chest began to itch and burn. Panic seized her, and soon she was flying about her room, pulling clothes from her closet and socks and underwear from her dresser, shoving them unceremoniously into her satchel. She slipped out of her room and crept slowly down the hall, sticking close to the wall. Olive heard Mrs. Preiss’s voice in the kitchen, and a rush of hot anger swept over her from head to toe.
The desk sat near the front door, boxes of books piled on top. Olive thought of the doorman downstairs, of the movers coming up and going down in the elevator. And without giving herself a chance to second-guess her plan, she opened the door on the right side of the desk and tucked herself inside.
It was a small space; Olive had to hug her knees with her satchel between her legs and her chest just to fit, and she couldn’t quite get the door to close without a knob on the inside. She held her breath as footsteps approached.
A mover kicked the door closed, and Olive’s hiding spot went black. She took shallow, shaky breaths, her head filled with the scent of wood and paper and, very faintly, her father’s cologne. Then the desk lurched, and she pressed herself against the back so she wouldn’t tumble out.
“Thing’s heavier than it looks,” she heard one of the movers mutter. The other just grunted in response.
And then they were bumping and thumping out of the penthouse. Olive did her best to track where they were; the movers set the desk down in the elevator, and she waited several minutes as they loaded the space with more of her father’s belongings. She felt the elevator descend, and it was several more long minutes during which they unloaded it, saving the desk for last. By the time Olive heard the beeps and honks of traffic, her left leg had a cramp and her backside ached. She chanced a peek outside, pushing the desk door open just a crack, and was surprised to find herself not on the street but in the mover’s truck.
Olive tensed, ready to scurry down the ramp before the movers noticed. But one appeared quite suddenly—he would have seen her for sure had it not been for the stack of boxes in his arms. With a gasp, Olive retreated and pulled her door as closed as possible. A moment later, there was a heavy scraping noise, and the door clicked shut.
Silence. The sounds of traffic were gone, somehow. No, Olive thought, straining to hear over her hammering heart. She could still hear the rush of cars, but it was muffled now. It wasn’t until Olive pushed on the door and found that it wouldn’t budge that she realized what had happened. The mover had pushed the stack of boxes right up against her father’s desk.
She was trapped.
Suddenly choking for air, Olive leaned against the door with all her might. She kicked and shoved and clawed at the wood that was pressing her in, an
d a scream for help bubbled up in her throat, but she swallowed it back.
Because if she screamed, the movers would find her. And they’d bring her back up to the penthouse. Here was Olive’s choice: life with her mother, or this temporary coffin.
So she closed her mouth and closed her eyes and pictured a great open stage and a spotlight. Soon Olive was only distantly aware of the thuds as the movers finished loading the truck. She barely stirred when the truck roared to life and pulled away from the curb. She hummed to herself as it drove through the city streets, her shoulders banging into the walls of her small tomb every time the truck made a sharp turn. Olive didn’t notice when the engine died and the truck sat still. Nor did she hear the muffled slam! slam! as the two movers exited. Hours passed with Olive curled up in a cramped little ball, and she didn’t notice at all.
A great screeching noise jarred Olive quite abruptly from her dream. She gasped and instinctively pushed at the walls before fully remembering her situation. Then she fell quiet, listening to the sound of things being unloaded around her. The desk lurched, and she squeezed her arms around her now-numb legs to keep her balance as it was carried down the ramp and set heavily on the ground. When the footsteps faded, Olive pushed the door open.
Reddish-orange light assaulted her corneas. Through the tears blurring her vision, Olive saw she was facing a small pawnshop. Her father’s leather chair and several boxes sat next to the entrance. Olive crept out of the desk, satchel over her shoulder, and nearly cried out at the sudden pins and needles she felt as the blood rushed through her legs. Gravel scraped her knees and palms as she crawled as fast as she could toward a nearby mailbox. It dawned on her that she’d forgotten to change out of her nightgown and slippers, and a mad giggle escaped her throat.
Safely hidden from the movers’ view, Olive assessed her surroundings. Next to the pawnshop was a bookstore, cozy and welcoming, with a twisty staircase leading up to a loft visible through the glass door. On the corner, a couple sat at a tiny table beneath an awning that read Doc’s Oyster House. Lifting a glass of wine to her lips, the woman glanced around. Her gaze fell on Olive, and her eyes widened in shock.
Bemused, Olive stared down at herself. Her knees were bleeding, her legs still quaked, and her nightgown must have caught on the desk, because there was a large rip in the bell sleeve. Tears and sweat coated her face, and she didn’t need a mirror to know that her hair was a tangled, frizzy mess.
The woman gestured at Olive, and the man turned to look. When he flagged a waiter, Olive realized she had to go.
She pulled herself to her feet, willing her legs to function and wincing as the pins and needles tripled. Someone—the waiter, she thought—called after her as she took off in the opposite direction.
Olive crept down one block after another, trying and failing to avoid the stares of strangers. Any minute, a policeman would spot her and take her home. She had to find Maudeville…but she had no idea where she was. The sky was that bright burst of red the sun bleeds before dying, and Olive’s panic increased with every passing second. Soon she would be alone in this monstrous kraken of a city at night.
Finally, she rounded a corner and spotted a familiar, stately building. The library! Her relief, however, was short-lived.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?”
Olive spun around to find a tall, thin woman looking down at her with kind eyes. Her lips pursed at the sight of Olive’s skinned, dirty hands.
“Do you need help?” she asked, and then, without waiting for a response, said, “Ah, I see a few policemen right down there. Here, we’ll just…”
But what they’d just do, Olive never heard. Because she was running toward the library as fast as her prickling legs would carry her.
She flew through the city like a ghost, wind whipping her nightgown around her bloody knees. She passed the library and increased her speed. Every time a car slowed down, her heart sped up. Every driver had her mother’s piercing eyes.
But the monster was on her side tonight, its adrenaline spiked, blood pumping faster through its veins. Sirens wailed in the distance as Olive sprinted down block after block. Green lights flashed red to keep traffic out of her way as she tore across the wide streets. Vendors and shoppers and even police officers were so distracted with their own matters they barely noticed her.
Olive only slowed her pace once she’d reached the theater district. A few strangers still glanced at her with curiosity or disapproval, but the city’s heart was always brimming with street performers and other odd types; a bedraggled child attracted much less attention here.
At the sight of Maudeville, Olive’s heart soared. She dashed up the steps and pushed on the double doors.
They didn’t budge.
Too out of breath to even cry out in frustration, Olive staggered backward and stared. Something small yet heavy sprouted in her stomach like a poisonous seed.
The theater looked…derelict. Letters hung askew on the marquee, and the glass covering the box office had a long, thick crack. Black scorch marks licked the mural, the tiny, jewel-like stones now a monotone gray. And the once-grand granite columns were chipped and crumbling, covered in layers of grime.
Setting her jaw, Olive marched up to the doors and pulled hard, hard, hard. Then she kicked the doors even harder and regretted it instantly. “Ow!”
“Well, that was pretty dumb. You’re wearing slippers.”
Olive whirled around. Felix leaned against the dumpster, and for some reason the sight of him tripled Olive’s anger.
“Why’s it closed up?” she demanded, gesturing at the stubborn doors. “Why’s it all…different?”
“What’s different?”
“Everything!” Olive yelled. “Maudeville! It’s—it’s ugly, it’s old! What happened?”
“That’s what it’s always looked like,” Felix replied, and the last lingering bit of Olive’s patience vanished.
“It did not!” she screamed, and then she was pounding on the doors with her fists and yelling as loud as she could. When a deep, rusted click sounded, she froze in surprise. Slowly, slowly, the doors swung open.
The lobby was empty.
“Don’t.” Felix was at the bottom of the staircase now, his dark eyes wide with fear. “Don’t go in there.”
“What about Juliana?” Olive stepped inside and turned to face him. “Your sister’s in here, and she’s perfectly safe.”
Felix shook his head vigorously. “She’s not safe, she’s—”
“So come find her!” Olive cried. “If you’re so worried about Juliana, why don’t you just come get her? Are you really so afraid of ghosts that you’d just abandon your own sister?”
Despite her anger, Olive regretted the words the moment they left her mouth. Because Felix didn’t look mad, or confused, or afraid. He looked wounded.
“I can’t go in. She throws me out whenever I try.”
Swallowing, Olive took another step into the lobby. “Look,” she told Felix shakily. “If you come with me, I’m sure—”
Before she could finish, the double doors between them swung closed with a bang. Olive jumped, her heartbeat mirroring the echo that bounced off the walls. Swallowing, she turned in a small circle.
“Hello?”
No answer. But the ghosts were here—they must be. It bothered Olive that she still couldn’t see them all.
She crossed the lobby quickly, her slippered feet barely making a sound. The doors to the auditorium were locked, and when Olive pressed her ear to them, it was silent as a tomb within.
“Monday,” she whispered. No rehearsal on Mondays, of course.
She padded over to the stairway, only to find those doors locked up just as tight. She knocked and knocked and called for Maude or Astaire, but no one came.
“They’re probably in the kitchen,” she assured herself, clutching her satchel closer. “They just can’t hear me.” Olive kept her eyes down as she spoke. Because the truth was, she could not bear to look around th
e lobby. It was too dark, too dingy. She did not want to see that the spider-silk-fine strands of crystals on the chandeliers now lacked any sparkle. She did not want to see the thick coating of dust that covered Maude’s portraits so that the only things visible were eyes and teeth. This was Olive’s home now, and it was beautiful. It had to be.
Forever and ever.
So Olive curled up on the floor in front of the auditorium, closed her eyes, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
She awoke in an unfamiliar bed with a ghost sewing her sleeve.
Stiff and still as a corpse, Olive attempted to blink the sleep from her eyes. There were three ghosts in total—all women, and all dressed in heavy-looking old-fashioned dresses, with their hair pinned back in buns. Charcoal-lined eyes and crimson-stained lips stood out vividly on their otherwise pale, transparent faces. The one who was mending Olive’s sleeve looked to be the youngest, her expression softer and more innocent than the others’. The one bandaging Olive’s knees seemed nervous, eyes darting around anxiously. And the one who was overseeing their progress appeared to be the oldest, though not old. Worry lines creased the skin near her eyes, but she smiled encouragingly and placed a hand on the nervous ghost’s shoulder. It passed straight through the girl, of course, but she relaxed a tiny bit nonetheless.
None of them spoke.
Olive watched them work in silence, not entirely convinced she was awake. She took in the details of her surroundings bit by bit: hard cot, a toilet and a sink, shelves lined with glass bottles giving off a vaguely astringent scent. An infirmary? But she wasn’t ill. Although her right foot had a dull ache, and her hands and knees itched painfully. And her mouth was dry, and her throat burned, and her bladder was too full, and her stomach felt simultaneously swollen and hollow, as if a giant bubble of emptiness was expanding inside her.
Olive and the Backstage Ghost Page 8