“No-AH! No-AH! No-AH!” chanted Clive.
I turned around and grinned. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you very much.”
“We’re waiting, Noah,” Mia said.
I began:
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”
“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son,
“I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that I’m perfectly sure I have none,
Why, I do it again and again.”
The poem goes on from there—six more stanzas. In the end, Father William gets annoyed and tells his son,
“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,”
Said his father; “Don’t give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I’ll kick you downstairs!”
which, when I was little and my dad read it to me, I thought was the funniest thing in the world.
The Plattsfield-Winklebottom Memorial Sixth-Grade Players thought it was funny too, and I earned a big laugh. But as I was taking my bow (and Mia was saying, “Okay, Noah. You can sit down now”), something strange happened: A breath of cold wind blew through, ruffling papers, mussing hair, raising goose bumps.
We all looked at each other, and Mia said, “Close that door!” and Brianna said, “I don’t like this,” and Madeline said, “It’s a ghost.”
Even Coach Fig looked up. “What just happened?”
Nothing, apparently. Everything was soon as before, and Emma got up to recite, and we forgot the wind, and things went back to normal.
That’s what we thought anyway.
When everyone had recited, Mia led stretching exercises, and then it was 5:00 p.m. and time to go. Fig told us we were fan-tas-tic and—after Mia reminded him—handed out rehearsal schedules.
Clive and I were on our way up the aisle when Fig called us back. “Hey, guys? Do you know anything about turning on this light?” When we turned around, he was standing next to the light he meant—a plain bulb on a pole center stage. It was sort of like a floor lamp. “Mrs. Winklebottom said I was supposed to before I left, but I don’t see the switch,” he continued.
“That’s the ghost light,” Clive said.
“Oh yeah, I’ve heard of that,” I said.
Clive shoved me. “You have not.”
“So what is it?” Fig asked.
“Every theater has one,” Clive said. “Gillian told me. It keeps the ghost company when there’s no people around.”
“What ghost?” Fig asked.
“Whatever one happens to haunt this theater, I guess,” Clive said. “But I don’t know how to turn it on.”
Then something weird happened. As we watched, the bulb lit all on its own.
“Huh.” Fig shook his head and shrugged. “Must be on a timer or something. Anyway, see you Wednesday, guys.”
Clive and I walked out of the aud, down the steps, across the courtyard, and over to parent pickup together.
“Do you need a ride?” Clive asked me.
“My dad’ll be here in a few,” I said.
Some kids climbed on the late bus; the rest got into cars. Soon I was the only kid on the sidewalk. This didn’t make me nervous or anything. It was still plenty light, and I was in front of my very own school. Still, I jumped when I heard the voice. It seemed to come out of nowhere.
“Young man? I believe I might be able to help with Hamlet.”
CHAPTER THREE
There were three benches on the sidewalk by parent pickup. The voice belonged to a man sitting on the one closest to me. Had he been there when we came out of the auditorium? I hadn’t seen him.
He was an older guy, grandpa-age, energetic-looking. His face looked worn but at the same time ready to laugh. His hair was gray and stuck out from under an old-fashioned cloth hat, the kind men wore for work in the photos in your history textbook. His coat was old-fashioned, too, made of brown wool, not down like everyone else’s, and it buttoned up the front. On one of the lapels was a tiny gold Star of David pin. It glinted in the light, which is why I noticed it, I guess.
Whoever he was, he must’ve been Jewish, like me.
“You’re staring,” the man said.
“Sorry!” I said.
“I have some experience in the theater,” he went on. “Goes back a ways, but then, so does Hamlet. I understand Miss Magnus is unavailable this year, and I’m here to offer my services.”
I nodded. I was probably still staring. “You know Miss Magnus?”
“By reputation,” he said.
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I nodded again. “Uh… help would be great.”
Coach Fig hadn’t paid attention to a single recitation, had spent the whole afternoon on his phone. One time, still on the phone, he raised his voice and said, “Pink roses and day lilies,” like pink roses and day lilies were very important.
What did the P.E. teacher want with pink roses and day lilies?
Anyway, Fig might be a good guy, but he wouldn’t be much help with Hamlet.
“Excellent,” the man said. “As it happens, I have free time at present.” Out of his pocket he slid an iPad—I think it was an iPad—a tablet anyway, one with an eerie green glow. The man tapped the screen, glanced at it, looked at me. “I see that auditions are set for Wednesday?”
“That’s right… but, hey.” I glanced over his shoulder. “Is that the rehearsal schedule you’ve got there? Where did you find it?”
“Inside pocket,” he said.
Funny guy, I thought. “The thing is, Mr.—”
“Please call me Mike,” he said.
“Mike,” I repeated. “And my name’s—”
“Noah McNichol.”
“Yeah, but how did you—”
“The pleasure is mine,” he said.
“Very nice to meet you, too. But, anyway, even if it’s a great idea, you can’t just show up at our school and volunteer. You have to do paperwork and get clearances and—”
Mike looked puzzled. “Clearances?”
“To show you’re not a criminal? You have to go to the office and—” I was going to explain, but then, behind me, I heard a car, and I turned my head, and it was my dad.
“Oh, hey, Mike,” I said. “Nice talking, but my ride—” I looked back at the bench.
Mike was gone.
CHAPTER FOUR
The best things about Plattsfield are the subs at Sal’s mini-mart and the dumplings at this restaurant called Himalaya.
People don’t move to Plattsfield for subs or dumplings, though. They move here, if they do at all, because there are family-size houses with yards available for not much money, because the Adirondack Mountains are a few miles south, because there is a big shining lake surrounded by beaches and rocks and hiking trails, and if you want, you can stick a boat in the water and row to the other side and you will be in Vermont, where there are red barns and spotted cows and cheese.
My family moved to Plattsfield because the parentals got jobs at the college. My dad—his name is Larry—teaches physics, and my mom, Sarah, teaches English.
Plattsfield is okay, but I’ve never forgiven them for leaving New York City, which is where—as a total real-live theater geek—I was meant to be, walking on concrete with a view of the Statue of Liberty, glittering in the glare of bright lights, navigating among sandwich boards offering cheap bus tours and carts selling hot dogs and caramel nuts.
Only it didn’t work out that way.
The parentals rejected all that in favor of a house and zinnias and roomy parking lots with easy access to Target and Walmart and Hannaford.
My parents don’t even ski!
Which (after the subs and the dumplings) is another good reason to live in Plattsfield. Skiing is only an hour away in the mou
ntains. Clive and I go most weekends in winter. The parentals don’t have a boat on the lake, either, or a dog to frolic in the backyard. All either of them does, as far as I can tell, is work and take care of me and once in a while go to somebody else’s house for dinner.
I asked them about this once.
“We like working,” my mom said.
“It’s interesting,” my dad said.
For vacations we visit Florida (my dad’s relatives) or California (my mom’s).
There’s one other thing about Plattsfield, and that’s religion, the whole God question. Is God Christian? Is God Jewish? There’s this one girl, Fuli, who’s also a Sixth-Grade Player. Her family owns the restaurant that makes the dumplings, and I think she might belong to some totally different religion, but it would be rude to ask, wouldn’t it?
Anyway, most people in Plattsfield are Christian, and a lot—like Clive—go to Holy Redeemer, which is Catholic. I go there, too, sometimes, with Clive’s family, which my parents say helps round out my education. But we aren’t Christian at all, we’re Jewish, which for us means we celebrate Hanukkah and Passover and we go out for Chinese food on Christmas.
One time I asked my dad how come we don’t go to church or temple, either, and he said, “We do. We go to the Church of Family Dinner.”
(SCENE: Early evening, the same day. NOAH, DAD, and MOM are seated at the table in the dining room of a comfortable, un-fancy traditional house. The furnishings are simple, far from new, tasteful; framed museum posters hang on the walls. Through the doorway upstage left, the kitchen can be seen. A second doorway, downstage right, leads to the front hall. NOAH, DAD, and MOM are eating dinner as they talk.)
DAD (gangly, clean shaven, full head of graying hair): The man can’t have disappeared, Noah. People don’t disappear. It’s physically impossible. And I should know. I teach—
NOAH: Physics. I realize, Dad. But I’m telling you—
MOM (substantial, curly hair that needs a cut, amused eyes): Dear? Noah’s the only one who was there. Let him tell his story.
DAD: I’m only saying—
(MOM gives him a look.)
DAD: Fine. Sorry. Continue, Noah. The well-dressed gentleman, name of Mike, disappeared from the bench and then what?
NOAH: Then nothing. I got in the car with you, and we drove home.
MOM: Hmm, Noah. Your ending lacks something in the boffo department.
DAD: That’s because it’s real life, dear, not one of your English assignments.
NOAH: What’s “boffo?”
MOM: You know—Wham! Bang! Pow! Either everybody dies in a hail of bullets or the sun rises and kiss-kiss, the pastor pronounces them husband and wife.
NOAH: Ewww—mushy-gushy.
DAD: So what’s your hypothesis, Noah? Was the guy a specter or what?
MOM: Specter means—
NOAH: Specter means ghost, Mom. I know. I’ve been hanging around professors my whole life. And I haven’t formed a hypothesis, Dad. It was merely freaky how he seemed to come and go is all. Plus he knew my name. Plus he had this weird-looking green iPad.
MOM: He knew your name?
DAD: Probably a long-lost relative—like Hamlet’s ghost, returned to earth to seek revenge.
NOAH: Revenge for what?
DAD: That is the question.
MOM: No, it’s not. The question is “To be, or not to be?”
DAD: I defer to the English professor.
NOAH (looks at each parent): I’m lost.
MOM (looks at NOAH): I guess you haven’t read the script yet?
NOAH: They aren’t passing them out till tomorrow.
DAD: I believe it’s widely available on the Internet, possibly on our own bookshelves somewhere.
NOAH: Yeah, this girl Madeline already read it. But we’re doing the No-Trauma Drama edition.
DAD: No-Trauma… wha’?
MOM: It’s an abbreviated, less bloody version of Hamlet written for young people.
DAD: Someone dared to bowdlerize the Bard?
NOAH: Bowdlerize? Bard? Sheesh, parentals, what now?
MOM: A bard is a storyteller. It’s another way of saying Shakespeare. “Bowdlerize” means cut out the gruesome parts and the sexy parts.
DAD: Do that to Hamlet, and there’s not much left.
NOAH: There’s sex in Hamlet?
DAD: Read it and see.
MOM: Anyway, “To be, or not to be, that is the question” is the start of the most famous soliloquy in the play.
DAD: Do you know what a soliloquy is?
NOAH: No, and don’t tell me. “Boffo,” “bard,” and “bowdlerize” are plenty. Besides, since when are you a theater geek? I thought you hated theater.
DAD: I do not hate theater. I appreciate plays for what they are—entertainment. Just don’t fall in love with the whole idea of theater. And don’t, whatever you do, try to make a career of it. That will only lead… to heartbreak.
MOM (raises eyebrows, looks at DAD): For someone who’s not a theater fan, you can be quite a drama queen. You know that, right?
DAD: I was going for boffo!
NOAH: What’s for dessert?
CHAPTER FIVE
Tuesday, Rehearsal Week One, 45 Days till Performance
There was no rehearsal the next day after school. Instead, we were supposed to pick up our scripts, take them home, and study them.
Clive and I walked over to the aud with Fuli, the girl whose family makes the dumplings, the girl who’s unusual like me because she wasn’t born in Plattsfield. I came here in second grade. She came here in third. She was born in the country where you go to climb Mount Everest.
In the auditorium lobby, Mrs. Winklebottom was waiting for us behind a table piled with Hamlet scripts.
“Welcome! Welcome!” said Mrs. Winklebottom, whose dress that day was purple. “And may I say, it’s nice that this year we’ll have diversity in our production!”
At first I didn’t know what Mrs. Winklebottom was talking about, but then I realized she meant Fuli and Clive. Practically everybody in Plattsfield is white, but Clive’s dad is Black, from Jamaica. Mr. Desmond came here to pick apples a long time ago and wound up marrying his boss’s daughter.
“Uh, thanks,” Clive said.
“You know, don’t you, that color-blind casting is all the rage on Broadway,” Mrs. Winklebottom continued. “High time we in Plattsfield embrace it as well.”
I’m a white kid myself. Mostly I don’t think about that or what color Fuli’s skin is or Clive’s. I guess that’s what the parentals mean when they talk about white privilege. My privilege is not having to think about it.
Anyway, all this with Mrs. Winklebottom felt pretty awkward.
Fuli said, “Very good, Mrs. Winklebottom. I think we each sign this paper and take a script?”
“That’s right, my dear. And on the audition sheet here, write which part you’re trying out for. Of course, there are only two roles for females, Gertrude and Ophelia, both quite demanding. A lot of the girls will have to play boys. Which role were you thinking of? A gravedigger perhaps?”
“Hamlet,” Fuli said.
Mrs. Winklebottom laughed.
Fuli didn’t.
Mrs. Winklebottom’s penciled-on eyebrows shot up. “Well,” she said after a pause. “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with aiming high. Doesn’t Hamlet himself tell us to ‘defy augury’? And what about you two?” She looked at Clive and me.
I’d already told Clive I wanted to play Hamlet. But I wasn’t going to say that now. “I don’t actually know the play very well. I’m going to study it tonight.”
Clive didn’t answer her. He asked a question. “Where’s Coach Newton?”
“He’s interviewing a possible assistant,” Mrs. Winklebottom said. “I hope it works out. What with the wedding and his teaching duties, Coach does seem overtaxed!”
“Wait—Fig’s married already,” I said, which I knew because he went to Holy Redeemer, like Clive, and I’d seen him there.
Mrs. Winklebottom frowned. “Fig…?”
“Coach Newton, I mean.”
“Oh yes, Coach is married… to my stepsister’s second-cousin-in-law. Lovely girl, always turning out granola bars for some team or another. But this is someone else’s wedding entirely. I believe the happy couple is from Albany, or was it Binghamton? The big city. They’re getting married here because our scenery is so very lovely, and Coach Newton is doing the planning. Wedding planning is his ‘side gig,’ I think he calls it.”
Now I got it about the day lilies and the roses. They must be flowers for the wedding.
Clive and I had stuffed our scripts in our backpacks without looking. Fuli was paging through hers. I looked over her shoulder. Double-spaced. Large type. Not that long, luckily. Not that much to memorize.
The three of us said goodbye to Mrs. Winklebottom—“Adieu! Adieu!” she replied—pushed open the heavy doors, and went outside.
“Do you really want to play Hamlet?” I asked Fuli. “Or were you messing with Mrs. Winklebottom?”
“Which I could totally understand,” Clive said.
“I want to play Hamlet,” she said.
“So do I,” I said.
“May the best man win,” said Clive.
“Man?” Fuli repeated.
Clive shrugged. “The guy’s my best friend,” he said at the same time Madeline—well-known airhead and Shakespeare expert—came toward us on her way to get her script.
Madeline always looks distracted, like someone with earbuds in, except she doesn’t have earbuds in. I think she would have walked by without seeing us if Clive hadn’t stopped in front of her and said, “Greetings.”
“What?” She stopped, looked at Clive, looked at Fuli, looked at me. “Oh. Hi.”
“And what part do you want, Miss Overachiever?” Clive asked.
Madeline looked confused. “Miss…? Oh. Because I read the play, you mean.”
“It’s cool you read the play,” I said. “What’s it about, anyway? I mean, besides Hamlet.”
“It’s like The Lion King,” Madeline said. “Only the ending’s different, and it’s in a castle instead of the jungle.”
“Cool,” I said. “And I suppose you want to play Hamlet, too?”
Noah McNichol and the Backstage Ghost Page 2