Spark

by Holly Schindler

  “And Duds!” She’s on a roll now. “Same thing. Sure, Duds would provide costumes, but then, wouldn’t more people be passing by Duds, window-shopping at first, then going inside, deciding one of Vanessa’s old sixties-era jackets would be fun with a pair of their own jeans?

  “It would spiral out from there—those people who had bought instruments of their own at Ferguson’s, well, they’d get to be half-decent pickers. And they’d want a place to play on Friday nights. So we’d need a good watering hole. And with more people buying up vintage clothes from Duds, wouldn’t it make sense that a cleaner’s would go in next door, one that would do alterations?

  “A destination! Don’t you see? Because of the Avery, the square would become a hot spot again. Even Rosarita’s would wind up with a permanent sign!”

  She pants as though she’s crossed the finish line of a marathon as she places our plates on the small table. But she’s not the least bit exhausted—energized is more like it.

  “So! Rehearsals!” Mom shouts, trying to catch her breath. She stares at me expectantly.

  And now I don’t want to eat at all. She’s banking on Anything Goes being the thing that ignites enough interest to revive the entire town of Verona, and what have I done? I’ve changed the entire musical—new scenes, new dialogue. I should tell her. Now is the time to say something, because if all this fails, if it comes crashing down, I’ll be the one to blame for the death of not only the Avery but the whole town. I mean, what’ll happen when she shows up on opening night, and it’s nothing at all like the play she remembers? When she realizes I’ve taken her childhood memories and cut them apart, pasted them into a different picture? What will she think about that?

  But I’m a coward. The music, I think. The music hasn’t changed. Tell her about that. It’s safe.

  “Cass and Dylan are really amazing,” I say. Which is true. “So good, they’ve wound up inspiring the rest of the cast.”

  She grins. “See? What’d I tell you? People rise to the occasion. High expectations can be an incredible tool. Get everyone performing at their best.”

  “I love the title number,” I babble. “It’s really strong—Cass really puts her heart into the lyrics in the verse. And Dylan kind of pushes her forward, increasing the tempo sometimes, until the notes almost start to sound staccato—”

  “Mmm,” Mom says, understanding. “Grace notes.” And she grimaces. That’s what Nick called her when she met him at the train. Right then, I see her little-girl features, still there in her face. I see Dahlia—Trouble—who didn’t like to be seen as small, unimportant.

  She shakes it off, though, saying, “If the Avery comes back, and the square comes back, Potions will still matter. Maybe you won’t want a perfumery any more than I wanted Hattie’s. But because of its location, you’ll be able to carry on, make it into whatever you want it to be. You’ll have something of value.”

  Wow. As if the weight of the musical wasn’t already enough—save the theater, save the town—now Mom’s piling my financial future on top of it all. No wonder this thing’s so important to her.

  “You know, though,” I say quietly, “you don’t just inherit stuff.”

  She glances across the table, surprise washing her face. When the surprise lets go, I see a flash of satisfaction. I’ve pleased her.

  Without warning, night falls. I look through the window as the neon Avery sign ignites, throwing a shower of sparks high in the air. The marquee lights, too, casting a glow across the square, through the window, my plate, the side of Mom’s face.

  I can’t breathe. Mom’s staring right at the theater. I want to scream, It’s alive! Little Dahlia, the chaser of trains, don’t you see it? The Avery is back from the dead, looking like it did all those years ago. It’s not so far gone. . . .

  She only sighs. “Thought I saw headlights. But who would be driving down here at this time of day? Probably all my blabbering about what the square could be. Kind of getting ahead of myself, wasn’t I? Letting my imagination get the best of me.”

  She doesn’t see it?

  The yellow neon glow slowly vanishes from the side of her face. The Avery’s dark again.

  It has to be a sign. I have to find out what’s going on inside the Avery.

  Searching for any excuse to get out to investigate, I tell her, “I’ve got a lot of homework.”

  She waves her hand, shooing me away as she warns, “Don’t let rehearsals get in the way of your other classes. Don’t let those grades slip. . . .”

  But I’m moving too fast to hear the rest. I’m dropping my leftover lasagna serving in a refrigerator bowl and rinsing my plate.

  Mom’s still picking at her own dinner as I grab my backpack, shouting, “I just remembered. I promised to meet up—with Cass—to study. Won’t be late.” My feet are already on the stairs, and I’m running, running, straight to the alley behind the Avery.

  The door’s shut, but not locked.

  I push my way inside.

  Muffled voices bounce through the darkness.

  twenty-three

  It’s Cass and Dylan. I recognize their voices instantly. I press forward, afraid of the floor squeaking beneath my feet. Afraid to breathe and give myself away.

  I haven’t been invited. I’m eavesdropping. All in a single whoosh, I feel both guilty about it and glad to be witness to whatever’s happening. I need everything in here—my best friend. The theater. To find out what, exactly, my next step should be.

  I’ve got the feeling I’m walking a tightrope. It’s hard to swallow. I press forward, deeper into the darkness.

  A sudden burst of light pops behind my shoulder. I squat, hiding behind the nearest seat along the far side of the theater.

  It’s a spotlight. And Cass and Dylan are beneath it, both of them sitting in the center of the stage.

  I’m too close. The spotlight’s throwing too many strange shadows. I need to get to a safer spot. A spot where no light can show me snooping.

  I’ve never been in the balcony, but the stairs are close enough for me to sneak up. I decide to give it a shot.

  I put my weight on the bottom step; it creaks a little. Not dangerously, but like I’ve startled it. Like it’s never expected to feel footsteps again.

  The railing at the front of the balcony feels surprisingly sturdy. I take a seat, swallowing a yelp as I plop down on something hard. A pair of tiny binoculars. Opera glasses. Left behind after the last performance. And something soft beneath them—a handkerchief, maybe?

  I imagine a woman moved to tears, right here, in this very seat. Blown away by the power of the performances. I picture her so overcome, she staggers out of the theater, unable to think straight.

  What will be the response to our own performance? Polite applause? Or sneers?

  The opera glasses come in handy—as if left behind just for me to use. They bring me closer to Cass and Dylan, sitting in front of the old, toppled stairs. They’re both in full costume—and by “costume,” I don’t mean the old blue pillbox hat or the too-small jacket. I mean that Cass has no birthmark. I mean Dylan’s moving his mouth, gesturing animatedly, in a picture of complete confidence.

  I chuckle to myself. Dylan’s suddenly got more swagger than all the guys on the varsity football team combined. Maybe that’s always been his great fantasy—a touch of swagger to go along with perfectly polished words—the way other boys dream about fame or passing calculus or finally winning a smile from the prettiest girl in school.

  “I could pick you up, you know,” Cass is telling him.

  “It’s all right,” he says, shrugging. “It’d seem strange to see me without my bike. My folks would ask questions.”

  “How come you haven’t gotten your license?”

  He laughs. “Are you kidding? My stutter gets worse when I’m nervous. I can see myself trying to take a test. I’d turn into a regular jackhammer.”

  “You’re going to take it sometime, though, aren’t you?”

  “I’d rath
er stick with the bike till my age flips triple digits.” He shrugs. “I’ve got the bus when the weather’s bad.”

  “At least you can avoid drawing attention to yourself,” Cass offers, in a trust me, you’re better off than I am sort of way. “My splotchy red face is front and center everywhere I go.”

  “I can avoid—? Oh, man. It’s always there. Everyone pretends not to see me so they don’t have to talk to me. Teachers don’t call on me. Kids walk around me. People are afraid to say hi, because they know that it’ll take an hour and a half for me to get a hello out.”

  “People never look at me. They don’t talk to you, but they won’t look at me. It makes me feel like a ghost sometimes.”

  “So stupid,” Dylan says, shaking his head is disbelief. “It’s like not looking at a flower or a sunset or a painting.”

  “Don’t—” Cass shakes her head. “It’s a lot harder to look at me outside here. You know it is.”

  “No, it’s not.” Dylan says it so quietly, I almost miss it completely. “It’s especially not hard to look at you when you’re singing. That’s what I think, anyway. Every day we’re at rehearsals.”

  “Would you look at me in rehearsal, though, if it weren’t for our time in here?” Cass asks.

  “Would you have let me?” Dylan counters. “Or would me looking at you make you so uncomfortable you’d have to turn away?”

  When Cass doesn’t answer, he asks, “Would you have ever talked to me if it weren’t for our time in here?”

  “And would you have answered? Or would you have been too self-conscious about your stutter?”

  “I don’t know,” Dylan answers honestly.

  “You ever wonder why this—change—in both of us—only happens in here?” Cass finally asks. “Or why it even happens in here at all? I’d tell myself I was dreaming—or think I was completely losing it—if it weren’t for you.”

  Instead of answering, Dylan confesses, “I always wished I could go to a school for deaf kids. I wish I could pretend to be deaf, and use sign language the rest of my life.”

  “Wow,” Cass breathes. “Then I could go to a school for blind kids. And no one would ever be pretending not to look at me.”

  “Me deaf—you blind. What a couple of brave souls.”

  Their laughter clatters against the walls, bouncing away from the stage and then back at them again.

  “Still,” Cass says. “I wonder sometimes what it’ll be like when we leave Verona High. When I have to go to a campus where no one’s seen me, and every single time I hit the sidewalk, people will be giving me double takes. Or trying to pretend that the thing on my face doesn’t matter, which feels as bad as pretending it’s not there at all.”

  “And majoring in—”

  Cass takes a deep breath. Shakes her head. “Do you know?”

  “I want it to be music. But I couldn’t even teach music, not with—” He points at his throat. “I hate that the majors that make the world a beautiful place never do seem to translate into money. It’s horrible jobs that pay real salaries. You know—like data entry or teeth pulling.”

  Again, laughter.

  “We never would have gotten to know each other without this place,” Dylan says softly. “Maybe that’s why this happened—so we’d forget ourselves long enough to finally meet. I feel like that—like I’ve been so consumed with what everyone thinks about me that I’ve never actually met most people.”

  “Life would be better if it were a musical,” Cass insists. “You could sing yourself through the whole thing. Get good grades on your finals, and you could tap dance down the hallway. Get your finger slammed in a locker door, and you could belt out something really sad—sadder than a funeral dirge. It’d be nice to have applause now and then.”

  “What about when the guy gets the girl?” Dylan asks. “What’s that sound like?”

  When Cass doesn’t answer right off, he holds out his hand. “Maybe we should go find out.”

  They sit at the piano together; Dylan strikes a few chords, and Cass strings together a new melody line. They’re improvising, just as they improvised on the first day when Cass joined in on Dylan’s music from the Avery’s front step.

  Without a stutter, Dylan sings, too; their harmony is emotional, rhythmic. I start to sway.

  Until my phone vibrates.

  twenty-four

  The ring tone’s off, allowing for an enormous sigh of relief to mingle with the dust particles floating around my head. But I tense up again, wondering Who could possibly need me? as I scramble after the phone. When I check to see who’s called, I find that its screen has come alive and a new black-and-white scene is playing.

  I’m staring at the Avery of old. “OPENING NIGHT” is blazing across its marquee. It appears everyone in town is arriving—a bunch of round-fendered cars are fighting for parking spaces. Men in their finest pressed suits and women in gorgeous new hats are filing down the front walk, toward the entrance.

  Once inside, they find their seats; the entire theater buzzes with excitement as the orchestra tunes up.

  The lights fall.

  I can see him in the pit. Nick. He raises his hands, places them on the keys.

  This is it.

  I hold my breath. And keep holding.

  Emma misses her cue. She isn’t standing on the deck of the ship, beneath the stoplight. In fact, she isn’t on the stage at all.

  “Come on,” Nick whispers, as though hoping he can make her instantly appear. “Come on.”

  She bursts out, her feet clomping awkwardly across the deck. And pauses. The introductory measures of “All Through the Night” hit the air and die. The only part of her that moves is her mouth, but nothing’s coming out. She licks her lips repeatedly, in a way that says her mouth is as dry as clothes left out on the line in a windstorm.

  Now what?

  Her breath quickens as she stares out into the darkened theater. The introductory measures of her song hit the air a second time. The music falters as she stands frozen, her mouth clamped shut. The first line continues to elude her.

  Nervous rustling ripples up from the crowd—chairs squeaking. A cough.

  She cringes as though the spotlight has begun to burn.

  Emma—the valedictorian, successful at everything she’s ever put her mind to—is screwing up. As she’s never screwed up anything in her life. Whispers filter from the crowd, followed by a satisfied snicker. It sounds as though someone in the audience is announcing, Finally, finally, here’s something she can’t do. Little Miss Valedictorian—how smart does she feel now?

  “Don’t let them get to you,” Nick murmurs. “Just keep moving. Keep moving, keep moving.”

  From the pit, a few piano notes. The introductory measures of her song. The notes twist, bending into a strangely off, almost minor-sounding chord. A mistake, it seems at first. Only, that minor sound begins to bend, beneath the addition of other notes, into another chord.

  Nick’s reminding her, “I’ve got you. . . .”

  Emma squares her shoulders, juts her head forward. She nods—she’s heard him.

  She releases a few notes of her own, a few lyrics. The entire orchestra kicks in—but the piano sings out over all the rest of the instruments. His piano—Nick—is carrying her.

  Nick leans into the small light poised on top of the piano, allowing Emma to see him. Emma’s voice grows louder beneath his support. He presses the keys more forcefully, pushing her to belt her lyrics. You can do this, his chords insist. She believes him; the strength that was missing when she first appeared onstage washes across her face.

  The scene on my phone fades to black, then comes back to life again. Now I’m staring at the front of the Avery. The square is quiet. Summer fireflies pop on the green space near the front walk, dance over the pavement, bounce between cars toward the alley. And my screen is following them.

  The back door of the theater bursts open. Emma lurches into the moonlit alley, struggling to catch her breath. Nick follows clos
e behind.

  I can still hear the applause. It’s pouring out the open door. And Emma is laughing. “We did it.” She sighs with relief.

  Nick pushes the wisps of her hair back from her face and wraps her in his arms.

  Surprise washes across her face. Emma’s no longer staring at a magazine imagining what it must feel like to be held by a man; she’s actually in a man’s arms. Nick smiles broadly, relishing the trusting weight of Emma’s body pressing against him.

  Nick’s face lowers slowly. As their lips meet, a soft glow begins to emanate from the space around their heads.

  This is no mere spark, as I saw snap between them when they met. This is no mere soft glow on the distant horizon. As their kiss lingers, the entire sky above warms to a yellow-green hue. The stars grow closer, joining together above them.

  There’s something magical about this kiss. It’s no shy first kiss, not like the awful thing I shared with Matt Fredericks during the seventh-grade field trip. It’s the kiss that brightens the sky and shifts the night wind, blowing discarded candy wrappers and programs underfoot.

  “Emma!” George’s muffled voice shouts from somewhere deep inside the Avery. “Where are you?”

  Nick pulls his mouth away. Yellow-green swirls instantly fade from the night sky.

  A single tear trails down Emma’s cheek.

  “What is it?” Nick asks. “What’s the matter?”

  “It feels like everything’s already been plotted out for us. In two more weeks, the play closes. You’ll pack up your sheet music, step away from the Avery’s orchestra, and head to the train depot. By the end of the summer, I’ll be gone, too. Gone to college out east.”

  “But Emma—”

  “It doesn’t even feel like real life, somehow. You and me. It feels like a break from real life. Like—intermission. A little space between Act I and Act II, Childhood and Adulthood.”