Spark

by Holly Schindler

  I shiver as the pieces begin to slide into place. We’re in the wrong section of the country—too far south—to witness the aurora borealis. That’s what Bertie told Mom the night Nick and Emma died. The sky has power over us—the power to change the course of events. Bertie said that, too. And now we find out we’re in the wrong place for a dry thunderstorm.

  Everyone else accepts it, breathing relieved sighs. The crowd breaks apart. Crisis averted. They simply peel off their worry, like dirty clothes to be tossed aside. Car engines crank to life and begin to leave the lot.

  But the lightning was no freak accident. The sky is working its magic. Just like Bertie said it would. I was pushed into bed, into my dream, and hauled out of bed, then forced toward my window. I was supposed to see that last scene on the stage as it truly was, in graphic detail. I was supposed to see that lightning, too.

  Connect the dots, Quin. The voice sounds like it’s my own and coming from outside my head, all at the same time. Connect the dots. . . .

  thirty-two

  I’ve got to get to that auditorium. See it for myself.

  But I’m not the only one who feels that way. The entire student body shows up early; the parking lot’s so crammed, I have to circle it three times looking for a space. Cass is on my heels as we race inside, into the building that smells like a rained-on campfire, trying to wiggle through the crowded hallways.

  The biggest crowd of all is congregated in front of the auditorium doors, which have been roped off by yellow Caution tape.

  I’m not sure what to expect—that the entire auditorium will look like the bottom of a grill, maybe, with its gray charcoal smoldering. When I stick my head through the doorway, though, the seating is perfect. The walls are fine.

  The only visible damage is to the front of the theater, where a giant, gaping crater has appeared in the center of the stage, leaving splintered boards to stick out at crazy angles. The damage also makes the stage seem smaller somehow, more fragile—it looks like a bowl with toothpicks sticking out.

  The spotlight still apparently works, though. It shoots light straight down from the ceiling.

  Nearby voices begin to bark instructions. A rattle fills the air. I lean into the auditorium, my side pushing against the Caution tape. Contractors in hard hats and reflective vests are on the roof—visible because of the hole in the ceiling. They drape a tarp over the hole, and the spotlight dies.

  Of course it does. It’s not a spotlight at all, but the sun, streaming through the hole the lightning created.

  That lightning struck the stage like it was the bull’s-eye in a target practice.

  Everyone’s in their seat in Advanced Drama a good two minutes before the bell. We lean forward. We don’t blink. We stare at Mom, anxious to hear what she’s got to say.

  But she doesn’t move after the bell announces the start of class. Mom’s seated at her desk, under her “The Play’s the Thing” banner, staring out her window. Exhaustion and the harsh sun make her look every last one of her years.

  Unable to stand it any longer, Toby blurts, “Is there any way we can still do the show?”

  “Obviously not,” Kiki says. “Didn’t you see the way the fire department has the auditorium roped off?”

  “Well, yeah, now it’s roped off,” Toby argues. “But if they put the tarps up and there’s nothing wrong with the electrical system—is there a way to do it? We’re all sitting here right now. It’s not dangerous to be in the building. Why not take the ropes down, let us come in and do the musical?”

  “It really would be a shame for all that work to go to waste,” Liz says with a shake of her head. But she says it in the same way that a seven-year-old might feign sadness on learning they were allergic to vegetables. “I was so looking forward to seeing everyone in the audience wearing their vintage clothes. Still, you know, we probably would have gotten far more participation in the vintage clothes idea if it had been advertised on radio.” She shoots me a look. “But it would have been fun just the same. Everyone would have enjoyed that, I think.”

  I practically need ropes to tie my eyes down, the urge to roll them is so strong.

  Still, Mom stares through the window. Did she even hear us?

  The clock ticks. The red ball caps shuffle their feet.

  “Ms. Drewery?” Liz tries.

  Mom finally pulls her eyes away from the window.

  “We’re going to have to cancel? Right?” Liz asks. “We won’t be penalized for that, will we? We wouldn’t get bad grades for the senior project because we won’t be performing?”

  “It’s not our fault,” Kiki says, palms stretched out innocently. She smiles like a cat with a canary in her gut.

  Mom sighs heavily and stares at her hands as she flips a pen in her fingers, over and over again.

  “I still think we can do it. I got the sign fixed,” Toby insists, at the same moment he raises his hand. The other two red ball caps shake their heads at him as he says, “Come on! We just need one night.”

  “We can’t touch anything in the auditorium,” Mom finally mutters.

  Every head in the room turns toward her as she goes on, “Not before the insurance adjuster gets there. Then it has to be repaired—even though the damage was isolated, it’s still a bigger job than you’re assuming it is. The gym is too small. And the cafeteria—that’s out of the question. Which means we have nowhere to perform our musical.”

  We all hold our breath. Here it comes—the time to wave the white flag, throw in the towel, give up the ghost—and any other tried-and-true cliché that says the same thing: defeat.

  Mom’s words come out in a disjointed manner. “Too little too late.” “Tried valiantly.”

  But as she talks, my mind is spinning, faster even than those records Cass has for sale on consignment in Duds. The lightning bolt destroyed our stage. Strategically. Only one theater remains in the entire town of Verona.

  “Let’s do it in the Avery,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

  The class turns their surprised stares at me. But I really only feel two of them: Cass’s and Dylan’s.

  “You can’t be serious,” one of the red caps moans. “The Avery? We might as well do it in the parking lot. Or the city dump.”

  “Quin’s right,” Cass chimes in. “We should do it in the Avery.”

  She turns to offer me a thank-you grin laced with all the secrets she thinks she’s been keeping from me. She wants back in. To be transformed one more time. To feel as she does when she and Dylan are standing beside each other on the stage.

  But there’s so much more at stake here.

  We can’t shut this play down. We have to perform it. It has to be on the stage of the Avery. I have no idea how. Not with the rust-scabs on the doors and Kiki, who was unwelcome before, and the sparks that no one else on the square has seen—not Vanessa or the Fergusons or even Mom. What will the rest of the class see when they arrive at the Avery’s door? Dust and a toppled set and broken glass? Is that all? I’m terrified of what I’ve just suggested—and at the same time, completely sure it’s right. The skies are insisting on it.

  “The Avery,” Mom repeats. She wiggles her jaw back and forth, thinking. “I have to make a few calls. I’ll see what I can do.”

  thirty-three

  We hear nothing the rest of the day. There’s no word—nor am I even sure how word would come to us. Or what Mom’s finding out. Or who she’s calling.

  Until the intercom buzzes.

  My entire sixth-period English class turns their heads toward the old black box poised over the chalkboard. It’s happening in every classroom, I think. Every set of eyes turning toward the old intercom boxes. A buzzing intercom all on its own is usually pretty good at stealing a student body’s attention, but today, after the lightning strike, everyone’s been saying: “Hey! Aren’t you in drama? What about the musical?” Or “Tough break.” Or “Aren’t you lucky?”

  It’s been on everyone’s lips all day. Rumors have spread. Wron
g info and “I heards” and flat-out untruths have caught on—a different version after each class.

  Talk about drama.

  Now everyone’s turning their curious faces toward the intercom, wondering if this is it—the official word. It has to be, doesn’t it? The school day’s quickly rolling to a close.

  “If I could have your attention, please. . . .” It’s not the principal’s voice that crackles through the intercom—it’s Mom’s.

  “No need to dwell on the obvious,” she announces. “We all know the Verona High auditorium was struck by lightning last night. What you don’t know is that Advanced Drama is determined not to let it keep us from bringing you our production of Anything Goes. We mean to continue with our commitment to bringing attention to—and raising money for—the revival of the Avery Theater.

  “One of my students has smartly suggested that we transfer tonight’s show to the stage of the Avery. I have met today with two architects—parents of students here at our school—and the city building inspector, who’s also a proud Verona High parent. They unanimously agreed that while it’s looking worse for the wear, the Avery is, in fact, structurally sound. It poses no danger to the cast or audience. So the show will go on. At the Avery Theater, seven p.m.”

  Around me, the class erupts into mumbles of “You’ve got to be kidding” and “How’s that possible”—so much so that I almost miss Mom’s final message. “And, per instructions from the costume department, the audience is to show up in their finest vintage attire—whatever ‘vintage’ happens to mean to them. Cast members, listen up: Be at the theater no later than five thirty. Be prompt—and bring your best Anything Goes attitude.”

  My phone blows up the second the final bell rings. A flurry of texts pours in from everyone in Advanced Drama. And, surprisingly enough, the kids in choir. The art kids. And a couple of guys from the soccer team. All of them wanting to know what Mom’s thinking.

  Several of them want to know what I’m thinking. Because everyone in drama’s blabbed that the Avery idea’s mine. They’re all acting like I’ve officially lost it. Their collective reaction feels even stronger to me than the way the town had once responded to poor, crazy Bertie.

  When I don’t answer right away, the sender shoots another text, quickly followed by another. I walk down to the parking lot with my nose in my screen. It stays there as Cass drives us to the square.

  “What’re you telling everyone?” she asks.

  I sigh, lowering the phone into my lap. I know this is her own way of sending a text.

  “I haven’t replied yet,” I admit.

  “To anyone?”

  “Nope.”

  “But when you do, though. What’ll you say?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I mean—everybody in drama. We kind of need to know what we’re doing here. What’ll we do for costumes? They were in the auditorium. They’re full of smoke now, and we’re not allowed on the stage to get them, anyway. Quin? What’re we supposed to wear?”

  “Dunno.”

  “The set?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Quin! The Avery was your idea!”

  “I just—”

  As she pulls to a stop in front of Potions, her eyes are pleading. But I have no idea what to say. I have no way to calm her fears. We’ve never talked about any of this out loud—not the Avery. Not the way she looked inside. Not the way Dylan spoke. Not about the bond that’s been growing between them.

  I shrug. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “Quin!” she shouts over the putter of her VW engine.

  I pretend not to hear as I unlock the door to Potions and race upstairs. So far, this afternoon, the Avery has cooperated with my wild idea. There’s no rust on the door—at least, it let the inspectors and Mom inside. What if I mess up this whole thing? What if the Avery’s listening, and I suddenly say the wrong thing? What if everything that’s happening—this whole crazy, wild story—has brakes, like a train, and it could all come to a sudden, screaming stop right here?

  I toss my backpack on my bed, more panicked than I’ve ever been. I could actually hyperventilate—or have a stroke. What am I going to do now?

  I can hear the door swing. Mom’s home.

  And I need answers.

  Even as she steps into my room, I’m reaching into my backpack. I need Bertie’s journal. Her map. There has to be something—just one answer—in there somewhere. Something I missed the last time I looked at it.

  Maybe it would help make Mom remember something.

  Mom flops down on my bed. “What a day,” she sighs. “Quin, what in the world are we about to do?”

  I tug out Bertie’s journal, accidentally knocking out a yellowing envelope along with it. The one I found in George’s apartment. I never did open it—in fact, I’d forgotten I dropped it in my backpack in the first place.

  “It’s for you,” I say, holding it out to her. “Trouble” is scrawled across the aged front, in a man’s cursive writing.

  “No one’s called me that in— Where’d you get this?”

  “The Avery,” I say.

  “You were inside? How?”

  “I, well— A skeleton key lock’s easy to pick and—George’s apartment—upstairs,” I babble. I don’t care that I’m admitting it. In that instant, it doesn’t seem like dangerous territory anymore, not with Mom—not like talking about the Avery’s magic with Cass felt dangerous a moment before.

  “There’s money in here,” Mom says, tearing it open. And a letter—on similarly yellow paper. I’m already looking over her shoulder as she gently spreads it open:

  Little Trouble,

  You have always been my other girl. The one who loved my theater as much as I did. I watched you grow, and I missed having you around—sticking your nose where it didn’t belong. I’m giving you my precious Avery. You’re the one who’ll know what to do with it. After all, you’re the one who said you’d sell magic hats when you were grown. Hats that transformed the people wearing them. What is that, other than a costume? You, I’m certain, will be my helper even after I’m gone. The one who will ensure the magic of the theater will continue on.

  I’m also sending along Emma’s college money. We saved it—bit by bit, in an old glass jar, always with the best of intentions, dreaming of the chance she would get to spend it. She never got to use it. You should have it.

  I know you’ve always hated being little. I know you’ve never heard that word as I did—as a term of endearment. But Little Trouble, there are no small parts. And in my story, your part is the least small of them all. I believe in you, as much as I believed in my own Emma, and as I always believed in the magic of the theater.

  —George

  She scrambles to get back inside the envelope. “The deed,” Mom says, astounded. “The deed? And three thousand dollars,” she continues, quickly counting it. “Doesn’t sound like much now, but back then, it was huge. I’m sure it took forever to save that much. Emma had a scholarship, but she would have needed to buy books and clothes, and she’d have needed money to travel back and forth to visit her dad. I can’t believe this. I own it?”

  “There’s something else inside, Mom.”

  When she tugs the envelope back open, the item we see inside brings instant relief; the universe has come full circle. It’s a sign that, as Mom might say, all’s well that ends well. The cloth flower. The one I found on the balcony. The one she dropped the night of the accident. How it got in the envelope is the stuff of mystery, but I’m not questioning it. No more than I’d ever question any good turn of fortune.

  The moment Mom touches the flower, the front of the Avery explodes. A shower of sparks flies across the entire square. The night sky returns. The marquee comes to life, proclaiming in black letters and brilliant white light, ANYTHING GOES! Beneath the glow of nearby streetlights, graffiti disappears. Hedges are green. The grass is lush. The awning over the front walk blows in the breeze—instantly repaired.

&n
bsp; Mom trembles, pointing. “I can’t— Did you see—?”

  “Of course I did,” I say.

  She races outside; I’m on her heels, journal in hand.

  Halfway across the square, Bertie’s journal flops open. I watch as every last one of her handwritten words flies from the pages, straight up into the air. They hover, then slowly begin to blink over the patch of grass outside the Avery. Her words are fireflies, blinking and swarming feverishly.

  I take a few steps down the front walk, marveling at the sight of Bertie’s words. Just as quickly as they all fanned out, they congregate again, forming a ribbon that zips straight back to Bertie’s pages.

  I slam the journal shut, hug it to my chest. I don’t know what this means yet, but I glance up and down the square, half expecting Bertie to emerge. She doesn’t, though—and Mom’s already stepping through the entrance, which has been left wide open, like an invitation. I’m shaky, but race to catch up with her.

  Inside, the lobby is welcoming. The concession stand is full. The smell of butter wafts. As if freshly dusted, the chandeliers sparkle. On the opposite side of the large double doors, the rows of seats are plush. The velvet curtains have been drawn open, revealing a stage with a gleaming wooden floor. The Anything Goes set is artistic—and complete—and unbroken.

  Mom stands in the center aisle, mesmerized. I pass her, pointing to the rack on the side of the stage and shouting, “The costumes! Look! They’re here!

  “And the piano,” I go on, pointing toward the pit. “It looks new. This whole place is perfect.”

  “But I swear it wasn’t just earlier today,” Mom says tearfully. “When I was here with the inspectors.”

  Overwhelmed and confused, we turn toward each other and laugh.

  Relaxing my grip on Bertie’s journal, I glance down to find that my name is in dark letters on the cover—now it’s “Alberta” that’s barely visible under “Quin.”

  Standing on the stage, I open it and begin to read.

  The words in her journal now make perfect sense. They’ve rearranged themselves outside and no longer sound at all like the rantings of a madwoman. I see Dahlia in these pages. I feel her heartbreak—which Bertie witnessed and described after Emma died. I see a little girl who thought she broke her promises. I see, too, that Dahlia broke nothing. She saved it, all of it—this journal and the map and me. And here we are, nesting dolls a step apart, here for the same purpose. There’s no longer a need for a key.