Stage Fright (Bit Parts)

by Scott, Michelle

  I numbly took the tray and began circulating through the crowd, willing my eyes away from the display on the wall. Although I kept my back to the pictures, I could feel the weight of them pressing down on me. When my shrimp puffs and I reached the farthest corner of the room, I took a deep breath, braced myself, and turned around. Immediately, Luquin’s horrible exhibit drew my unwilling eyes. This time when I saw it, I screamed.

  The display was more than a grid of pictures. When viewed all at once from a distance, the portraits formed an immense, photo mosaic. I was looking at a twenty foot by twenty foot picture of an exposed neck punctured by two, violently red, wounds.

  I screamed again. All the blood left my arms, and I dropped the tray. The shrimp puffs scattered across the polished, wooden floor. I broke into a cold sweat, and my gorge rose. Without a word to Elena, I sped from the gallery and into the bathroom.

  Chapter Five

  “What happened?” Elena, worried, stood next to me as I braced my hands on the bathroom sink and willed myself not to throw up.

  “I drank too much at the cast party last night, and when I saw those god-awful paintings, I felt sick, and…” My throat clenched as a wave of nausea battered me once more.

  Of course, my reaction had nothing to do with a hangover. Luquin’s acrylic-on-canvas nightmare had set off a nasty vibration in my head which had triggered another panic attack.

  The worried furrow remained between my sister’s eyes. After all, who screams because of a hangover? “Are you sure I shouldn’t be calling the Betty Ford Clinic?”

  I smiled tightly. “No, I’ve definitely sworn off alcohol.” I splashed cold water on my face and accepted the paper towel she handed me. “But I can’t go back in there.”

  She sighed and patted my back. “Okay, call Andrew to pick you up. I’ll manage on my own.”

  I struggled not to cry. “I can meet you at the church after you’re done and help unload the van. I’ll do the dishes, too. And you don’t have to pay me for tonight.”

  “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, I’ve got to serve some food.” She gave my shoulder a final pat and hurried out of the bathroom.

  I slammed my hands against the sink in frustration. God! Screaming, running away, hiding… If I didn’t tap into that blocked memory, I might be doomed to this for the rest of my life.

  I closed my eyes and envisioned my audition at the Cipher. I thought of my soaking wet dress, the chilly air conditioning, the man’s voice telling me to begin…but after that, the memories faded to black. The next thing I recalled was waking up on the couch. Like always, the locked door in my mind refused to budge.

  Unfortunately, trying to access the memories nearly triggered a second panic attack. Cold sweat drenched my t-shirt, and my knees trembled. I dug into my pocket for a tissue, but found Maggie’s pictures instead. As I studied the balloon-shaped cats, the calming energy slowed my heart rate, and evened out my breathing. I still couldn’t face the gallery, but at least I could leave the bathroom.

  I intended to call Andrew from the first-floor coffee house, but the sound of voices stopped me before I reached the elevator.

  “Everything’s quiet tonight.” My heart leapt at my midnight rescuer’s deep voice. I edged around the corner to get a glimpse of him. He stood as large and solid as a sequoia, frowning down at the flaming figure of Hedda who was half hidden by a potted fichus.

  “Good. Keep it that way.” Hedda lowered her voice so much that I had to strain to hear it. “I can’t have any interruptions during Luquin’s induction.”

  “You won’t,” he assured her. “Not unless any of your guests get out of hand.”

  “They’ll be fine, Isaiah.”

  “Does that include Victor?” When Hedda didn’t answer, he added, “Why would a Stuyvesant come all the way to Detroit? You and I both know it has nothing to do with a play.”

  “Victor is my concern.” Hedda’s voice seemed cold enough to burn the tips of my ears. “You’re to do as you’re told and leave everything else to me.”

  Isaiah’s tone was firm but respectful. “These rogues showed up after he did, you know. What if he’s the one who stirred up trouble at the Cipher last spring and came back to try it again?”

  The Cipher last spring? My pulse quickened as I edged further out for a better look.

  “I can help you if you tell me what’s going on,” my rescuer said.

  “I don’t need your help,” Hedda said. “Not with this.”

  Isaiah, however, didn’t back down. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But if I see signs of trouble, I’m going to take action with or without your consent. I don’t want a repeat of the Cipher.”

  “Nor do I,” Hedda agreed softly.

  It was the first time anyone had even hinted about trouble surrounding the Cipher Theater. Even Charles believed my fainting was the result of low blood sugar. These two knew a secret, maybe the same secret locked up behind the door in my mind. If anyone could help me access those memories, they could.

  Before facing them, I took a moment to gather my courage. I inhaled deeply, wiped my sweating face, and got a quick drink from the fountain between the bathrooms. Unfortunately, by the time I walked into the lobby, both of them had left. Hedda had returned to the gallery, and the elevator was descending towards the first floor.

  If I wanted answers, I’d have to be quick. Because Hedda was mobbed with admirers in the gallery, I went for the stairs. I raced down as swiftly as I could, but by the time I hit the ground floor, Isaiah was already halfway out the front door. Without stopping to catch my breath, I chased him into the freezing cold night.

  Unfortunately, his shuffling gait didn’t slow him down. Since one stride of his long legs equaled two of mine, I couldn’t keep pace. Halfway down the block, I lost sight of him.

  Shit! I turned in a circle, searching the sidewalk. Maybe he had ducked into a bar or a convenience store. Or perhaps he’d driven off in one of the cars parked along the curb. In any case, he was gone now. Frustrated, I turned back towards the Muse.

  A pair of hands grabbed my shoulders and yanked me into an alley. Before I could cry out, Isaiah pinned me against the brick wall. He raised his arm, ready to strike. Something flashed in his hand. My eyes widened in horror.

  Just as suddenly, he let me go and stepped back. The object in his hand disappeared like magic. He closed his eyes and blew out a breath. “Never follow me like that!”

  My heartbeat drummed in my ears. I put my hands to my chest. “What the hell? Are you with Special Forces or something?”

  “I thought you were someone else.”

  “Who? Charles Manson?” I eyed his jacket, wondering what his weapon was, and where he’d stashed it.

  “Did you have a reason for following me?” he asked in a gentler voice.

  I started to inquire about the Cipher, but then remembered the coffee shop in the galleria. Talking about my nightmare in a warm, well-lit room would be better than outside in the cold, dark alley. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

  He frowned. “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Well, steamed milk then. Or hot chocolate,” I said desperately.

  He shook his head and walked away. “Not tonight.”

  “Wait!” I chased him back onto the street. “I want to know about the Cipher Theater!”

  He stopped walking and turned around. “What do you know about the Cipher?”

  “Nothing,” I admitted. “That’s the problem.”

  His eyes held mine. “What’s your name?”

  “Cassandra Jaber. Cassie.”

  “Cassandra, do yourself a favor and forget about the Cipher.”

  He turned away again, but I put my hand on his shoulder. Under his jacket, his muscles were as hard as granite. When he turned towards me, I said, “I auditioned at the Cipher last spring, and I know that something bad – something really bad – happened to me there. But I can’t remember it. Ever since then, I’ve been having these panic attacks. Th
ey’re ruining my life. I can’t work, I can’t sleep...” I shook my head in despair and blinked back tears.

  A trace of pity entered his amazing eyes. “Let’s go get that coffee.”

  The coffee house was nearly empty. Isaiah paid for our drinks and brought them to a table in the corner. “Double espresso after dark? That’s living dangerously.” Now that we were inside, the tension had drained from his shoulders. However, his solemn expression sat so well on his face that I wondered if he ever smiled.

  “It’s only six thirty,” I said. “Besides, we actors live on the edge.” I clutched the cup with both hands, grateful to be warm again.

  “So you’re an actor. Is that why you were hanging with the Bleak Street cast at the Lamplighter last night?”

  Oh, crap. He did remember. I stammered out an apology, but he cut me off. “You have a terrific voice. Summer Nights never sounded so good.”

  My cheeks grew hot and I groaned, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

  Amusement kindled in his eyes. “Don’t be embarrassed. Your singing was better than the play.”

  I gave a startled laugh. “You actually saw County Dracula?”

  “I have season tickets to the Bleak Street. No offense, but the play…”

  “…was awful.” I finished the sentence, so he didn’t have to.

  He shook his head. “I was going to say weird. Could you explain why Lucy Seward and a scarecrow performed a square dance in slow motion while a sad clown played the harmonica?”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’d love to, but I have no idea.” The depressing part was that the square dance sequence hadn’t been the strangest part of the play. Not by a long shot.

  The corners of his lips twitched up. “The Bleak Street does show some unusual things. Did you see The Penguin, the Lemur, and the Cheerleader: an Apocalyptic Tale last year?”

  I snorted, almost spraying coffee through my nose. “I’m sad to say I missed that one.”

  “Count yourself lucky.” He sipped his chai. “What other plays have you worked on?”

  “Last year, I played Cordelia in King Lear at the Pinnacle.”

  He nodded. “Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides…”

  “…Who cover faults, at last shame them derides,” I finished, thrilled that he knew the play. “Did you see it?”

  “No.” He shrugged, embarrassed. “I did read the graphic novel, though.”

  I laughed. “Me, too.” It was one of the few comics in Andrew’s collection that I’d bothered with. “You should see the movie. It’s very good.”

  “Movies are for car chases and explosions. Theater is better for drama. Seeing it acted live makes it more intense.”

  “I agree!” I grinned like a fool but couldn’t help myself. Outside of Andrew, I had no one who shared my passion for theater. Although I wanted to debate themes and imagery in drama, most of my friends chatted about dating, celebrity gossip, and fashion trends. Isaiah’s interest in theater was as attractive as his broad shoulders and beautiful eyes. I wondered how I could ask for his phone number without looking too obvious.

  “Are you appearing in Julius Caesar?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “That show was cancelled. Next up is 16 Voices Talking at the Same Time.”

  “Victor Stuyvesant’s play,” Isaiah said grimly.

  “You know him?”

  “We’ve never been properly introduced. Which, from what I understand, is not a bad thing.”

  “It isn’t. Now that I’ve met him, I’m glad that I wasn’t asked to audition for his play.” I stared at my coffee cup. “Well, almost glad. I haven’t been onstage since, well, since… ” I took a deep breath. It was now or never. “… my audition at the Cipher.”

  Isaiah said nothing, but his hand tightened on his cup.

  I pushed my coffee aside. “I overheard you talking to Hedda in the lobby. You said that something happened at the Cipher last spring, and I need to know what it was.” When he still didn’t respond, I swallowed. “See, I kind of fainted during my audition. One minute, I was reading for Blanche Du Bois, and the next, I was waking up backstage.” Unexpectedly, the muscles in my neck tightened. I winced and rubbed them. “Everyone says it was low blood sugar, but I think – no, I know – that it was something else. Something very bad.”

  He swirled the tea in his cup and stared into it as if looking to read the leaves. “Did you audition with anyone else?”

  “No, it was just me.”

  “And when you woke up, were you alone, or was there someone with you?”

  “The stage manager was there.”

  “Anyone else? Any other actors?”

  “No.”

  “And afterwards, how did you feel?”

  “Maybe you should read me my Miranda rights before we continue this interrogation,” I said, annoyed.

  He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You’re the one who wanted to talk about the Cipher.”

  “Yes, because I want answers!”

  “You fainted on stage. That’s your answer.”

  I dropped my eyes. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Well, what do you think happened?”

  I bit my lower lip. It hadn’t been rape. I’d checked myself when I’d gotten home that day and hadn’t discovered any bruising or torn clothing or any other clues that made me think of forced sex. Still, I knew that I’d been violated.

  Finally, I shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea.”

  After several seconds, he said, “I wish I could help you. I know you’re upset.”

  “I’m not upset!” Then I realized that I’d been wrapping my hair around my finger so tightly that I’d cut off my circulation. My heart was racing, and I was dangerously close to tears. Although I wore a short-sleeved t-shirt, the coffee shop felt much too warm. Forcing air into my lungs, I unwound my hair and gave a shaky laugh. “It’s just that fainting on stage is a big deal for an actress,” I told him. “A career-killer if you must know.” I rubbed my damp palms on my jeans. “But the worst part is not knowing what happened to me.”

  A burst of cold air filled the room as a couple entered the coffee shop. I recognized them as a pair of reporters from the Muse.

  Isaiah noticed them as well. “Looks like Luquin’s show is over.”

  Which meant Elena would be packing up right now. “I need to get back,” I said. “But before I go, won’t you please tell me something about the Cipher. Anything!”

  His amber eyes once again held pity. “The Cipher is gone now. Try to put it behind you.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” I threw my empty coffee cup into the trash, and stormed out the door.

  I arrived in the Muse’s lobby just as Elena was pushing the elevator’s down button. Seeing me, she brightened. “Oh, good! You’re still here. Geoffrey’s practically shoving me out the door.”

  With my help, the two of us were able to take everything in one trip. Or so we thought until we reached the van.

  “Where are the tablecloths?” Elena asked after we’d loaded the last box. “I told you to grab them!”

  Actually, she hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to argue. Elena was tired and cranky, and she had the same stubborn look in her eye that my mother always got when she became tired and cranky. Over the years, my dad and I had discovered that – at times like these – it was better to give in to them than make a stand.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll go get them.”

  She sank onto the tailgate and slipped off a shoe. “Make it quick. My feet are killing me.”

  I hurried back into the building and over to the elevator where another woman in a sequined mask and a trench coat jabbed furiously at the UP button. We boarded the elevator together, and as it climbed, I realized that I knew this person. The sweep of long blond hair over her shoulders, the mask that had been liberated from the Bleak Street prop closet, and – most incriminating – the butterfly tattoo on her ankle.

  “Tabitha?”

  She lo
wered her mask and glowered at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was helping my sister cater an art opening.”

  She shrugged as if bored already.

  When the elevator continued to climb, I said, “You’re not going to the Muse, are you? I thought the event after the opening was private.”

  A secret smile touched her lips. “It’s by invitation only.” She pulled a white envelop from the pocket of her coat. “And I have an invitation.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Darryl’s not the only one to catch Hedda’s eye. She even promised to introduce me to the playwright Victor Stuyvesant. I’m going to be his date for the evening.”

  Maybe it was Geoffrey’s obvious dread, but something about the afterglow party set off my inner alarm bells. “Do you have any idea what this occasion is all about?”

  Tabby paled, but hung onto to her smug smile. “Of course I know. I’m not stupid.” She pulled her coat closer around her. “But I don’t care. After tonight, I’m heading for Broadway. Hedda got me a part in Wicked. I don’t even have to audition. The part is already mine.” She lifted her chin defiantly, but a slight tremor in her jaw gave her away.

  “You don’t need Hedda’s help to get a part.”

  “Don’t be so naive,” she said.

  Tabby’s poise only lasted until the elevator reached the top floor. Once the doors opened, she nervously licked her lips. “Are you staying for the party, too?” Her eyes looked hopeful, almost pleading.

  “No. I’m just picking up tablecloths.”

  She offered a shaky smile. “Oh. Well, then. No matter.”

  To my surprise, the lobby was dark and silent. The open elevator doors spilled a tunnel of light through the gloom. Beyond the lobby, in the cave-like interior of the gallery, yellow candlelight flickered. The smell of incense, dark and musty like spices left to rot under a fallen log, tickled my nose.

  Tabitha reached the gallery’s entrance and hesitated. “Sure you don’t want to come along?” When I shook my head, Tabby slipped into the next room.

  “You’re certainly welcome to join us if you’d like.” I yelped in surprise as a tall woman stepped out from a dark corner. Her silver toga contrasted with her light brown skin. Rows of tiny braids strung with colorful beads lay close to her scalp. A moon mask with a sharply pointed chin and a leering grin covered her face. “We could always use one more.”