by Eric Smith
And it’s not like I’m that particular or anything, just practical. Because every year it’s the same: a group of bands descends on the stage, full of demands and ignorance. Every year they come with their guitars and amps and drums and zero regard for the sets and props and history around the backstage area. How many backdrops have to be mended? How many couches, reserved for shows, are jumped on and crushed? How many props are casually thrown around by people who will probably never set foot back in the theater for an actual show? It’s as if their music matters and nothing else.
I’m not bitter, just annoyed. Okay, okay, maybe both. Because despite everything, I come back every year to handle this. Because who else will? No one else wants to deal with it. And I’d really rather my second home not succumb to the treachery of floppy-haired boys — especially since none of them ever look at me. Not one.
But this year will be different because Steven is here.
I look around again, hoping to catch a glance, but I haven’t seen him since sound check, when he showed me his guitar and I showed him my clipboard.
So here I am again, watching yet another band leave the stage and touch the black velvet curtains. I sigh into my headset.
“How’s it going down there, Lil?” Hailey asks from the light booth.
“Oh, you know,” I say. At least I have her and Sarah and Katrina, the other tech girls. At least they understand. The show usually runs fairly smoothly, but tonight has been intense. This drummer Beckett is in half the bands, which means those bands have to be spaced out so she has a second to breathe. The Greatest Place disappeared; then Mina asked to take their place last minute. Dane, one of the judges, disappeared and then reappeared. There was a fight, and I’m pretty sure the couple in Reckless Love — the band currently performing — broke up. In theater, we know to leave the drama for later, not for when we’re supposed to be 100 percent concentrating on what’s happening onstage. But apparently that’s not a thing with musicians — they dump out their emotions everywhere. “Why are they all like this?” I grumble.
“Hey, can you not —” I ask the guy running his hands over the curtains, but he doesn’t even turn his head. I sigh and look back at my clipboard.
“Big Talk, you’re on,” I say to the band waiting (thankfully) on my left. They don’t even look at me, just back and forth at one another, and come on. Are they . . . nervous? I know who they are; they’ve performed before. They’re good. And their lead singer is . . . Wait, where’s their lead singer? No. No, no, no, this isn’t happening.
They talk among themselves, and I can feel the heat rising in my face. You have one job — literally, you just need to perform. Why can’t bands get this right? Why is it so freaking hard?
“You’re. On,” I say again, louder, hoping they see how serious this is. Because the next band isn’t lined up yet, and I don’t want to have to stall again because someone decided to be dramatic and not show up. COME ON.
“Okay,” they say and walk onstage — with Jess, the lead singer’s girlfriend, but no lead singer — and oh my God, why is this happening? Just as I feel my face near exploding, they start playing with Jess at the mic, and I let my shoulders relax a bit. They’re . . . not great, but they’re playing, and at least I don’t have to rearrange the lineup. They’re making it happen, which I respect.
Maybe that’s the big secret of success — going out there and just making it happen.
I look around to see if Steven is here — if he’s witnessing this, too — but there’s still no sign of him. He’s up soon. Thankfully, the next act, Megan Talley, is waiting in the wings. I allow myself a second to breathe.
There’s a screech of the microphone, and I whip my head around, only to see the (former?) lead singer of Big Talk onstage trying to sing. He and Jess grabble for the microphone, and then, in the blink of an eye, he’s nearly on top of the judges’ table. Did he . . . fall off the stage? I look back up in time to catch the final chord hit and see Jess and the bassist making out.
WHAT IS GOING ON TONIGHT?
“Lil, are you seeing this?” Hailey asks into the headset.
“WHAT IS HAPPENING?” I answer. “Did they just kick out their lead singer and then start making out?”
“So badass.”
I silence my headset and seethe. Please, no more surprises tonight. Please.
“I have to follow that?”
I turn around, and Megan is applauding with the rest of the crowd.
I clear my throat and say, “You’ll be great.” Because she will be. She’s always great. She’s Megan Talley of get-every-lead-role fame.
“I hope,” she says, then adds with a smile, “Hey, you’re doing awesome. Thanks for taking care of our home.”
She’s also Megan Talley of incredibly-nice fame.
Big Talk walks offstage, and Jess and the bassist are holding hands, looking like they could fly away with happiness. God, I want that.
“Thanks,” I say. “And you’re on. Break a leg.”
Megan gives me a smile and walks onstage with this presence that asks for lights to shine on her. And I know she’s going to win. If not first, a runner-up. Because as jealous as I can be of her, she’s just that good.
She’s also a theater girl, so I can take a second to calm down. I know she won’t make this a nightmare for me.
An arm goes around my shoulders, and I stiffen, then jump when I realize it’s Steven.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
I almost cry when I see him; all the pent-up stress and anticipation and frustration with everything, it all feels like it wants to spill out. The very first time we talked, I was upset I didn’t get a role in The Sound of Music. It’s like he knew, because he just came up to me and started talking about our teacher’s shoes, of all things. Mr. Zagajewski’s bright green shoes. And I don’t know, after that, I felt like he knew how to make things better without even realizing he was helping.
“I’m alive,” I say, settling into my smile.
He pulls his arm away and says, “So, when you said you worked on the show, I didn’t realize you were practically in charge. You gotta brag about it.”
“I don’t do much . . .” I start, then say, “Okay, yeah, I’m basically in charge.”
He smiles, and I remember when he told me he’d signed up for the Battle. I knew I was stage-managing it from that moment. I really wanted to hear him play, and he never mentioned any gigs. He was always so closed off about it, but . . . I just knew he’d be good. His long fingers, his soft voice . . .
The Megans of the world always get the guys they want, but that hasn’t really happened to me. The guys I like always, well, fall for the Megans. But maybe . . . maybe tonight could be different. Maybe him being here, seeing me like this — basically running things while rocking my best backstage black shirt — maybe it’s finally my turn.
“I . . .” I start, but his eyes flick away toward the stage. His face drops, frozen; he looks like he’s seen someone come back from the dead, like he can’t believe what’s unfolding. I turn around, and it’s still Megan onstage, playing some radio hit. I turn back to him, but he’s no longer looking at me; his eyes are glued to the stage.
And just like that, I’m ignored again.
His face gets ashy, pale, and I ask, “Are you okay?” But nothing. At all. His bandmate, Ken, comes up, and they talk in hushed tones, so I take a few steps back. They’re mumbling and arguing and something is going on, something I want to fix because that’s my job as stage manager, and maybe I want to help him a little bit more. But I don’t think I can do anything here. Just wait.
When Megan’s done, I will myself to walk up to them.
“You’re up now,” I say, but they’re not paying attention to me at all. It’s like I’m not even here. After a beat, they both walk to the stage, determined. And my heart drops because, well, that was that.
Onstage he holds his guitar and . . . nothing. At all. Whatever’s going on in his head isn’t leavi
ng because he’s just standing there and the crowd starts to boo. My heart starts racing because what do I do? Is this another situation where I need to stall? Bring in backup again? I want to hug him, I want to be there for him, but I can’t just run onto the stage.
Just as I’m about to call Hailey, Megan, from front row center, gets the audience to start chanting. Megan makes him smile.
And so he plays. He plays so soulfully. Like the music is part of him and he’s slowly revealing it to us. It’s so perfectly him, quiet and earnest. His eyes are closed. He’s uncomfortable, scrunching his face and a bit jittery, but it only adds to how cute he looks up there. And with each note, his face relaxes, his shoulders fall, like this — like playing — is helping him get past something. I wish I knew what it was. But instead I signal the next band, Evelyn Nosebleed. I breathe deep. I wait.
As he plays, I think of Big Talk and how Jess sang with them and was so freaking brave. When was the last time I did something like that? When was the last time I was bold?
Never.
I play by the rules. I go onstage at the right time. I make sure everyone else does as well. I don’t complain when I don’t get the role I want.
I don’t touch the curtains.
So as Steven finishes, I feel myself being pushed toward him, wanting to touch him and tell him how well he played. Wanting to tell him how much he means to me, how much our talks mean to me. He waves to the audience. He’s going to come to me. I’m going to tell him I like him. I will do it. I will be bold.
But he turns. He exits the other side of the stage, and I can feel him leaving me. Because as I hold my breath, I see him there, talking to Megan.
Screw this.
I put my headset down on my stool. I walk past the guys from Raging Mice, who are definitely tossing around a lamp from Spring Awakening, and seriously, why would they think that’s okay? But I let it go. I keep walking until I’m off the backstage, down the hall, and out into the main lobby. I’m shaking, maybe from frustration or jealousy, or maybe from this. From leaving. This whole year, my whole past school life, is illuminated in front of me, sharply in focus. I obey the rules, never stepping a toe out of line. I follow through; I’m the leader. I hear the comments said behind my back, I see the eye rolls, I know the teacher’s-pet nicknames. But I never let it affect me. I’m dependable and ready . . . but for what? For this? For sitting around? For no reward, for life to just keep on going?
I want to jump on the stage, too.
The lobby is empty, save for Vincent in the ticket booth. He’s still there, for some reason; it’s not like anyone is still getting tickets. He seems about as dedicated to his job as I am, which is weird because he’s never helped out before. He’s usually walking around alone, with his headphones on. Why is he even here?
“HEY,” I practically yell into the ticket booth, jumping at the sound of my own voice in the desolate room.
“Uh . . . do you want a ticket?” he asks, looking at me curiously. “Show’s almost over. You can just go in.”
“What? No. This is my — never mind. Listen. I’ve been working backstage all night, and no one sees me. It’s like I’m invisible. No one listens to me, and I’m supposed to be in charge. And I’m . . . like . . . tired of it. So I want to do something. I want to do something beautiful and wild.”
I feel like we’re at a precipice and everything relies on what he says. The night will split into two multiverses right now: one in which I do something wild, and one in which I don’t. The question is, which multiverse will this me be in?
“Let’s do it.”
“Okay,” I breathe out, readying myself for . . . what? “Okay, let’s close up shop and go.” I reach inside the booth and flip the open sign to closed, and he eyes me dubiously. “What? I run this place.”
He shrugs and walks out. He’s hunched over in a hoodie, so I can’t really tell how much taller than me he is. An inch? A foot? He won’t look me in the eye but keeps looking back into the theater, as if someone is waiting for him.
“What’s your plan, anyway?” he asks, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
“I . . .” I start and then stop because . . . what is my plan? I haven’t thought past this moment and start feeling nervous from the pressure of dragging him into this. Evelyn Nosebleed’s music explodes in the theater.
Explode.
“Fireworks,” I say.
His head jerks up. “What did you say?”
“Fireworks. Last year this guy in drama lit fireworks onstage. Not big ones — like, small sparklers or whatever — but he lit them onstage for the end of a scene and it was A Thing because our director didn’t know about it, and, you know, he could have set the stage on fire.”
“So you wanna do that?” he slowly asks.
“I was the one who said it was irresponsible, that someone could have gotten hurt. Even though . . .”
“Even though you thought it was hella cool.”
“Yeah. Exactly,” I say quietly, remembering how horrible I felt vilifying Ben for something everyone thought was awesome — even me. But I had created my image, and my image said to follow the rules. And fireworks? Not part of the rules. It’s a tough box to be in, and I can feel it opening. “He was suspended.”
“Where’s he now?”
“Graduated,” I say. “My teacher confiscated the rest of the fireworks. And they’re still in her desk drawer.”
“And you know this how?”
I grin. Maybe this is my way of undoing what I said. “Sometimes being teacher’s pet pays off.”
“You and I are very different people.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “We are. Is that okay?”
He cocks his head to the side and looks at me for the first time. “Yeah. But, hey, before we go, give me a second.”
He runs back in the theater and a minute later he’s back. “Sorry, my, uh, sister is here. I wanted to . . . She’s with a friend now, so that’s cool. This girl who used to go to shows with us. I guess her sister is performing tonight.” It isn’t much, but how he says it — how relieved he seems when he mentions her having a friend to be with — something is there.
“Do you want to go back to her?” I ask tentatively.
He takes a second, then says, “No. No, let’s do it.”
“Then let’s go.” I grab his arm, run back through the lobby, down the hall, and backstage.
“I’ve, uh, never been back here,” he whispers, and I want to be like, Yeah, duh, but I don’t say that. The show’s still going; Sarah’s wearing my headset now. They have to be wondering where I went; they’re definitely pissed. You don’t mess with the tech girls. I feel that pang in my stomach, pulling me back. But . . . I don’t want to go. Because everything looks fine. The bands are playing, the show is going on. They don’t need me right now.
I lead Vincent around the backstage, through old set pieces and the pulleys for the rig system, past the flight of stairs that leads to the prop closet, and over to the stagecraft room. Once inside, we walk past all the paint-splattered wooden tables and paint cans to another door that leads to the drama teacher’s office. I pull out my key.
“You have a key?” he asks.
“Of course I do.” I know Ms. Weisman won’t miss the fireworks; she probably doesn’t even remember having them. She asked me to clean out the office last week; who knows, I might have thrown them away back then. But why didn’t I throw them away back then? Well, because. I wanted to preserve the memory.
Inside the office, Vincent looks around while I go straight to the desk and pull out the handful of sparklers and fireworks.
“Voilà!” I say proudly.
“Okay, wow, you weren’t kidding.”
“Cool, right?”
“Extremely,” he says, taking one and examining it. “I’m still kind of thrown that you’re doing this.”
“So am I. I’m just . . .”
“Tired?”
“Exhausted,” I agree.
“Yeah, me too,” he says, scuffing his shoes on the floor. “I thought I’d do this — you know, selling tickets — to be part of something. And impress my sister. But, uh . . .”
“You sequestered yourself inside a ticket booth.”
“Yep.”
“But . . . I guess it worked, right? I mean, your sister came . . .”
“Yeah,” he says with a smile. And I feel it.
“I originally did theater to have a voice. I was really shy and thought if I forced myself to be someone else in front of people, I’d open up.”
“Did it work?”
“Kind of. I guess I’m not as shy anymore — obviously — but I think I keep playing roles instead of playing myself.”
“So who are you right now?”
“I don’t know? Probably not me, but far from what I have been, and that’s cool. Maybe doing the two extremes will make me find the happy medium.”
“So your happy medium is a thief who keeps people in check.”
“What every girl aspires to be.”
He laughs and I smile and we stand like that, looking at each other, realizing that we really have no clue who the other is.
“Okay,” I say. “I guess let’s do this.”
“Let’s do this,” he says.
We walk through the classroom and return backstage.
“Where are we . . . doing this anyway? What’s the plan?” Vincent whispers.
“I have no clue,” I admit. We’re standing in the shadows, only visible if you really look, and of course no one is. There’s a lot of noise backstage and in the audience, but there’s no one onstage. I look at my phone and realize the time — it’s the end of the show. Everyone is waiting to see who won.
I look up and a glimmer of gold catches my eye. Fairy dust.
I walk behind Vincent and slowly untie the rope knotted around a hook on the wall. “Last year we did Peter Pan. We made Peter fly by using our fly system. Toward the end, when you have to clap to make Tinker Bell live, we released fairy dust onto the stage and it was, you know, exciting. It was rigged onto the fly system. We can tie the sparklers onto the fly system, then lower them during the announcement of the winner.”
