by Ron C. Nieto
And just like that, our pompous professor laughed. “You seem to know a lot about our play, Mr. Brannagh,” he said.
“I know a bit about Wilde.”
“So I see. More than my precious literature students, methinks. But I must confess that I’m at a disadvantage, because I can’t claim to know ‘a bit’ about notation.”
“It’s not notation,” Keith replied, taking a step forward to point at something in the sheets of paper. “Here, I wrote the name of the notes so that they don’t have to be interpreted. The lines are tempo… ah, just the length of the sounds.”
“And I still can’t figure out how this piece of paper is supposed to sound. Why don’t you show us?” He motioned to his guitar and then to the rest of us. “The full group should premiere this piece. Then we’ll see what the majority thinks about its appropriateness.”
Keith bit his lip, his eyes scanning the silent crowd that stared at him with too much curiosity. He nodded after a long pause.
“Is there a sound system here?”
“Does it look like we have guitar amps around?”
Lena silenced Jack, a.k.a. the Big Mouthed Idiot, with a dirty look. Keith shrugged off the rude comment, though, as if he hadn’t even noticed the scorn behind the words.
“I just need a speaker with a jack.”
Professor Hedford motioned him over to the sound system, which wasn’t much beyond a mic and a couple old speakers. Keith nodded, unplugged the mic and plugged in… something small and red. Not an amp, like the ones you see on shows or TV. Just a small device with knobs and a LED screen. He played a bit with it, adjusting the dials, and only then did he connect his own guitar.
I’m not much for musical instruments, but I liked it the moment it was out of the gig bag and in his hands. Solid, rounded and compact, opposite to his own build, and lacquered in black, just like his nails. Not shiny new, but well cared for. It suited him.
“It’s a partial and still unpolished,” he said as an excuse, bending his head low.
Suddenly, a pick had appeared in his fingers and the guitar was playing. Those old speakers had become a concert hall.
The sound of his electric guitar blared, familiar and alien at the same time. I had heard it so many times before, but this time it was different. The sound wave didn’t have to travel through concrete walls to reach me. It enveloped me, hugged me… And, while I watched him, it pulled me under right into Lady Windermere’s house.
No one but Keith could have done what he did. It was incredible. I was listening and still I could not believe the kind of emotional strength he delivered.
I had thought, as I’m sure everyone else had, that Keith would show us the basic melody on guitar, so that it could later be arranged and played properly on a piano or something.
Not true.
His fingers danced, flew over the strings. And it might be a guitar, an electric guitar at that, but it sounded right. The key laid in the feeling. When he played, it was not just rhythm and harmony and whatever else musicians might use as their tools. It was feeling, and through it, he told us all a story.
At first, it was a tale of anxiety about the upcoming event. It was a birthday party; everyone who was anyone would be there, and it would be fabulous.
But then, just as we all started to smile, the notes faltered. They came muted, trembling. Just a few of them wavered in the air, almost unnoticeable among the fast string of their siblings… but it was there. The doubt. Suddenly, Lady Windermere remembered her husband, and his petition to invite a woman who might be his lover, and though she had felt secure and comfortable among her admirers, now she worried. Would he invite that woman himself, as he had threatened?
No more happiness for us. The longer the party lasted, the worse our insecurity became. Doubt began to edge toward certainty again—the certainty that he had dared to slight us so. Every time the door opened and a new guest was announced, the beginnings of fear would rise. Those who had been admiring us, congratulating us, vying to dance with us… they scared us too. No, not fear—rather, anguish. Were they here to witness our fall? Did they know what our husband planned to do?
And again, that sickening doubt. What had he planned to do, anyway? Lord Windermere had been so gentle, so loving, so perfect. A rock against the storm, a foundation stone, supporting us our whole lives. We loved him so, so much. How could that man betray us? It hurt, love and pain swirling and warring and—
And it stopped.
The last note hung in the air before Keith silenced the guitar, placing his hand over the strings.
I realized I was crying. Dabbing at my eyes, mortified, I heard Anna suck in a deep breath, and when I lifted my eyes again, Professor Hedford had taken off his glasses and listened to the silence with eyes closed and a beatific smile in place.
Keith bit his lower lip, waiting verdict. The professor stood up and took a couple steps toward him, staring him down. Then, he turned his back on him and looked at us. No one spoke, not even Jack.
“That, dear students, is what Lady Windermere is supposed to be like. Now, I have one challenge for every single one of you: Do you think you can act up to it?”
And we roared. We clapped each other on the back, laughed, and answered him with catcalls and screams.
Oh, yes. We will be up to the challenge.
Lady Windermere was no longer a character. Her words were no longer phrases to learn. She had become a feeling. We knew her. We just had to help the rest of the world understand her half as well as we did.
Mr. Hedford nodded with pride.
“We’re finished for the day, class. Think about who you are and rest well. Tomorrow, we’ll be marking the stage,” he said.
Marking the stage must be the worst part of being in the theater group. Boring and tiresome. It’s all about running around with duct tape, trying to figure out where to put the couches and tables and where each of us should stand while speaking. Somehow, though, no one complained.
I even looked forward to it, and that surprised me.
CHAPTER 5
When the time did come and we had to spend three horrid hours deciding what to put where, making lists and taking measures, my aching muscles looked back on that moment of anticipation and scoffed at it.
But if I had to be honest, it had been fun this time. Sort of, anyway.
“Hey, Mom,” I called out, closing the door when I arrived home and leaning back against it for a moment.
She abandoned diner preparations and peeked out of the kitchen, surprised. “You’re home early,” she said.
I hadn’t detoured to stare at nothing while listening to Keith; that’s why. I figured I had gotten to see him and hear him at school so… why risk the bushes?
“We finished a little early with the theater group,” I lied. “This year’s going to be a riot.”
“What was the play again?”
“Lady Windermere’s Fan.”
I had told her before, of course. Of course, she’d forgotten.
She frowned a bit. “Will the school council approve of that one? It’s all about scandal, if I remember it right.”
“Why does everyone but me know the damn play?”
“Language, Alice.”
“Sorry.” I sighed, dropping my bag on the kitchen table and plopping down to watch Mom preparing some weird Norwegian salad. “I have to stay after school tomorrow.” I tried to be as nonchalant as possible when I told her that one bit of news.
“Something happened?”
“No, not at all. It’s for the play. There’s this family who’s going to lend us the decor, and Professor Hedford asked us to go to their place and select the furniture. We were taking measurements and deciding that stuff today.”
“I can hardly believe he’d trust his pupils to do that! The man is such a perfectionist.”
I shrugged. “Well, he did give us a list in the end. And anyway, I think the owner in question will have something to say about what’s taken out of his ho
me, no?”
“Mmmhmm.” She made a non-committal sound while she cut a boiled egg in even slices. “Isn’t it a bit too soon to start worrying about decor? I would have thought that you’d do the rehearsing first and that you’d get ‘the real thing’ together just a week or two before opening day.”
It was true. The fancy stuff never got done this early on. We usually spent the semester rehearsing with jeans and whatever props we could find, including brooms and empty burlap bags. The fact that part of the decor would be moved in already was mind-boggling, but I waved it off. I wanted those settees and those low tables, and furthermore… I wanted Keith to be a fixture of our routine for the next week. Mr. Hedford wanted him to set up the sound, so he’d be hanging around, finding places for the cables and speakers, and showing us how the “original soundtrack” went along.
He’d have no reason to be there if not as sound tech, so I desperately wanted to start putting the stage together.
Rather, I wanted his music.
“Mom, is it a problem?” I asked when the silence stretched on for too long. Attack always was the best defense mechanism.
She looked uncomfortable, as I had hoped she would.
“No, honey, you know I want you to be with your friends and enjoy your theater group. I just found it odd.”
“So you thought I lied.”
“No. I was thinking that we know nothing about this house you’re supposed to visit tomorrow.”
“I won’t go alone, Mom. Anna and Dave and Lena will come for sure. And Lena will rope the guys from the football team to help move around the weight, so it’ll be an army of us!”
“Is that supposed to help your case?” In spite of the words, her eyes shone bright and a hint of a smile curled her lips. She knew the bunch of us together were more likely to cause some mischief, but she loved that I always came home laughing and breathless from those adventures.
I thought she did, anyway.
“There’s no fooling you, Sherlock. Of course we intend to wreak havoc, but I promise it’ll look like an accident and the cops won’t find a single clue.”
She grabbed the giant bowl of salad, still smirking. “I’ll hold you to that. Go and get your father, will you?”
I got up, stood outside the kitchen door, and bellowed, “Dad!” Then I sat back down with a smile, ignoring Mom’s disapproving look, and started to eat as fast as I could without losing my manners in the process.
I wanted to be done soon so I could call Anna to plan for tomorrow.
***
“I present you the master list!” Anna waved a piece of paper with a drawing of our stage, a few big squares drawn in it, and scribbled notes in the back that were illegible for anyone but her. I’d been her best friend since second grade and still could not decipher her handwriting.
“What we need is the address.” Dave shifted his weight, hopping from foot to foot uncomfortably. The temperature had fallen fast, autumn giving way to wintry days, and the cold had taken the three of us by surprise.
Yes, three. In the end, it was Anna, Dave and me. Even Ray had deserted us, saying there were better things to do on a Friday evening.
“Of course we do. Good thing I’m always ready.” She sighed to add more drama and produced another piece of paper with a flourish, this one written with the orderly capital letters of Mr. Hedford. She shoved it into Dave’s chest. “You’re the man. You get us there.”
He punched the address into his cell phone’s GPS without complaint and pointed down the road. Not typical manly, but effective.
“That way,” he said. “Just ten minutes or so.”
It turned out to be closer to half an hour. Not because we took any detour or got lost, but because the neighborhood was so huge that Dave had grossly miscalculated distances. “Walk one street up” is one thing in town, but another altogether when suddenly the block is one sprawling mansion with about a square mile of yard around it.
“So…” Dave said as we passed perfectly manicured lawns, “why are we getting this stuff now?”
“My mother asked the same thing,” I huffed. “Why can’t we rehearse surrounded by nice things, just for once? Since we don’t have to pay for rent time and all that.”
Anna nodded, but Dave looked far from convinced.
“I want to see how Lady Windermere’s drawing room is going to look too, but haven’t you wondered where we’re going to store it? We can’t leave it in place on stage.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “And why can’t we leave it prepared?” I countered, as if I had.
“Speeches. Meetings. Football pep talks. All that takes place in the auditorium, and they use the stage. A stage that can’t be cluttered with random Victorian crap, way too expensive for our high school to pay for if it’s broken,” Anna said, slowly.
Dave nodded. “My point.”
“If it’s so expensive, why are we borrowing it in the first place?” I wondered.
His answer was cut short by a beep on his phone. He checked the screen and pointed to the left. “That’s our stop,” he said, the doubts forgotten in the face of the elegant house.
Pathetic as it was, we stood for a good minute at the door, trying to decide who’d ring the bell. The whole neighborhood was grandiose, looking like an imported British residential area, right out of the past century, but this one mansion dwarfed the rest. It didn’t stand taller or bigger than the others, but it exuded an air of authenticity that made my jeans and denim jacket feel highly inadequate.
In the end, we got Dave to ring—him being a guy and a gentleman and all—and the bell echoed through the three floors, reverberating in large, empty spaces for seconds on end before the sound died.
“Creepy,” Anna whispered, and I had to agree.
I fully expected the door to be opened by a mummified butler with stiff looks and disdainful eyes to tell us that his Lord was not available for visits. Instead, a middle-aged woman appeared on the threshold. She had mousy-brown hair and wide eyes, which were, in turn, set widely on her face. Her smile was polite and welcoming as she took us in.
“You must have come on Mr. Hedford’s behalf,” she said, speaking with a perfect Oxford accent. “Come on in, my husband is waiting for you in the sitting room.”
“Which one of them?” Anna murmured as we entered the house under cover of the shield provided by Dave’s presence.
Quietly, the woman led us along a long corridor, wide enough for the three of us to walk abreast—scraping a bit against the paneled walls, granted, but no one wanted to be left behind. The ceilings hung so high over our heads that I don’t think I’d have reached to change a light bulb with the standard ladder of my own home, and the floor was covered in a thick-fitted carpet that muffled our steps and the creaking of the wooden planks below.
Our sponsor waited on the first room to the left, an airy sitting room with two small sofas, a glass table, and a balcony overlooking the garden. He was a middle-aged man, with dark hair that started to show hints of steel gray around the temples, and while he dressed casually, his “house clothes” looked more expensive than the average of what any given classmate of ours would wear to prom.
“Ah, welcome.” He had a kind smile, at least.
“Hello, Mr. Nightray.” Anna found her voice first and Dave and I could only nod. “My name’s Anna, and this is Alice and David, from the theatre group at St. Francis. I hope we’re not coming at a bad time?”
“No, not at all, my dear. I was waiting for you. Mr. Hedford announced your visit yesterday. I imagine you’re anxious to see what your stage will look like, correct?”
“We’re deeply engaged with this play, Mr. Nightray. I can’t stress how thankful we all are that you’re providing the furniture and props.” Anna smiled. The noisy, amusing girl from school was gone… but then again, while she was a bad liar, she was a great actress and she had this “nice girl persona” down to a “t” from attending her parents’ parties. I let her do the talking and stared at th
e room some more.
It oozed… class or riches or standing, I don’t know. Everything was delicate and antique and expensive, but it didn’t look like it had been bought or exposed to show off the family wealth. It looked unassuming, elegant, like it belonged right where it was.
Funnily enough, the result was more humbling that an overt display.
“This way, please,” Mr. Nightray said, pulling me from my musings.
Anna led us this time, Dave and I close behind her, and we went back to the corridor, up a flight of stairs so wide that the cheerleading team could have done their number on them without falling, and then through a set of double doors.
“Here it is,” he said, stepping aside to let us see, with a tinge of pride in his voice. “Lady Windermere’s drawing room.”
Muted gold and green upholstery. Heavy curtains. Mahogany shining deep and rich everywhere. A spider chandelier. It was nothing like our list, nothing like we’d discussed with the group.
But, it was perfect. “How are we going to fit all this on stage?” Dave muttered by my side, and I knew he felt the same way.
After all, he’d asked how to fit it, not what we’d leave behind.
CHAPTER 6
So, how did we fit it? Tightly.
Of course, we didn’t grab the stuff and lug it away to the school ourselves. In fact, I doubted the importance of our visit, as Hubert—that’s Mr. Nightray’s given name—just showed us the room that should be Lady Windermere’s and informed us that it’d arrive at school on Monday.
What he wanted to give us exceeded the list of Mr. Hedford’s about one to four, but the truth of the matter was that it looked perfect and no one found the heart to break the setting. Which brought us to Monday after school—to a crammed stage and a backstage that started to smell like sweat, stuffed with too many items and too many breakable things for any reasonable high school.
Most of the theater folk were there: Mr. Hedford, of course, directing the proceedings; Anna and Dave, who had roped Ray into volunteering some muscle; Lena and Jack, who had brought two mates of Jack’s. I didn’t even know them by name because they had brains on par with a mollusk. Then there was me. And Keith.
