“Fans?” I repeat, lowering myself into the seat with a shake of my head. “What are you talking about? I don’t have any—”
“Oh, yes, you do.” My lips purse as she rotates the computer monitor to face me. “It seems the interview you did earlier this week has become quite popular. It’s drawn a lot of attention to the theater.”
Something is definitely up. She’s watching me like a policeman who delivered case-cracking evidence to the prime suspect, but according to what she said. . .“That’s good news, right? I mean, that was the whole point, wasn’t it?”
Hellsworth pinches the bridge of her nose and closes her eyes.
I shift my weight and glance at Neal, who’s studying me. “What did I say?”
Neal sighs and the hand in his pocket moves, fiddling with something. Metal jingles, so it must be his car keys. “Well, it would be, except—”
“Except the singer deceived everyone!” Hellsworth explodes. “Including me.”
Wait, singer? Oh, God. Please tell me they don’t mean . . .
An incessant buzz radiates in my ears, and the tick of the clock on the wall sounds like a death march—counting down the seconds to my demise.
“You know,” Hellsworth tuts and rests her hands on the desk. “It’s the strangest thing. This mystery girl crops up out of the woodwork, claiming to be from my theater and yet, I have never heard of her. How is that possible?”
Her gaze strips the skin from my bones. Nails digging into the upholstery, I fumble for an adequate answer.
“M-maybe the radio made a mistake? Maybe they played a different audio during the rebroadcast?” Please God, tell me they made a mistake. There’s no way my voice is floating around the Internet. It has to be someone else. It has to.
Hellsworth hums, but the smirk dancing on her lips makes my breaths come in short gasps. “That’s a wonderful theory. Except for one little detail.”
She hits play and I brace myself as Grayson’s voice crackles through the speakers. “That was our own Adaline Davidson, who, if you can believe it—”
Click. The audio cuts off, plunging the room into silence. Hellsworth lets it hang there. Her eyes never leave mine, even as my skin crawls and my legs turn to lead. Air turns to fire in my lungs and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
After an eternity, she breaks the hold, and I flop back into the cushion, gulping oxygen. Damn her. But it’s going to take a lot more than a little staring contest for me to cave. I wait, running through my to-do list and going over the blueprint of the theater in my head, tallying up all the loose windows and possible avenues to sneak in. If she fires me, I’m not going down without a fight. The show will go on, even if I have to risk breaking and entering charges to get it there.
“Now,” Hellsworth’s voice shocks me back like a right hook to the jaw. Thoughts of possible jail time dissipate, though they’re not far off. I’m already a criminal made to grovel before a judge. “Neal has told me about your…hidden talents, having heard them for himself after a difficult rehearsal.” Her smooth and calm, tone, in spite of all my big talk, still makes me squirm.
“I, I can explain.”
Hellsworth waves her hand. “Of course, I told him he had to be mistaken, because you had insisted, multiple times, you couldn’t sing when we first started working together.”
Sawdust coats my mouth as I choke out, “Um, actually. . .”
What the hell am I doing?
“Thus far I’ve given you no reason to lie, Miss Davidson.”
“Ma’am, all due respect,” I cut in. “But I said I didn’t sing. Not that I couldn’t.”
Digging my own grave, apparently.
Her eyes flash as she slams her hands on the desk and stands so fast the chair rolls backward and slams against the wall.
“Now is not be a wise time to debate technicalities with me, Miss Davidson.”
“Gina.” Neal casts me a sympathetic glance and rests a palm on her shoulder, but she jerks away.
“This theater is dying. I have been working my ass off to ensure it doesn’t become demolished. If you think I’m going to tolerate such blatant insubordination to be thrown in the faces of my cast and crew after all the work we’ve put in these past few months—”
“But it wasn’t even me on the recording!” I shout. “Grayson made a mistake! I came in to get Catie to go over some talking points.” Oh God, where is my head? I’m lying straight through my teeth to the fucking Bitch of Broadway. To her face! And I don’t even know what I’m saying! Black spots blot out my vision and sourness churns my stomach. “And Grayson called my name to find out what we were doing. The mic must’ve been on and he said my name instead of the real singer’s.”
Hellsworth stops steaming long enough to growl out, “Who is it then? Because like it or not, she’s already sold out the first week’s run.”
My eyes bulge. “Sh-she has?”
“Yes,” Hellsworth hisses.
Holy fuck, now what? “Well, then, wouldn’t it be better to keep her identity a secret? You know, sort of a Cinderella type thing?” I’m searching for a needle in a haystack, but I don’t know what else to do. I need time, I need a chance to find a way out of this.
Hellsworth inhales through her nose before fixing me with a petulant look. Her next words are slow and deliberate, as if speaking to a five-year-old. “That was my plan. But sooner or later everyone will want to know who this mystery singer is. If we can't give them what they want, they'll come to opening night with pitchforks. And our theater will go up in flames because of you.”
She’s leaned as far as possible over the desk. I shrink back as spit sprays onto my cheeks and her minty breath momentarily overtakes my senses. “Um, it’s, um,” Oh, shit. What am I going to say?
“We’re waiting,” Hellsworth says in a singsong as her pointy-toed heel raps against the floor, every whack bringing me a step closer to my doom.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
Clasping my hands behind my back, I pinch the flesh of my wrist until a sharp pain breaks the cyclone of thoughts turning my mind into a disaster zone.
Think, Addie, think.
“Miss Davidson, if you value your career at all, I suggest—”
“It was Maddy!” I blurt out, flinging my hands up. Oh, fuck, what did I do? My eyes are wide and my chest heaves with ragged breaths as Hellsworth stares back at me for a beat too long, erupting in a croaky cackle. Neal raises a brow and fixes me with a long look.
“Adaline.”
“Miss Carmichael?” Hellsworth repeats “As in, the choreographer?” She shakes her head and crosses her arms. The tapping of her long nails against the flesh makes my skin crawl, though I’m not sure why. “Nice try, Miss Davidson. But it will take a lot more than that to fool me. Tell me the truth or else—”
“No, I swear it was her! She came back during the break to ask Grayson a question about the equipment and they started talking about the show. He asked what her favorite song was and when she sang a few bars, he accidentally hit the record button while trying to adjust a few settings.” I try to swallow, but the lie sticks in my throat like a lozenge inhaled during a climactic bridge.
Neal’s frown deepens and Hellsworth doesn’t lose her skeptical stance, but I’m not dead yet; that must count for something. Of course, who knows what Maddy’s going to do to me when she finds out I’ve thrown her straight into the giant’s lair.
“If that’s true, Miss Davidson—and it better be—why didn’t Miss Carmichael tell me herself?”
I clear my throat and wipe my sticky hands on my pants. Guilt coils in my stomach like a witch’s gnarled, boney fingers, but I’m in too deep to back out now. “Sh-she wanted it to stay a secret. She doesn’t like singing in front of people.”
Or at all, as far as I know. There’s a reason she’s a choreographer, after all.
“She thought she was singing alone and didn’t know it would go on the radio. I would’ve told you sooner but she begged me to keep
it a secret.” The words tumble out faster than I can process them and half the time I swear I’m speaking another language. Maybe this is what Catie means by word vomit. Flames dance up my cheeks the longer I babble and my stomach has wound tighter than the cogs keeping the stage curtains from plowing down the set every time they’re used.
When I stop and take a gulp of air, my chest aches. The unwavering sympathy in Neal’s gaze as my eyes flit between their faces makes my ears burn. My nonsensical ramblings play themselves back in my head and this time they come out in English.
It takes a second for the pieces to fall into place, but when they do, I swear I’m no more visible than the ghosts of the saints haunting Notre Dame. His lips twitch into a sad smile. He doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. Worse, he knows it was me. The story I spewed confirmed it.
Whoever said the best lies are made out of truths is a dick-headed bastard.
My chin trembles as my gaze bores into him. Please, I beg, don’t say anything.
His smile widens, and his eyes grow kinder, which, somehow, makes it worse. I won’t but you should.
I fight the urge to dry heave. He’s right. I know he is. But I also know there’s no way in hell I can tell the truth now.
As Hellsworth’s lips purse, my eyes drift to the ceiling. I wish we were in Oz and a house could fall on me. Surely crushed ribs and a fractured skull would feel better than this. I am a lot of things but, until now, I’ve never been a liar.
“Very well then,” she hums. “If things are as you say, find Miss Carmichael and bring her here. I want the whole story again, straight from the horse's mouth.”
I freeze. The room threatens to spin again and I gnash my teeth at the acid curdling in my throat.
Fuck. What am I gonna say?
Forcing a cough to dislodge the sticky web of lies I’ve spun, I choke out, “Um, well, you see . . .”
Speak, dumbass! But I can’t. My mind is blank.
“Now, Miss Davidson,” she intones, making me jump. “Unless, of course,” the Joker smile is back, accompanied by a venomous, hungry gleam in her eye, “you have something you wish to tell us?”
Neal’s features brighten and he offers me a barely visible nod as if to say, This is your chance.
I ignore the wolves gnawing on my insides. “N-no, ma’am.”
She snorts, but then waves at the door with a brisk click of her tongue. “We’ll be waiting.”
I nod and slink into the hall, my shoulders hunched up to my ears. Tossing one last, pitiful glance at the closed door, I curl my fingers into my palms and close my eyes, heading toward the studio.
Maddy slams her finger on the pause button of her iPod Nano and slides her neon green headphones down until they dangle around her neck. She shakes out her hair and slips the iPod into her back pocket, gawking the whole time. “Pause. Rewind.”
She mimes hitting buttons, and even adds a sound effect of a tape reversing. I stifle a laugh in spite of the circumstances. “You did what?”
The black hole taking up residence in my stomach rushes back with a whoosh. I grimace at her befuddled expression and scuff my feet along the polished wood of the studio. Thank goodness it’s empty. Sam called Catie away for another fitting. “I’m the worst, I know.”
“Ya think?” Maddy scoffs. “How could you go and throw me under the bus? She’s going to have my head on a platter. Not to mention yours. What in the name of Martha Graham were you thinking?”
“Who?”
Maddy scowls. “Choreographer, not important.” She grips my arms and spins me toward the door. “What is important is you marching your ass back in there and telling her the truth!”
“What?” I shriek, faltering as she thrusts me over the threshold. I face her and brace my hands on the doorframe. “But, but I can’t!”
Maddy rolls her eyes, already readjusting her headphones. “Why not?”
“Why not?” I shoot back. “Hello! I lied! To her face! She’ll kill me if I go back alone.”
She slides the speakers around her neck again, twirling the cord between her fingers. “Look, I love you, all right? But I need this job, Addie. I’m this close to covering the down payment on my own studio.” She pinches her thumb and forefinger together. Instantly, my bravado shrinks to the size of a worm.
I trace the grooves in the grain with my foot, watching the pattern. “I know,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” Maddy steps forward and puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay. Just tell her you freaked out. She’ll understand.”
“I’m sorry, have you met her? We call her Hellsworth for a reason, Mads. I’m dead.”
Maddy cringes. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
I exhale and sink into a cross-legged position on the floor, resting my chin in my hands. Maddy follows. “I don’t even know why I said it. I . . .she played that tape and I freaked. It seemed like there was no way out.”
“Why did you want one?” Maddy asks, spinning the circle control on her Nano. The whirring cuts through the quiet.
I groan. “It’s a long story.”
She shrugs. “I’ve got time. At least ’til Catie gets back.”
My tongue darts out to moisten my lips. I pick at a thread on my slacks. The thought of telling her almost makes me pass out. But after what I tried to convince her to do, I owe her. With a deep, shaky breath I speak.
I don’t know how long it takes me to get through everything. There are so many starts and stops as I try to rein in my emotions I lose count, and a few times a sob or two does escape. Maddy listens, never interrupting or interjecting, but nodding, humming, and gasping in all the right places. Once or twice she gets so steamed her face turns the color of a ripe tomato—mostly when I mention Grayson—but remains calm. When I finish, she stands, pulls me up, and then gives me a long hug, letting me decide when to pull back. Eventually I do and she speaks.
“Geez, Addie, that’s. . .” She trails off and shakes her head.
I nod. “That’s why this radio thing . . .it’s not just singing to me. I can’t, I’m used to being on stable ground again. I’m not ready to just dig it all up.”
Maddy nods. “No kidding. But what are you gonna do? I mean, I’d love to help, knowing what it means and all, but . . .” She winks and gives a short laugh. “We both know I’m no Aretha Franklin.”
I snicker. She has a point there. “True.” I cross my arms behind my back, my gaze drifting around the room. Maddy starts toying with her iPod, playing a track one of the extras made up during a long day. Hearing it again gives me an idea.
“Hey, Mads?”
“Yeah?”
“How’s your lip-syncing?”
She looks at me like a deer in the headlights, but even as I slip the Nano from her and shut the door (locking it twice) before hitting record, the void in my gut widens.
I’m such a coward.
“Okay, it’s ready,” Sam says.
Reluctantly, I put my phone down on a sewing table and step onto the fitting platform. Soft tulle slips over my frame, but I can't bring myself to fully appreciate it yet. Still nothing from Addie.
“Hello?” Sam waves a hand in front of my face. “Space cadet? Star Command to Catie. Come in, Catie.”
I blink. “What?”
Sam wags her finger. “Be careful with this one, got it? No more Houdini acts in my costumes.”
I laugh. “I promise.”
Sam hums as I turn to the side and inspect myself in the mirror. “I'm going to hold you to that.” She dangles a large bag of rhinestones in my face. “Because this is my last batch and I don't have time to order any more.”
I hold up my left hand. “Scout’s Honor.”
“Mm.”
I spin around a couple times and test out a few of the more flexible dance moves Maddy came up with. It’s even more beautiful than the bubble dress, if possible. Not as fancy, but something I would buy in a store if I could, and it’s perfect for Glinda's special night out. T
he dress is a coral cap sleeve cocktail silhouette made out of several layers of tulle with a magenta ribbon cinching the waist. Delicate light pink beads create a leafy line pattern in the shape of carnations.
“I'm sensing a theme here,” I say with a smirk.
Sam winks as she drapes the skirt around my thighs. “Your fondness for flowers inspired me.”
It stops above my knees, giving me plenty of freedom for the complicated Ozdust ballroom sequence while making me feel like I’m about to attend the swankiest party in town.
Once the dressers help me out of it, I drape it over my arm to carry it to the rack of completed costumes. Sam follows me.
“You know, your stalker act is getting kind of creepy.”
“Hey!” She scowls and I snort.
“Look,” I position the dress on a hanger. “I'm not even taking it out this time. The beads aren't going anywhere.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She waves a hand and shoos me away. “Get back to rehearsal.”
I smile on the way out, phone in hand. I can't help staring at it. Silence.
Studio D is empty, so I slide to the floor and do a few warm-up exercises. Soon enough, footsteps tip-tap down the hall and she’s standing in the doorway.
“Hey, slowpoke, what took you so long?” When she doesn't say anything, I look up. “Maddy?”
Her face is white as a sheet and her fingers tremble.
“Oh, no.” I scramble to my feet and take her hands. “What happened?”
It takes a while to pry the whole story out of her, but eventually, I understand. Or, at least, I pretend to. “Wait a minute. She asked you to lip-sync for her? And you agreed?”
Maddy nods.
“Why would you do that?” And, more importantly, why would she ask? I know Addie is upset with me for what happened at the interview, but I never imagined she would go to these kinds of lengths to avoid being on stage again.
Maddy chews her lower lip and brushes a strand of white-blond hair behind her ear. “I don’t really want to. She seemed so desperate. . .” She stops. “I wanted to help. I never thought Hellsworth would buy it.”
“Did she?”
Duet Rubato Page 27
