My own hands tremble. “Oh, Sonata! I’m so sorry.” I’m not sure what else to say. Anything I can think of seems horribly inadequate.
The nurse pops her head in the room, nods and smiles at Sonata, then pops out again just as quickly.
Sonata grimaces. “They check me every fifteen minutes, even when I’m trying to sleep.”
“I guess that’s good. They’re watching out for you.”
“Yeah.” Sonata rips a tissue out of the box and wipes her face. “How’s everyone else? Are they mad?”
“No, they’re upset. They miss you. We all do. The play is—”
“Canceled? Because of me?”
I nod. “Unless you think you’ll be better...” I let the thought dangle, unfinished. It’s a stupid idea.
She sighs and crumples the tissue in her fist, looking like she might cry again. “I’m so sorry, Briar. I hate that the play is canceled because of me. But please understand, I can’t think about school or anything else right now. It’s overwhelming. Even getting out of bed is a big step. I don’t know how I’m ever going to get back to Whitlock. I wish the play could go on, but not with me in it.”
“That’s fine,” I choke out.
We talk for a few more minutes before she has to leave for her first group therapy session. As I watch her shuffle down the hall, a shell of herself, I feel completely powerless. If only I could remind her of what’s fun about life, the theater, everything.
An uncomfortable thought nags at me. I could show her that life goes on, that the show goes on even if it seems impossible. Even if I have to perform onstage.
If anyone can save this play, it’s me. After all, I’ve been breathing Sonata’s lines for weeks, and the blocking is imprinted on my brain.
I text my cast, Ratna and George. Meet me on the set at noon. We have planning to do.
Then I phone Lorna.
Fifteen
On the set. Same day at lunchtime.
“We need to perform Wish Upon a Star for Sonata.” I pace the stage, letting the spotlights shine down on me, squinting at Ratna, Mica, Clayton and George in the front row of seats. “I’ve been to see her, and she’s upset about the play getting canceled. This is how we can help her—by performing the play for her, continuing on no matter how tough things get.”
“Sonata wants this?” Mica peers up at me.
“Yup—she said she wishes the play could go on, and I want us all to do that for her. Joseph has agreed to record our first performance so we can show Sonata what we did. I want it to be a message from all of us—a way to encourage her to get better.” I don’t mention that she was suicidal. Lorna knew, when I phoned her, but I doubt anyone else knows.
Mica nods thoughtfully.
“And you’re going to play Sylvia?” Ratna’s hand flies to her chest.
“I’m going to try.” I bite my lip, hoping I can overcome my jitters to do a decent job. It’s one thing to perform skits in drama class. It’s another to act in front of a packed house.
“If you’re acting, who’s going to direct?” Clayton gestures with his cast.
“Briar can do both.” George jumps onto the stage beside me. “Plenty of Hollywood directors star in their own films—”
“Sorry, George, but I can’t see how the play is working when I’m onstage.” I reach up to adjust my glasses, then realize they’re still at home. “I’m going to need help with the directing. Sort of a co-director, although we’ll still be using my vision for the play,” I say a little forcefully.
“But who—” George begins just as Lorna walks in.
“Sorry I’m late.” Lorna dumps her bag on a chair. “I had to get out of my afternoon classes.”
George grins. Mica and Clayton exchange startled looks.
Ratna claps her hands. “Briar, you’re brilliant.”
Backstage on opening night. Three minutes to curtain rise. A jazzy version of the song “When You Wish Upon a Star” can be heard. Beyond the curtains, the buzz of the audience grows louder.
There’s a sheen of sweat on Mica’s forehead. Clayton adjusts his pink bow tie for the hundredth time and fiddles with his sling. The air is electrified. My skin tingles.
I fight the urge to go to the washroom yet again, and I fuss with the loose stitches where I took in Sylvia’s zigzag-print dress and hemmed the bottom. I’m thinner and shorter than Sonata, with fewer curves in the right places, but enough of a contrast to work well with oversized Mica.
After a day and a half of frantic rehearsals, I’m terrified that I’ll embarrass myself. I doubt I’ll forget my lines, but the thought of all those eyes on me—probing me, evaluating me—turns my legs to jelly.
It’s only a one-act play, I remind myself. Twenty minutes at the most. You can survive that long. I hope.
I had to let Lorna direct me. Tolerate the subtle changes she made to the blocking. Bite my tongue and work with her. And she knew what she was doing. Even I had to admit that.
Now I have to trust that George will do his job during the play, trust that the lights and sound will come together, trust that Clayton will remember his lines and Mica will show the character’s emotions rather than his own.
“God, I can’t take this,” I whisper. “How does anyone do this?”
Mica squeezes my hand. Clayton does a quick moonwalk to entertain me—until he bumps into a prop box with a loud thud.
“Shhh.” I smile, and then we’re all giggling like kids at a sleepover.
“We’ll be awesome,” Clayton says.
“For Sonata.” Mica’s face goes serious.
I nod, jittery again. I peer out through a crack in the curtain to distract myself.
Samuel is in the front row, along with most of his cast. Aunt Darla is chatting loudly with a timid kid from grade nine. My parents are in the second-last row near the door—maybe they want a quick escape afterward. The rest of the audience is mostly students and teachers who have Whitlock Fringe Festival passes. Samuel’s play will run shortly after mine, and two other plays are happening now in other drama rooms. Fringe is a terrific event, and most of the school comes out to it. Too bad I’m too nervous to enjoy it.
I think about how the audience is reading our revised program, which now lists Lorna as co-director and me in the role of Sylvia. They’re reading our co-directors’ statement, which explains my vision for the play and includes these words: This performance is dedicated to Sonata Lopez. I got teary when I wrote it.
Lorna and Ratna are at the back of the theater, smiling and talking. George is with Joseph in the tech booth behind them. George’s hands flap at his sides as if he can’t keep them still. He’s wearing a headset to call the cues.
The house lights fade out. The music too. The stage grows dark.
In the weak lights backstage, I shoot a desperate look at Mica, who looks as nervous as I feel, and plunge into the semidarkness onstage, taking my first position. Sylvia’s sink is now aimed slightly toward the audience so that they can see my face.
The curtains swing back. The stage lights fade up.
A sudden panic wells inside me. I can’t do this! What was I thinking? I want my director frames back. I can’t face an audience without them.
Then I hear Lorna’s voice in my head. Look just above their heads when you gaze at the stars. That one direction grounds me.
I stand before a sink full of dirty dishes, staring out the window. It’s late evening. Martin, my husband, sits alone at the kitchen table, eating.
“‘The stars are out tonight,’” I begin.
Martin gnaws at his burnt steak.
Sixteen
Halfway through the play. Lights heat up the stage. The audience is cloaked in blackness.
The Star waits in the wings for his first cue. Martin sleeps in a kitchen chair, his feet up and his neck at an awkward angle. The remains of a midnight snack lie scattered across the table in front of him.
Find your light, Lorna had said. I step downstage into a spotlight pool
, grateful that the beam masks the audience, even though I can still hear them breathing, rustling programs, muffling coughs.
“‘Star light, star bright...’” I begin Sylvia’s wish, but I’m wishing too. Wishing that this play will make a difference to Sonata, wishing that I will survive four performances as Sylvia, wishing that I will return to directing as soon as possible, maybe in Mr. Ty’s workshop. “‘I wish I may, I wish I might, have the husband I wish tonight.’”
I squeeze my eyes shut, truly hoping that wishes can come true. I hold position for two beats before opening my eyes and looking dejectedly at Martin, whose snores make the audience laugh. I let my shoulders fall.
“‘I should have known.’” I project my voice to the back of the room, keeping a gloomy tone.
Then “Billie Jean” begins to play, and the glittery light effect comes on. I look startled, spinning to watch as the Star moonwalks to center stage.
A roar of laughter greets the Star, who grins.
I’m thrilled at the response, but I tuck the feeling away for later. “‘You’re...you’re glowing!’” I say to the Star as the music fades. “‘Who are you?’”
“‘I’m a Star.’” He does a little dance move, emphasizing his cast and sling. The audience laughs again.
“‘What happened to your arm?’”
“‘I fell.’” The Star shrugs.
More laughter.
“‘You heard my wish?’” I clasp my hands.
“‘We all did.’” The Star gestures at the sky outside. “‘But it was a little vague. I need a clear directive, you know? What do you want to...uh...change about your husband?’”
“‘Everything!’” I throw a disgusted look at Martin. “‘I wish for you to make him more attentive—he works too much. And can you make him funnier?’”
Martin lets out another snore, on cue.
“‘And the snoring? Can you get rid of that? Also, he talks with his mouth full—I hate that...’” My list gets longer.
The Star steps back. I pursue him, still talking.
“‘Whoa!’” he says. “‘One wish per night— that’s the deal.’”
“‘That’s hardly enough.’” I frown, pretending to ponder my options. “‘Okay. I wish he was romantic! He’s never—’”
“‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’” The Star taps one toe impatiently.
“‘Why wouldn’t it be?’”
The Star does a funky dance move, and the glittery light effect gets stronger.
“‘Done!’” he announces. Then he vanishes.
Martin wakes as if on command, sees me and begins walking seductively toward me. It’s hilarious, at least to the audience. It makes me a little uncomfortable, but I’m doing this for Sonata.
Martin serenades me by crooning old Elvis songs, and he tries to eat strawberries off my toes. After he composes bad poetry for me, I’ve had enough. Once Martin finally falls asleep, I’m at the window begging for the Star to undo the wish.
The Star appears with the usual glitter and music. “‘You again?’” He frowns. “‘Don’t you know that you get one wish a night? I need some cloud cover to get away from you!’”
“‘But I just want you to undo my old wish,’” I plead.
“‘Why should I?’”
“‘Because it wasn’t really what I wanted.’” I begin to sob—it took me a while to learn to cry on demand. Lorna suggested I mine my life for something sad. Picturing Sonata with a bottle of pills makes me teary every time. “‘Can I just have my husband back?’” I say to the Star. “‘This one is too...excitable.’”
The audience laughs on cue.
“‘This happens all the time.’” The Star rolls his eyes. “‘You humans wish for what you want, but it’s rarely what you need.’”
I think about Sonata, who needs the support of her friends.
Martin croons an Elvis song in his sleep.
I cringe. “‘Please, please, take back my wish,’” I beg the Star.
“‘Fine.’” He scowls.
The stage flashes with glittery lights. When it’s over, the Star has disappeared.
Martin wakes with a start. “‘Sylvia, I’ve had the strangest dream! There were strawberries and…’” He blinks at the half-empty bowl of berries. “‘What happened?’”
“‘Everything’s okay now, Martin.’” I kiss his cheek. “‘I have what I need.’”
Martin’s eyes find mine. He grips both my hands. “‘So do I.’”
There’s a long moment in which we embrace. The audience is dead quiet. Did we lose them?
The lights fade out. There’s a lengthy beat of silence. Then the applause is deafening.
The curtains close. I squeal and dive at Mica and Clayton in the semidarkness, barely missing Clayton’s cast as we hug one another, even though we’re a sweaty mess from the heat of the lights.
“I can’t wait until tomorrow night.” Mica beams.
“You can direct me any time.” Clayton fist-bumps me.
“But Lorna—”
“This was your baby,” Clayton says. “Don’t kid yourself.”
Then we’re all laughing. We pull it together long enough to do the curtain call.
Samuel starts the standing ovation and everyone follows, even my parents. We bow again and again until the applause finally ends.
I’m still flying high when Ratna hugs me. “You did it! You did it! You did it! Thanks for making my play so awesome! How could I ever doubt you?”
Samuel pats me on the back, grinning, and then takes off to prepare his cast. Darla kisses both my cheeks, raving about the magic of live theater.
“You were great, Briar,” Lorna says when she finds me.
“With a little help from my excellent co-director,” I say.
I’m pushing my way toward the tech booth—I have a recording to pick up from Joseph—when my parents stop me.
“Directing and acting—you’ve been busy.” Dad’s smile reaches his eyes.
“That’s my last acting gig,” I say. “I’ll be directing the next one.”
“I’m sure you’ll do a great job.” He nods.
“We can’t wait to see it,” Mom adds.
I don’t know if that means there’ll be fewer arguments about my directing, but at least they appreciated this show. Baby steps, I think.
Then I head to the tech booth to find Joseph.
Sonata’s hospital room. Late afternoon. The day after Fringe Festival. More flowers decorate her window ledge, soaking up the sun.
Sonata and I are squished onto her hospital bed, its head raised, with my laptop across our legs. We’re watching a performance of Wish Upon a Star, each with one earbud from my headphones to hear the dialogue. I got special permission from the nurses for the viewing.
“I can’t believe you pulled this together in under two days!” Sonata says after the curtain call. She’s lost weight, but her hair is washed and pulled up in a messy ballet bun. It’s a huge improvement.
“Yeah, we needed more time.” My director glasses slide down my nose, and I cringe to think of my own performance, although Mica and Clayton were pretty good.
“You did fine, Briar.” She puts a hand on mine. “Thanks.”
“For what?” I pretend to be oblivious.
“For keeping the play going when I couldn’t. You even worked with Lorna, which isn’t easy.”
“She’s not so bad.” I smile. “Although next time I’d cast differently for Sylvia. Maybe someone taller, more graceful, with long dark hair and a stronger stage presence?” I stare intently at her.
“Maybe you’ll find someone like that next year.” Her eyes dart away.
“I doubt it. She’ll probably be gone to university somewhere.”
“Maybe not.” Her hands skate over one another. “I may lose my grade-twelve year, and I don’t know what’s happening with university, so...”
“Whatever happens, at least you’re thinking about the future.” Just li
ke Darla, who’s moving to California with a friend she met at Finders Keepers. Apparently, they’re both disillusioned by the “corporate agenda,” so they’re going to the land of sun to set up a vegan hotdog cart, with a little starter money from my surprisingly supportive parents. “You’re a brilliant actor, Sonata,” I say.
“Well, I’m good at acting happy, but that only works for so long.”
“Mr. Ty thinks you’re a brilliant actor too. He admitted you into the exclusive acting workshop.”
“He did? Even though I’m not in school?”
“I guess he’s hoping you’ll come back. We all are.”
She shudders. “First I need to get out of here— go home. One step at a time.” She pauses. “Who got into the directing workshop?”
I grin. “Lorna, Samuel and me, as well as one other guy from grade eleven. I can’t wait to start.” Even if I have to work with Lorna again.
“Congrats. You’ve worked hard for it.” Sonata gives me a sincere smile.
“No kidding.” I pull out a copy of the playbill for Wish Upon a Star and hand it to her. “I also have this for you.”
She opens it to the dedication. “Oh, Briar.” Her eyes get misty.
“Check the back.” I flip it over. “It’s signed by all of us, as well as Lorna, Samuel, Mr. Ty and some other Fringe people.”
“Wow!” Sonata reads the notes scribbled in the margins and over the advertisement for the end-of-year musical—I wouldn’t mind directing that. “How were the other Fringe performances?”
“Would you like to see for yourself?”
“What? You mean—”
“I have them all here.” I open a new folder on my computer. “Which one first? How about Please, Mr. Bank Manager, Save My Mother?”
Sonata adjusts her earbud. “Perfect.” Her face brightens.
Empower your actors, Mr. Ty had suggested. I’m just grateful it works offstage as well.
We lean back against the hospital bed, knees up. The sun beams through the window like a spotlight, warming the room.
I click Play.
Acknowledgments
Cut the Lights Page 7
