by Anna Davies
He was Hamlet’s Ghost.
“Kennedy?” I heard Mr. O’Dell’s voice from below my perch in the loft.
I squeezed myself in between the rows of costumes, getting lost in lace and tulle. My heart thumped against my chest so loudly I was sure Mr. O’Dell could hear it. He had poisoned Kennedy. It was so clear. And if I went onstage, he’d poison me, too. Unless I did something. Fast. But all I could do was stand rooted to my spot, watching him.
“What’s wrong with her?” he asked, as his gaze fell on her prone form on the couch.
“She doesn’t feel good,” Leah Banks said importantly. “I’ve been telling her to drink water, but she won’t.”
Mr. O’Dell’s eyes narrowed as Kennedy writhed on the couch.
“What did you do?” he demanded.
“Nothing! Well, I drank a sip of the prop juice because I wanted to make sure it tasted gluten-free. They got the wrong kind last time. And if I have to drink a whole glass later … well, I wanted to make sure it was right.”
“You drank the prop wine?” Mr. O’Dell asked.
Kennedy nodded before turning over and heaving onto the concrete floor. The small group of kids surrounding her groaned and jumped away, but Mr. O’Dell stood rooted in his spot, his arms crossed and his expression darkening.
“All right, Plan B. Make sure Briana Beland is in costume and ready. I have my cue now. Briana’s a lucky girl, I suppose.”
I balled my fists together, trying to drum up my courage. I needed to save myself. I needed to save the rest of the cast. And I still couldn’t tear my eyes away from the drama unfolding before my eyes.
“She’s getting ready, I think,” Leah squeaked.
I pressed myself farther into the costumes. It was all so ridiculously clear now. Mr. O’Dell had been Hamlet’s Ghost from day one. He had been Tweeting in plain sight and none of us had noticed, because we were too wrapped up in our own dramas. And now he’d planned to poison Kennedy and the rest of the cast, one by one, as each of them drank from the prop wine.
The ground shook as Mr. O’Dell clambered up the steps and toward the metal catwalk that connected the loft to the rickety iron pathway that connected the backstage area to the front of the theater.
“Stupid fools … the last time I work with students …” he muttered to himself as he arranged his headset. A few feet away from me, he stopped, glancing at the pile of plywood headstones, which were still askew from when I tripped. He quieted as I held my breath.
Finally, he started walking again.
“Briana?” Leah’s voice wafted upward. “I found Willow. Are you still up there?”
Mr. O’Dell paused again and glanced wildly around. I pressed my back farther against the dense crunch of materials. All of a sudden, I heard a loud clank.
The metal clothing rack I’d been pressing up against had bumped into another.
“Bree?”
Mr. O’Dell’s voice was soft and smooth, my name sounding almost like a prayer from his lips.
I crossed my fingers and mashed my lips together. I couldn’t hear the onstage monitor because of the amount of noise backstage. I hoped that meant Mr. O’Dell couldn’t hear me.
“Mr. O’Dell?” a voice called up the stairs. “Your cue.”
He muttered something under his breath, then crept along the catwalk to the spot in the far left of the auditorium where his voice was supposed to boom out over the audience, making them think the ghost surrounded them.
This was my cue. I had to do something.
I couldn’t call the police; that would take too long. I needed to do something now, while he was playing his part and couldn’t hurt anyone.
I pushed myself out of the pile of costumes and followed behind him, my entire body trembling as I stepped on the rickety metal catwalk. Students weren’t allowed to access it until they’d sat through a mandatory meeting by the MacHale safety officer and were always supposed to wear a harness. I never had done either, and I wasn’t sure if the swaying I felt was because of the unsturdy walkway beneath my feet or my own terror.
Mr. O’Dell crouched in the corner, adjusted his microphone, and gazed intently at the stage. Onstage, across the audience from us, Eric looked up to our corner, his mouth opening in a wide O of shock when he realized that I was standing behind Mr. O’Dell. Noticing Eric’s shock, Mr. O’Dell turned around.
“Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak. I’ll go no further,” Eric said, his gaze unwavering from my face.
Mr. O’Dell turned from me to Eric, and back to me.
There was a pause.
“Your cue, Mr. O’Dell,” I heard a thin, tinny, disembodied voice leaking through Mr. O’Dell’s headset. He took a deep breath and turned back toward the stage.
And then I closed my eyes and pushed Mr. O’Dell’s shoulders. The headset made an ear-piercing shriek, but Mr. O’Dell didn’t make a sound as he tumbled twenty feet from the catwalk onto the aisle below, where he landed with a thud.
For one second, there was silence, the same type of collective silence that occurs at the end of a play, when the spell is broken and the audience returns to their real lives. Normally, this moment is marked with a burst of applause, an acknowledgement of the fact that everything that happened in the past few hours was just pretend.
Only now, the half second of silence marked the realization that the audience was part of a terrible tragedy, one that would never, ever have a curtain.
And that’s when the screams began.
Briana Beland @alleyesonbree
“The course of true love never did run smooth.” — A Midsummer Night’s Dream
The sun dappled through the open sunroof of the theater, warming the stage. I stepped onto a masking tape X in the center of the space and rolled my shoulders backward and forward, warming myself up for the opening-night curtain. Even though it was hours away, I liked being alone in the auditorium. Slowly, it had turned back into a safe space, away from the horror and sadness that had happened in the past few months.
It was also nice to stand onstage, especially since I’d spend the next few hours sitting in the front row, watching the show come together under my direction. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was all about mistaken identities and magic, where everything comes together in the end and everyone is better off and happier than they were at the beginning of the play. It was the exact opposite of Hamlet, and all of us — those who’d survived and had stayed — hoped that this production could truly be the healing one to unite MacHale and Forsyth; that it would create a tribute to actors and actresses who’d had their lives cut short far too soon.
Breckin O’Dell — or rather, Matthew Lampert — was currently in a mental hospital. The police had quickly found the Hamlet’s Ghost account on his computer. Tristan had been right: Hamlet’s Ghost had been hiding in plain sight. And no one had realized it until it was far too late. Breckin … Matthew … whoever he was … had quickly confessed his crimes, proud of the body count, proud that he’d orchestrated a tragedy of his own creation that had, in his words, mattered.
Meanwhile, the Forsyth and MacHale students tentatively started to move forward. Zach Mathis had led the first meeting between the two schools, where we all agreed that the show must go on. But not Hamlet. We didn’t need tragedy.
So we picked A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and I found myself surprised to volunteer to direct the show. I liked the rhythm of helping actors find themselves in the parts, to see how their real-life experiences informed the way they connected to their characters onstage. I’d cast Eric and Kennedy as Oberon and Titania, the king and queen of the fairies. It made sense; in the past few months, they’d certainly become the king and queen of the MacHale-Forsyth theater world.
And they deserved that title. Kennedy had only drunk a small amount of the poisoned prop wine and had recovered, Eric by her side. Rather than being annoying, their couple status seemed to signify new hope for Forsyth and MacHale as everyone tried to wrap their minds around what had
happened.
Besides, I didn’t need Eric anymore.
“Hey.” I felt a pair of hands circle my back. I relaxed into them, remembering a time when this gesture would have meant something much more ominous. Zach planted a kiss on the top of my head.
I turned to face him. Seeing him still made my stomach flutter, only this time, the feeling was good.
“You nervous?”
“You’re not supposed to say nervous. You’re supposed to say excited,” I murmured as my lips brushed his. He kissed me back. We were standing in a shaft of sunlight, not the spotlight. There was no audience; no followers. And I wasn’t sure how our story would end — whether it would be a five-act up-and-down drama or the equivalent of a lighthearted one-act. I didn’t have the script. I wasn’t even sure what part I was playing. All I knew was that I loved the role.
Anna Davies is a former magazine editor turned full-time writer. She’s written for the New York Times, New York, Elle, Glamour, Fitness, Self, and other publications. Her novels include Wrecked and Identity Theft. She can usually be found in New York … and can always be found on Twitter.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available
Copyright © 2014 by Anna Davies
All rights reserved. Published by Point, an imprint of Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, POINT, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
First edition, January 2014
Front photo © Quavondo / Vetta / Getty Images
e-ISBN 978-0-545-58438-8
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