by Allen Zadoff
As I glance at it now, it seems like Derek has made a design error. There’s a dead area just left of center, a wide swath of shadow. Derek thinks there’s plenty of light there because he’s hanging nearly everything that exists in the school. It’s his first show as a production designer, and he wants it to be the greatest debut in history. Even though the play is A Midsummer Night’s Dream, he’s designed it like a stadium rock concert—crazy set pieces, wild costumes, and a ton of metal in the air.
While it’s true that there will be plenty of light onstage, in this center left area, at least, you won’t be able to see the actors’ faces. And it’s a strange thing about light in the theater—if you can’t see the actors’ faces, you can’t hear them very well. It’s like your ears need your eyes or they get confused.
I should say something to Derek, but I won’t. Derek is the reigning King of Theater, and you don’t get on the king’s good side by telling him how to do his job. In fact that’s a good way to end up teching the actors’ toilets.
Just then Derek comes back onstage with the actors in tow. Wesley struts in front of the pack, trying to stay close to Derek.
“Please mind the gap,” Derek says. “I don’t want any of you lovely ladies to hurt yourselves on my set.”
“Be careful, ladies,” Wesley says, parroting him.
There’s a female actor I don’t know at the very back of the pack, standing with the extras. She’s not looking at Derek. She’s looking up at the lights. Up towards me.
That’s weird because actors rarely look up. Maybe the very first time they walk into the theater freshman year, but after that, the theater itself becomes invisible. And light? They don’t care where it’s coming from. They just want to make sure it’s on them.
But this actor is looking everywhere, examining things. I’ve never seen her before, or maybe I haven’t noticed her.
I notice her now.
She has long black hair and the most beautiful eyes. I can’t see if they’re blue or gray from here, but I think they’re the kind of eyes that change color depending on the light that hits them. I get this fantasy in my head. I’m a character in a musical, a fascinating character with a troubled past. I slip down the nearest pipe and the characters freeze in place onstage, all of them except the girl with black hair. She steps out and I walk over to meet her. We don’t speak right away. As the music swells, we recognize something in each other, some shared pain.
“What’s your name?” she says.
“Adam Ziegler.”
“Are you the director?” she says.
“Not the director,” I say. “Just a techie.”
Which in the musical would be a lot more noble.
Anyway, that’s the fantasy.
But when she looks up again, I duck behind a pipe.
That’s the reality.
Derek notices her looking around, because he says, “I have a fabulous idea. Would you like to see how the lights work?”
Derek is smooth like that. He’s one of those guys who takes his shot with every girl, actors and techies. That’s totally unheard of in my school because actors and techies don’t mix here. They don’t even speak unless it’s to hurl insults at one another. Derek is the only one who can cross the line between the two.
“I’ve seen lights before,” Wesley says, unimpressed.
“Not like these, you haven’t,” Derek says.
“I’d like to see them,” Miranda says, and she smiles at Derek.
That’s all the encouragement he needs.
“Your wish is my command,” Derek says.
Derek signals the light board operator, Benno.
“Are you sure?” Benno says, stroking his mutton chops. Benno looks like a character from a Dickens novel, the main difference being that Dickens was obsessed with social injustice and Benno is obsessed with large boobs.
“I’m never less than sure,” Derek says.
He should know you don’t turn on the lights during load-in, especially not with actors in the theater. There’s cable all over the place, the board hasn’t been checked, and who knows what’s been plugged in? But Derek doesn’t care about any of that. He cares about looking good.
“Stand by for lights!” Ignacio shouts.
I take my hands away from the cable I’m plugging in.
“Lights, go,” Ignacio says.
Benno types something into the lighting computer.
There’s a loud click, and the theater fills with light, everything to 100 percent at the same time. Nothing is gelled, nothing is focused. There’s burning white light everywhere.
For a second the theater feels like it’s vibrating, light saturating every inch of the space—
Then there’s a loud snap, and it all goes black.
TOO HIGH TO BE ENTHRALL’D TO LOW.
The actors scream. It’s more like a mock scream than a real one, but it’s still kind of scary.
“Everybody freeze!” Ignacio shouts.
I stop on the catwalk, high above the theater in the darkness.
I feel panic in my chest. It’s hard to breathe.
It’s just a blackout, I say to myself. No big deal. You’ve been through dozens of them.
It’s true. I’ve been through dozens, maybe even hundreds in the last two years.
But my mind starts to go places when it’s dark.
Scary places.
That’s why I always keep extra light on me. I have a glow stick in my right front pocket, a penlight in my left, a mini Mag on my belt. That’s just for starters. All I have to do is grab one and take it out.
But I can’t move. The dark feels vast and empty, like standing on the edge of a canyon.
I try to slow my breathing and calm myself down, but it’s not working.
The dream.
I’m back in the dream from last night, my father stepping out of the gloom to stand near me. I don’t think the dream ever goes away. It just advances and retreats inside my head, ducking out of sight long enough for me to forget about it, then popping up to reassert itself.
My father is next to me now, but there’s no way to keep him there. He’ll be gone again any moment, lost in darkness.
“That’s a Rothko,” Dad says.
I’m eight years old standing in front of a painting at the MoMA in New York. Dad and I used to go there a lot. We took the train from Montclair into the city every Sunday. Dad would choose a museum for us, and we’d spend hours looking at art. Then we’d walk through Central Park together, talking about what we’d seen.
I’m back there with him now, standing in front of this burst of orange red on the wall.
“What do you think?” Dad says.
I look at it for a few seconds, but I don’t see much, only bands of color.
“It’s okay,” I say.
Dad says, “Give it a chance.”
He puts his hand on my shoulder, willing me to stay.
I look at the painting. I look at my dad.
“Wait,” he whispers.
I wait.
The painting starts to move, the canvas vibrating with color.
“Now what do you see?” Dad says.
“It’s alive,” I say.
“Where are the damn lights?!” Derek shouts.
The museum evaporates. I’m back in the theater, standing high in the air.
My father is gone.
I can still smell him, feel the warmth where his hand touched my shoulder.
The house lights come back on. Black stage in front, empty theater seats below. The actors are clustered onstage, some of the girls with their arms around one another.
“What happened to the lights?” Johanna says.
Derek’s face turns purple. “Son of a bitch!” he says. He looks around the theater until his eyes settle on Ignacio.
Ignacio gulps hard. He looks around the theater until he finds Benno.
Benno shrugs. “I think the dimmers blew,” he says. “Maybe something was plugged in wrong?
”
He looks around for someone else to blame. People are ducking out of sight, slumping down behind seat backs, sliding offstage.
I don’t slump or slide. I stand there, still thinking about Rothko and my father.
Benno, Ignacio, and Derek all look up at the same time.
I can imagine what it looks like. Me standing with a cable in my hand. Guilty as hell.
“That kid up there. I always forget his name,” Derek says.
“Adam Ziegler,” Ignacio says. “Z.”
He doesn’t even pause before he says it, like maybe he’s considering covering for me. He just gives me up.
I’m watching this happen, but it seems far away, like it’s got very little to do with me. A lot of my life seems like that now.
Derek’s face curls into a snarl.
“Get your butt down here, Ziegler!”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say.
“Z!” Derek screams. He taps his foot.
I cross the catwalk, the creaking metal loud in the theater below.
“What’s going on out there?” Reach says in my headset.
“Firing squad,” I say.
I walk to the edge of the catwalk where a ladder leads to the stage floor below.
I glance down. The Posse looks up at me, the girls putting their hands on their hips in unison like a cheerleader move.
Everyone is looking at me. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. The floor seems like it’s a thousand miles away.
“I’m coming for you,” Reach says in my ear, and I hear a scraping sound as he rips off the headset.
I take two steps down the ladder, and I stop. My mind is reeling.
The girl with long black hair is onstage looking up at me, or at least at my ass sticking out from the ladder. Not what I’d call a great first impression.
“What the hell is wrong with that kid?” Derek says.
Good question.
I want to climb down and tell them I had nothing to do with it, but I can’t.
I’m stuck on the ladder, high in the air, caught between up and down.
I hear footsteps running onstage.
“Rishekesh Patel at your service,” Reach says to Derek.
Reach to the rescue.
“How can I help?” Reach says.
“You can get this jerk down,” Derek says.
“What did this jerk do now?” Reach says.
The girls laugh a little.
“He blew up my lights,” Derek says. “What if Mr. Apple were here? What would he think?”
He would think you screwed up, I say to myself. Mr. Apple weighs five hundred pounds, and four hundred ninety-nine of them are vicious. He doesn’t like people making mistakes on his stage. He’s fine if you make a legitimate mistake, because that’s how you learn. But not a stupid mistake. A stupid mistake earns you a face full of sour Apple.
“The last thing I need is a techie screwing up my design,” Derek says.
The way he says techie makes me wince.
I look up towards the catwalk. Climb, my head says. Get away.
The stage lights come back on. Not at full, but at 25 percent. Benno is testing the board.
“Looks like we got the lights back for you, Double D,” Reach says.
Derek scowls. He hates that name.
Reach smiles like he has absolutely no idea he did anything wrong.
I have to give it to Reach. He has the ability to make fun of Derek and kiss ass at the same time. That’s a major skill set.
“What are we going to do about ladder boy?” Derek says.
“A public thrashing,” Reach says. “I suggest you whip him with a cable. Twenty lashes.”
The girls laugh even more. Derek looks at them, trying to figure out if he’s being made fun of. After a second, he smiles.
“We shall make him walk the plank,” Derek says, his accent turning him into the ship captain from The Pirates of Penzance. “Or perhaps he needs to be removed from the crew?”
Does Derek have the right to fire me? Not exactly. But he could get me fired. A few words to Mr. Apple and I would be out the door.
I think about a life without techies. Without theater. Without light.
“What if we have him gas up your car?” Reach says.
Derek’s car is his pride and joy, a bright red BMW convertible that he loves more than life itself.
“That’s a fine idea,” Derek says, now smiling.
He walks offstage with the actors following behind.
The girl with black hair hangs back for a second. She stares up at me. There’s a look in her eyes, a familiar look. It’s the kind of look I got all the time after Dad died.
She pities me.
I start to climb as fast as I can, scurrying up the ladder until I’m back on the catwalk where I can breathe.
THAT WAY GOES THE GAME.
Two minutes later Reach’s head pops over the side of the rail.
“That was a close call,” he says.
“Thanks for bailing me out.”
“Where there is a sinking boat, there will always be Rishekesh.”
It pisses me off that Reach is always trying to save me. The worst part is that I kind of need saving.
“So what happened up there?” Reach says.
“I froze.”
“Because of Derek? He’s all sound and fury.”
“Not Derek. The blackout.”
“That again,” Reach says.
He takes a long breath, gives me the I’m worried about you look. My mother has the same look. I hate that look.
When we were ten, Reach and I made a pact that we would tell each other everything. There would be no secrets between us. It’s one of those agreements kids make all the time and then forget about six months later.
Only we never forgot.
So Reach knows me really well. He knows about the dream, about what happens to me in the dark.
“I thought it was getting better,” he says.
“I thought so, too,” I say.
It’s getting worse. But I don’t say that. I don’t want to worry him.
Reach thinks about it for a second, one thick eyebrow raised high on his forehead.
“It’s no big deal,” he says. “You’re under a lot of pressure. A show going into tech, Derek breathing down your hole—”
“What if I freak out during a show?” I say.
“You won’t.”
“But what if I do?”
“It’s just fear,” Reach says. “We all have fears.”
“Except you.”
“Not true. I have fears.”
“Like what?”
“Like shrinkage. And my mother.”
Reach’s mom is a total control freak. Their house is like a supermax prison, only the food is spicier.
“I’ll keep an eye on you,” Reach says. “And if you need anything …”
Reach wiggles his cell phone in my direction.
“I’ll call,” I say.
“Promise?” he says.
“Promise.”
But what am I going to do? Call Reach in the middle of the night and tell him I’m having a bad dream?
“I can’t afford to lose you,” Reach says. “Who would tell me his problems?”
“Half Crack has lots of problems.”
Half Crack is a crew guy who never wears a belt. When he bends over, the room clears out.
“He’s got little boy problems,” Reach says. “I need man issues. Hard-core crises. Something I can sink my teeth into.”
I look away, busying myself with a lamp change.
“What was the deal with the blackout?” Reach says.
“Derek has too much stuff in the air. He’s maxing out the dimmer packs.”
“Why don’t you tell him?”
“I did tell him. He said to make it work, so I’m making it work.”
“Go over his head,” Reach says.
“I like my job, limited and lowly though it may be
.”
I know better than to get between Derek and his ambitions. Tech crew is paved with the bodies of techies who tried it.
“You should be designing this show,” Reach says.
“Let’s not go there,” I say.
I glance down, making sure nobody’s below to overhear us.
Reach says, “If it weren’t for his father, Derek would still be backstage coiling cable with the rest of us.”
“His father didn’t get him the production designer position,” I say.
“Yeah, but it sure didn’t hurt. Think about it from Mr. Apple’s perspective. You give a kid with a famous father a big job, then the father comes to see the show, you buddy up to him a little—”
“And what? You get a job at his architecture firm?”
“No, you ask him to introduce you to some of his famous theater friends. Or you make him a patron. Or whatever. You don’t know much about kissing ass, do you?”
“I know nothing.”
Reach gets this look on his face, the one he gets when he’s brewing up a plan.
“I’d love to take Derek down a couple notches,” he says softly. “What would happen if we stopped covering his ass?”
“He’d burn down the theater.”
“Is that so bad?”
“It depends how many people are in it.”
“What if it were freshmen?” Reach says. “Or better yet, freshman actors.”
“That’s terrible,” I say, but I laugh a little. Reach hates actors even more than he hates freshmen. And he hates his mother more than either of them.
“I sense an evil plan coming together,” I say.
“It could be our evil plan. Like the old days,” Reach says.
Reach and I used to think up all kinds of plots when we were kids. Once we stole three tubes of paint from my dad and painted Reach’s dog. Actually, it was Reach’s mom’s dog. Reach was grounded for three months after that, and he had to go to Hindi school on the weekends.
