Baker trips on a chunk of concrete as we pass the creepy antiques shop next door to the Liberty, and the old lady inside frowns at us from the window, where she’s dusting a hideous painting of a monkey in a hat. This is my third year doing plays here, and I’ve never seen a single person in the shop besides her. It doesn’t even have a name, and the junk in the dull windows never seems to change. Sometimes I wonder if maybe the doors are locked from the inside, if she’s just trying to keep all of her oddities and antiquities to herself. We hurry past and cross in front of Savannah’s oldest theater.
The Liberty looks dilapidated and sad, even though Josephine left it miraculously undamaged. The front windows are all pasted over with moldering posters from past plays, some so ancient that they’re still in black and white. The whitewash over the bricks has seen better days, and the awning hangs in flaps like it was raked by giant claws. Most of the lightbulbs around the marquee are broken. Still, it’s better than performing Shakespeare in our school’s cafeteria, which smells like burned beef sticks and swamp farts. The four front doors to the Liberty are always chained, except on opening night. As we pass, I reach out to touch the rusted links held together with a shiny new lock. Someone has jammed gum into the keyhole.
“People are monsters,” Baker says with mock sadness and a hand over his heart.
The street is almost empty. The tourist crowds will pick up closer to Christmas, but for now, in that dead space between Halloween and Thanksgiving, Savannah looks her age, possibly older. Faded flags and swags of moss flap in the breeze, and I hug myself and wish I’d brought a heavier coat. Hard to believe we were having a freak heat wave before Josephine, and almost exactly one year later it smells like snow that will never fall.
I open the theater’s side door, and Baker follows me into the darkened hallway. I stop, caught in a wave of memories. The first time Carly and I burst through that door, we were giggling, freaking out over our first speaking parts in our freshman show. Joining drama club had been her idea, but it became my passion. We were here after school, painting sets on the weekend, running lines back and forth with our backs against the bricks. We hugged our parents in this hallway, our makeup and glitter rubbing off on their Sunday suits, bouquets from the Piggly Wiggly in each hand. A senior once gave Carly a carnation after a show, right here where I’m standing, and she blushed so brightly that I could see the pink, even through her blue-black skin. They went on one date, and when he tried to feel her up, she kneed him in the nuts, and he was out of school for a week.
This is the first time I’ve been here since the flood, smelling the wet-rot of the water overlaying the centuries of cigarette smoke and wood.
“You okay?” Baker asks.
I reach for the wall, one hand to my head. It’s starting to ache, and I hear a weird hum right on the edge of my consciousness.
“I’m fine,” I say, focusing on the peeling green paint under my hand. “Just a headache.”
Honestly, I didn’t think I would feel any effects this quickly from dropping the meds. The pills arrive in an unmarked bottle of old-fashioned glass, and the white tablets aren’t stamped. I couldn’t pinpoint the formulation online, so I don’t know exactly what I’m up against, withdrawal-wise. Still, it seems like it should take more than a day and a half for me to be feeling things again, remembering things. If I had given it more thought, and maybe if I hadn’t been so desperate to find Carly, I wouldn’t have quit my mystery meds cold turkey right now. The first stage rehearsal at the Liberty is the wrong time to go crazy. I need this play, need this normalcy.
I fight my way past the memories and walk down the musty hallway with its off-kilter wood floors and buzzing lights. People laugh and talk beyond two open doors, and Baker salutes me before he disappears into the boys’ dressing room. I take a deep breath, put on a smile, and push into the girls’ room.
When I walk in the door, everyone looks up, but no one waves or says hi. Whoever or whatever I was to them before, they don’t run squealing to embrace me anymore and include me in their gossip. I almost wonder if they think of me like a pet or a piece of furniture. Have I really been that out of it? I haven’t actually thought about anyone else’s feelings or perceptions in a long, long time.
I lean against the counter next to Tamika, who used to be part of our circle. She sat with Carly and Baker and me at lunch and invited us all over for pool parties. We even played Bloody Mary at a sleepover at her house once, and she screamed like she was being stabbed to death and wouldn’t tell us what she saw in the mirror. When we lost Carly, I consoled myself by going crazy. Tamika consoled herself by going to lots of parties and drinking. Even if we haven’t talked in a year, we’ve been friends since kindergarten, and I know she’s a basically nice person.
“Hey, Tamika. What’s up?” I say.
“Oh! Dovey?” She’s so surprised, she drops her curling iron. It skids down her toga, and she jumps back, hissing and cussing. We both reach for it, and we smack heads. I see stars. It’s about the worst thing possible for my headache.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be.” She takes the curling iron back with the wide, toothy smile I remember. “It’s fine. It’s just that you haven’t spoken to me in a year. You surprised me, is all.”
“Was I that bad?” I say.
The look of pity on her face is answer enough. She sets down the curling iron and hugs me tightly, just like I remember. She was always huggy, always the one who got the Band-Aids when someone skinned a knee. I’m amazed at how easy it is to hug her back. She’s gotten thinner since the last time we hugged.
“You were pretty out of it,” she says. “But it had to be easier than . . .”
She trails off. We stare at each other. I take a deep breath.
“Than when I went crazy,” I fill in. “It’s okay. You can say it.” She smiles, and I smile back and start to feel like myself again.
“You seem different. Did they change your . . . I mean, did your therapist . . .”
Poor Tamika looks totally lost. She always hated to hurt anyone’s feelings. And because we’ve been friends for so long, and because I want to feel like a friend again, I decide to tell her my secret. Or at least part of it.
“Look, don’t tell anyone, but I’m going off my meds. I think I can handle it.”
She gasps and shakes her head like she’s seen a dead rat.
“Uh-uh. Dovey, no. You can’t. You don’t remember what it was like.” She says it quietly, avoiding my eyes and focusing on the curling iron instead. She clamps it down on her weave and carefully lays a fat sausage curl over her shoulder. “No way you remember, or you wouldn’t even try to quit. Are you sure it’s going to be okay? You did talk to your therapist first, right? I read somewhere that coming off those meds can be the roughness. And you were really bad, for a while there.”
“Like when?” I ask.
There are holes in my memories, which bothers me. I remember freaking out in school a few times, although I can’t remember why. I remember with heartbreaking clarity the moment I lost Carly, when the tree crashed into her roof and she was sucked down the swollen river raging in the street. But from then to when I woke up in a blue gown in a hospital and was given a jar of pills, I just have a few vague impressions. None of them are comforting.
“Like the time you threatened Mrs. Lowery with her own pizza cutter in the cafeteria,” Tamika says, laying another curl over her shoulder. “Or when everybody said you went running down the street in your pajamas, screaming that the devil was outside your window. Or at Carly’s funeral. That was the worst of all.”
“What happened?” I ask.
She pauses before clamping down the next ribbon of hair. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and I have to look away. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.
“I can’t believe you don’t remember,” she says. “You were standing by the casket with Carly’s mama, and then you just started screaming for no reason. And when Gigi tried to calm you
down, you grabbed Miz Ray by the arm and yelled ‘It’s not her, it’s not her,’ over and over again until they dragged you off. And we didn’t see you again for a month, and then you were on meds and just . . .” She shrugs. “Gone.”
My head is pounding now, and my mouth is terribly, horribly dry.
It’s not her, it’s not her.
I don’t remember saying it, but goose bumps ripple over my skin with recognition. If it wasn’t Carly in the casket, then maybe I really did see her last week. Maybe I can find her again. I reach into my pocket and roll the pink bead back and forth, reassuring myself that it’s real.
Deep inside, the memory unfurls, just a little. Just enough to remember the black linen of Carly’s mama’s suit, her tissue brushing my hand as we stood together by the gleaming white casket.
But for the life of me, I can’t remember what I saw inside.
5
“DOVEY? DID I FREAK YOU out?”
Tamika drops the curling iron and pulls me into another hug. I can smell the iron singeing her bedsheet toga, but I can’t remember the last time someone hugged me before today, so I just stand there stupidly, shivering. She hugged me like this once when I fell out of a tree and broke my arm. I didn’t have the words to thank her then, and I don’t have them now. Finally the other girls start screaming and swatting at Tamika’s toga and whispering about how ruined her costume is, and right before our first dress rehearsal.
“It’s okay,” she says, pulling back from the hug and patting me. “Right, Dovey?”
The other girls gather around us in their togas and fairy costumes, cooing over me like I’m a three-legged dog.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks, y’all,” I say, and it’s a joy to watch their mouths drop open in surprise.
“The mute speaks,” Jasmine says.
The other girls move aside, and she steps into the open space like it’s a spotlight. She was always a bitch, and I know she’s been perfectly happy to see me out of the running for lead roles. She’s gorgeous as Prospero’s sister Antonia, but I can certainly understand why he would want to drown her.
“She wasn’t a mute,” Tamika says, stepping in front of me. Good old Tamika. “She went through a lot.”
“We all did,” Jasmine says with an elegantly lifted shoulder. “My dog ran away.”
Rage bubbles up in my chest, a sensation now so unfamiliar that I cough and clear my throat. Luckily, just before the anger makes it to my head and pushes me into doing something regrettable to cement my reputation as the school crazy, the door opens.
“I tole you girls not to use them curlers in here,” Old Murph says, elbowing through our circle to grab the curling iron, which is burning a hole in the cheap carpet.
Everyone steps back as he unplugs it, his old hands so calloused, they look like they’re made of nothing but fingernail. He leaves a trail of stink behind, and I recognize the smoky smell from the hallway overlaid with old-man BO. He shakes the hot curling iron in Jasmine’s face, and she recoils.
“That ain’t mine. These curls are real, old man,” she says, wagging her head.
“I seen things that would really curl your hair, girly,” he says, shoving right up into her face, even though she’s at least half a foot taller than him.
Most girls would back away that close to a face like Old Murph’s. Maybe even I would. But Jasmine leans over, looming, her forehead almost touching his.
“I. Seen. Worse,” she says, and he stares at her for another second before bursting into laughter.
“You keep foolin’ yourself, sugar,” he says, snapping his suspenders as he waddles back out the door. “Just don’t burn my theater down doing it.”
“Oh my God, he’s so creepy,” Tamika says. She picks the curling iron up, plugs it in, and goes back to making perfect curls. The other girls return to their primping.
“Thanks, Tamika,” I mutter.
She gives me a warmer smile than I deserve or expect.
“I’m just glad you’re talking again,” she says. “I hope what you’re doing works. I really missed you, Dovey.”
The corners of my mouth twitch and turn up slowly, like the muscles have forgotten how to work, and I return her smile. I’m not ready for further revelations, so I pull my costume out of my backpack and head for the painted Japanese screen in the corner. It’s old and rickety and doesn’t hide much, but it’s better than changing in front of everyone.
I slip out of my clothes and slither into my tights and leotard as quickly as I can. When I emerge from behind the screen, I’m hunched over, with my arms crossed over my chest. I haven’t worn the leotard in two years, and needless to say, it no longer fits. I uncross my arms and look down. Sometime in the last year, without noticing, I grew boobs.
“Whoa, girl!” Tamika says appreciatively. “You’re busting out all over!”
“I think I need a new costume,” I say.
And Jasmine mutters, “Or maybe two.”
I grab my hoodie from behind the screen and put it on over the stretched-out leotard, hoping Mrs. Rosewater won’t hassle me about it too much. After all, this is exactly why we have dress rehearsals. I have plenty of time to get a new leotard. Tamika hands me a tutu, and I step into it gratefully.
The stage manager opens the door and yells, “Curtain in five!”
“Hey, Dovey,” someone says, putting a hand on my shoulder. I startle and jerk back, but it’s just Nikki, another girl I used to be friends with. “I’m all done. Want me to do your makeup?”
Her smile is genuine, and I have to smile back. It’s weird, like I’m learning the social dance again. They smile, I smile back, we talk. Maybe one day soon I’ll be a real girl again.
“Thanks,” I say. “That would be great.”
Once my face is painted with swirls and glitter, we’ve only got a minute before the curtain goes up. We trip through the door in a clot of cloth and spangles and surge down the hall to where the boys are already waiting. They don’t even hide their ogling. Everyone is in costume for the first time, and it’s almost too much to take in. The fairies, the togas, the glitter, the teased hair, the guy in a jester suit. It doesn’t really make sense, doing The Tempest in Grecian outfits, but Mrs. Rosewater says it came to her in a dream, so we’re stuck with it. Everyone is hugging and laughing and flirting, and their emotions fill the air, infecting me, too. The little hall is filled to bursting with electricity and excitement and magic, and the only thing missing is Carly.
A hand lands on my arm, and I’m amazed to find Baker attached to it, transformed into a wild half monster as Caliban. His dark hair is tangled with twigs and vines, and his face is rendered ferocious by eyeliner and blush. His eyes, lined with black, are startling, the color of blueberries. I guess I haven’t really looked at him, at anyone, for a year. Just as my old leotard seems suddenly smaller, Baker seems larger and more real. But his mischievous grin is the same. Puck would have been the perfect part for him, but Caliban will do.
“Your makeup’s great,” he says. “Are you the hoodie fairy?”
“My old leotard’s too small,” I say, holding my chin up and daring him to laugh.
He looks down, chokes a little, coughs, and opens his mouth to say something.
“Places, y’all!” It’s Mrs. Rosewater, her voice harsh and already frustrated.
Half stammering, Baker and I dance around each other and separate. I step into line with Ariel’s other fairies, ready for the goofy dance our drama teacher has slapped on the front of one of Shakespeare’s most magical plays. We’re supposed to look like the storm that wrecks the ship, but I guess Mrs. Rosewater didn’t want to evoke the actual fear and fury of Josephine in her twisted little homage. Leaping around on the familiar stage to the plucked strings of a guitar, joining hands with Nikki and Jade and Ella and fluttering my piece of blue gauze like a gust of wind, I start to feel alive. I had forgotten how hotly the lights shine onstage, the thrill of performing. Even if there’s no one in the audience, I take joy in
bursting through the air and galloping around. I wonder if anyone around me notices the difference. When I was on the meds, did I shuffle around like a zombie? I don’t remember feeling this sort of energy.
The song ends, and we flit to our hiding places. Mine is behind a ridiculous red-and-white plywood mushroom. I curl my fingers around the wood and peek back and forth, giggling on cue with Nikki, who’s behind a fake boulder.
There’s a long interlude where I’m supposed to pop in and out around my mushroom, rolling my eyes and making silly faces. I take the chance to look past the stage and into the audience of empty chairs. Their red velvet is faded and patched, and lots of the footlights are out or winking like peculiar constellations in the darkness of the theater. Mrs. Rosewater stands in the orchestra pit, furiously scribbling notes to herself or growling at her assistant.
I find the seats where my parents sit for every performance. Right there, stage left. Up close, so my nearsighted dad can see, and by the aisle so my ultra-busy mom can leave if she gets an urgent call. Carly’s mom used to sit with them. Now that she has moved away and Carly is gone, I wonder who they’ll joke with, who will go outside to smoke with my mom during intermission and complain about the casting. And I wonder who sat in those spots last spring, for the last play, which I missed completely. They said the seats were still damp from the flooding, but the show had to go on. They handed out garbage bags with the programs.
Something in the back of the house catches my eye, and I lean around the other side of my mushroom. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I strain to see past the white-hot lights and into the back left corner of the balcony. We rarely fill the theater, and that section is usually closed. It’s so dark up there that teachers have to monitor it during performances to keep kids from sneaking up and making out. But there’s something moving in the shadows where something definitely shouldn’t be, not with the theater closed for rehearsal.
Servants of the Storm Page 3
