I HEART BAND SERIES
I Heart Band
Friends, Fugues, and Fortune Cookies
Sleepovers, Solos, and Sheet Music
Crushes, Codas, and Corsages
THE KAT SINCLAIR FILES
Dead Air
Graveyard Slot
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2017 by Michelle Schusterman
Cover art copyright © 2017 by Jennifer Bricking
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Random House and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Visit us on the Web! rhcbooks.com
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Schusterman, Michelle, author.
Title: Olive and the backstage ghost / by Michelle Schusterman.
Description: First edition. | New York : Random House, [2017] | Summary: “Olive discovers an old theater where she’ll finally have a chance to shine onstage, but this theater—and its mysterious owner—are hiding dark secrets” —Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015038765 | ISBN 978-0-399-55066-9 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-0-399-55067-6 (hardcover library binding) | ISBN 978-0-399-55068-3 (ebook)
Subjects: | CYAC: Theaters—Fiction. | Haunted places—Fiction. | Ghosts—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.S39834 Ol 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
Ebook ISBN 9780399550683
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
v4.1
ep
Contents
Cover
Other Titles
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1: Its Stubborn Heart
Chapter 2: Mother Fright
Chapter 3: That Lovely Audition
Chapter 4: A Worthy Replacement
Chapter 5: Hollow Home
Chapter 6: The Fire Escape
Chapter 7: A Sudden, Particular Kind of Hope
Chapter 8: Eidola
Chapter 9: Destined for the Spotlight
Chapter 10: A Very Nice Ghost
Chapter 11: Out of Mind
Chapter 12: The Only Thing Visible in the Darkness
Chapter 13: Her Dreamland
Chapter 14: Wrong
Chapter 15: A Decided Lack of Solidness
Chapter 16: Make−Believe Games
Chapter 17: Some Nerve
Chapter 18: A Lion in the Stars
Chapter 19: This Temporary Coffin
Chapter 20: A Poisonous Seed
Chapter 21: A Thousand Spools of Thread
Chapter 22: Troubled
Chapter 23: Never Leaving
Chapter 24: A Familiar Boy
Chapter 25: First Finale
Chapter 26: Radiant
Chapter 27: The Most Beautiful Place in the City
Chapter 28: Worth the Wait
Chapter 29: Forgotten
Chapter 30: Its Own Kind of Magic
Chapter 31: An Intruder
Chapter 32: Her Father
Chapter 33: Burst Free
Chapter 34: The Trap Room
Chapter 35: Abandoned
Chapter 36: Five Skulls
Chapter 37: They Waltzed
Chapter 38: The Delicious Wickedness
Chapter 39: Real
Chapter 40: A Lowered Curtain
Acknowledgments
For Edgar, you poor, troubled soul
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears…
From “The Conqueror Worm,” by Edgar Allan Poe
Olive Preiss thought of her city as a massive beast, and the theater district was its heart. Not a pretty heart you might doodle in a notebook, all curvy and neatly joined up at a point. More like the heart of a kraken—a raw mess of arteries and ventricles and veins clustered in the center, pumping tons of frenetic black energy through the monster.
So Olive didn’t draw neat, pretty hearts. She preferred them big and messy. Kraken hearts. One side might be bigger than the other, or the ends might cross with a violent slash. Sometimes her hearts looked like a hastily scrawled letter B, or a lopsided 3 with a tail. Olive used to attempt to be neat, but occasionally she practiced deliberate carelessness. Yet another imperfection for her mother to pick at.
She was doodling hearts on her music folder in the car one morning as her mother drove them to the city’s arts center. These hearts were more wibbly-wobbly than usual, thanks to Olive’s trembling hand. When the car made a sharp turn, the resulting heart looked more like a sloppy treble clef. Olive tucked her pencil back in the folder with a sigh.
Casting a furtive glance at Mrs. Preiss, she rolled her window down a tiny bit and inhaled deeply. Olive liked how the city smelled, because it smelled like everything good and bad—fried foods, cheap cologne, trash left out a day too long. Her mother said it stank, but Olive found it complex: a full range of disgusting to delicious.
“Olive.”
“Yes?”
“Where is your barrette?”
Olive’s hands flew up to her windblown hair, combing through short, dark tangles for the metal barrette. She plucked it out, wincing when a few strands ripped free. The car slowed to a stop at a light, and Mrs. Preiss turned to her daughter with a disapproving frown.
“Here.” She took the barrette and slid it into place, the metal scraping Olive’s scalp. “And close your window. The heat causes frizzies.”
Olive took her time, turning the window crank as slowly as possible.
“Do you have the forms?”
“Yes.” Olive patted her music folder, wondering why Mrs. Preiss had bothered to ask. She had, after all, tucked the arts center’s theater camp enrollment forms into Olive’s folder herself before they left.
“And the check?”
“Yes.” The slip of paper worth more than a month of bills was secured to Olive’s forms with a paper clip. Nonrefundable.
Mrs. Preiss cast a sharp glance at her. “How are you feeling?”
Anyone but Olive might miss the underlying threat in the question. She clasped her hands tightly. “Fine.”
“This audition is important, Olive,” Mrs. Preiss said, as if Olive weren’t acutely aware of this fact. “Theater camp isn’t worth the expense if you’re just going to be an understudy, like last summer. Talent scouts won’t be interested in anyone outside of the leading roles.”
Olive swallowed hard and said nothing. She had enjoyed being the understudy, truth be told. There had been no reason to worry about talent scouts. And most rehearsals weren’t darkened by her mother’s presence, so Olive had been free to lose herself in the performance in peace. But that was last year.
A lot could change in a year.
Her mother pressed on the gas pedal, tucking a straight brown lock behind her ear. No summer humidity would dare cause Laurel Preiss’s hair to frizz. “It’s time to conquer this ridiculous…stage fright.”
Stage fright. She said it with a sneer, the same contemptuous tone she reserved for words like beggars and thrift stores. Olive traced a messy heart on the window with her finger. She did not have stage fright.
“I know” was all she said.
“You l
ove singing, Olive.”
This was very true.
“You want to perform.”
Also true.
“Most children don’t have the opportunities you have. Especially these days.” Mrs. Preiss squeezed the steering wheel, her knuckles whitening. “You can’t let fear of the spotlight stop you.”
I’m not afraid of the spotlight. Olive bit her lip and stared through the glass at a bus stop, where colorful new advertisements for the latest musicals and plays covered the outside of the shelter. The city may have been struggling to survive in the last few years, weakened by hard times, constantly on the verge of collapse. But its stubborn heart beat on.
Squinting, Olive scanned the names of the theaters. She’d heard of only a few, but that wasn’t unusual. It was next to impossible to know all the venues in the city, and not just because of sheer number. The theaters were in constant flux, moving and changing, opening and closing. It was a feverish, never-ending search for the next big show, the next big star.
Olive dreamed about being that star. If it hadn’t been for her mother, she might even have dared to believe it was possible.
When Olive was eight, she’d spent months practicing for her first music recital. She still grew warm at the memory of the stage lights overhead, sweat blurring her vision as she listened, detached, while her own voice turned to an unrecognizable warble. The whir and flash of her father’s camera in the otherwise silent crowd. Her mother’s fierce gaze, more scalding than the lights.
Just a little case of stage fright, her teacher had said reassuringly. Normal for your first recital. It’ll get easier. And that might have been true if Olive weren’t the daughter of one of the city’s most beloved stars.
Mrs. Preiss had been discovered by a talent scout at age ten and enjoyed a few wildly successful decades on the city’s most prestigious stages. Olive had vague memories of attending those shows, of watching in awe as her mother became someone else, someone with a story to tell, someone who could render an audience breathless. She vividly remembered her mother’s final show, when years of belting it out finally took its toll on her voice. The strained, off-key performance was sensational in the worst possible way, an undignified end to an otherwise magnificent career.
Humiliated, Laurel had turned her attention to her daughter’s career instead. After Olive’s disastrous recital, Laurel took control of everything, booking auditions, preparing recital material, maintaining a careful practice regimen. Everything Olive did was under constant scrutiny, and for most of her life, she’d tried her hardest to win her mother’s approval. A word or two of praise, and Olive would glow—but criticism always followed, like a bucket of icy water.
Eventually, Olive had come to realize that her mother wasn’t trying to help her become the best singer she could be. She was trying to re-create her own career, but with a happier ending.
Olive did want to perform. But as herself, not as a mistake to be corrected. Which was why, in a small act of rebellion, Olive had chosen her own secret audition music. It was a song Laurel disapproved of and, therefore, Olive adored. In the final weeks of school, she’d caught herself humming the tune during classes; tangling the lyrics up with sonnet couplets in English; solving for x and getting B-flat in math. She practiced it whenever she was alone: in the tub; in her bed; on the balcony, where her voice was lost to the sounds of traffic below. She thought she was quite good, in all honesty. But practicing Mrs. Preiss’s music was another story. There was no joy in singing if she was involved.
Olive did not have stage fright. It was more like mother fright.
Today, though, would be different. Because of the sheer number of children auditioning, family and friends were not allowed to watch the process. Olive felt a shiver of anticipation at the idea of standing on a stage and singing her own song, free from her mother’s critical gaze. She could land a good role—maybe even a leading role.
She exhaled shakily as Mrs. Preiss swung the car into a parking space. Stepping outside, Olive closed her door and patted her hair self-consciously. Hello, frizzies. The thick, humid air filled her mouth and coated her throat like the bland lentil soup that had been last night’s dinner.
Olive and her mother entered the lobby and joined the line of parents and children at the registration desk. Olive kept her eyes downcast, doing her best to ignore all the excited chatter. If anyone had tried to strike up a friendly conversation with her at that moment, they just might walk away with lentil soup on their sandals.
At the desk, Olive pulled her enrollment forms and piano sheet music out of her folder. Mrs. Preiss took them, lips pursed tight as she unclipped the check and handed it to a smiling woman. She squinted down at the forms, then up at Mrs. Preiss, and her face brightened.
“Preiss! Oh my goodness, you’re Laurel Preiss, aren’t you? The Laurel Preiss? My Dearest Bernice was the very first musical I ever saw—you were just incredible!”
Olive’s mother forced a smile. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“Of course, you were Laurel Bernstein then,” the woman continued chattering as she stamped and filed the forms. “You were, what, eleven or twelve years old? So incredible. And your daughter’s auditioning for our little camp? How exciting! I bet your fa—”
The woman’s face tightened for just a moment, and Olive looked down. She hated seeing the look on others’ faces when they remembered what had happened to her father, and she silently prayed the topic would not come up.
“Well, anyway,” the woman said, clearly flustered. “Good luck, sweetie—although I’m sure Laurel Preiss’s daughter doesn’t need luck.”
She handed Olive a tag with an audition number—eighty—and pointed them to the backstage entrance down the corridor and to the right. Olive squeezed the tag, itching to get away from her mother. She hoped she could make it through the audition without everyone finding out she was Laurel Preiss’s daughter. If Olive did well, she wanted to know it was due to her own talent.
“I know parents aren’t allowed to watch the auditions,” Mrs. Preiss said crisply. “But I was wondering if you might make an exception for me.” Olive’s head snapped up, dread seeping into her stomach like cement.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, of course!” She glanced around, then lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Come back here after you take your daughter backstage, and I’ll sneak you in.” She winked, clearly pleased with herself, and was rewarded with another thin-lipped smile.
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Preiss took Olive’s arm and led her down the hall before the woman could gush any further. Olive was in shock. Months of preparation, wasted. Now she couldn’t sing her song. She had to sing the one her mother had chosen, the way she had taught Olive to sing it. As always.
Years ago, Olive had found the clipping of a musical review published the year before she was born, tucked away in her mother’s makeup drawer.
With her striking beauty and powerful voice, it’s no surprise Laurel Preiss steals our hearts with every leading role she takes on. But there are moments when we catch a glimpse of something else—a coy look with a hint of menace; sweet words laced with a steely edge—and we can’t help but wonder if her talents might be better harnessed in a different role. As enchanting as her heroines are, imagine the delicious wickedness Laurel Preiss might unleash as a villain.
Olive had once been naïve enough to laugh at the very idea.
They stopped at the backstage entrance, and Mrs. Preiss turned to her daughter with hypercritical eyes.
“Smile,” she said sharply, adjusting Olive’s barrette again. “No, wider. There. If you walk out on that stage with a droopy face, your audition will be over before it begins.”
Olive nodded, her cheeks already aching.
“We should have gone with the blue dress,” Mrs. Preiss murmured, pinning the audition tag to Olive’s blouse. “This outfit’s a bit too…conservative.” She glanced at Olive’s face, eyes narrowing. “You look pale. A
re you feeling sick again?”
“No,” Olive lied. A pounding had begun behind her temples.
Pulling the backstage door open, Mrs. Preiss gestured for Olive to enter. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby afterward. And, Olive?”
“Yes?” Once upon a time, this was the moment her mother would soften just a bit. A quick kiss on the forehead, or a small smile and a whispered You’ll be fine. Olive stared up at her mother, a tiny ember of hope sparking in her chest.
“Check your posture. You’ve been slouching lately.”
The ember fizzled out with a hiss.
Squaring her shoulders, Olive nodded and smiled wide, wide, wide. She waited until the door clicked closed before sticking her tongue out.
She wanted to scream, or kick something, or cry in frustration. But dozens of children huddled in clusters backstage, and several more were scattered around, mouthing lyrics or singing warm-ups. So Olive stuck to the wall near a rack of costumes, scanning each face and trying to breathe normally. She didn’t recognize anyone from school, which was good. Interacting with other children came with its own kind of performance anxiety these days.
It hadn’t always been this way. Elementary school was simple enough: Olive had friends to play hopscotch with at recess, and one or two “enemies” who poked fun at the contents of her packed lunch. But her first year of middle school had been different. Olive no longer had friends or enemies. She didn’t want either. She simply existed, a ghost of a girl moving from class to class.
Olive and the Backstage Ghost Page 1
