Olive and the Backstage Ghost

by Michelle Schusterman

  She moved that way now, slipping around the costume rack, avoiding eye contact with anyone who looked overly friendly. She peered through the curtains and saw a teenage boy standing center stage. A few adults sat in the front row, and Olive immediately recognized a red-haired woman as the theater camp director from her photo in the brochure. Children who had already auditioned were laughing and chatting in groups throughout the auditorium. Olive imagined her mother in the crowd, and her stomach clenched.

  “Number fifty-two, Ernie Smith…ready?”

  The boy gave a little salute, and the director smiled. She gestured to the pianist in the orchestra pit, a young man with heavy-lidded eyes who looked as though he needed a few extra hours of sleep. As the opening chords sounded, Olive backed away from the curtains. She hurried to a quiet, dark corner and sank to the floor next to an oversize wardrobe. A prop, she thought distantly, tracing a finger over the painted wood. She decided to distract herself by focusing on the show rather than the audition and her mother’s presence.

  Olive loved that moment when the house lights dimmed and the curtain rose and the audience saw not actors in costumes surrounded by set pieces, but living, breathing characters in a whole different world. She wanted desperately to be a part of that. To walk onto a stage and become someone else entirely. But how could she become someone else, someone better, when her mother was always there to point out her flaws?

  “Number fifty-three?”

  Olive’s heart thumped extrahard. Leaning against the wardrobe, she closed her eyes and tried to master herself. So what if her mother was watching? Olive might never be good enough for Mrs. Preiss, but she could be good enough for theater camp. She could march out on that stage and tell the pianist not to bother with the sheet music, because she would be singing a cappella.

  And then she would sing her song. Perhaps she’d impress the director or even catch the eye of a talent scout. Starring roles in major productions, taking the stage at the city’s most illustrious theaters, fame and fortune…that could be Olive’s destiny. And she didn’t have to follow the path her mother had laid out to get there.

  The thought filled Olive with hope. But each time the director called the next audition number, the knot in her stomach tightened. At fifty-eight, her hands started to shake. At sixty-six, her pulse thrummed in her ears. At seventy-nine, Olive seriously considered just hiding in the wardrobe for the entirety of the camp. And then…

  “Number eighty?”

  Somehow, Olive stood. She headed onto the stage with an odd feeling of detachment. The red-haired director beamed up at her.

  “Olive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Olive Preiss?” A few heads looked up at this emphasis on her last name, and Olive silently willed the director not to say anything about her mother.

  “Yes.” Suddenly, Olive realized she wasn’t smiling. Panicking, she compensated by grinning so hard her cheeks stung. In the fourth row, a few girls giggled. The director shot them a warning look over her shoulder before turning back to Olive.

  “Okay, then!” she said cheerfully. “Here we go….”

  The pianist, yawning widely, nodded. Olive opened her mouth to tell them she’d changed her selection. But against her will, her eyes darted around the auditorium until they fell on a lone figure standing in the back, half hidden in shadow. Olive could feel her mother’s gaze locked on her. The opening chords to the song Mrs. Preiss had selected sounded.

  Olive didn’t even inhale. Bright spots danced in front of her eyes as her cue came and went.

  Looking concerned, the director waved at the pianist to stop. “Are you okay, Olive?”

  No, Olive wanted to scream. But her head moved up and down like a puppet’s instead.

  “Shall we try again?”

  Nod, nod, nod. Olive heard a few more muffled giggles, saw her mother take a step forward. She felt feverish under the lights, her starchy blouse and skirt scratching her skin. The pianist plunked out the opening chords once more, and Olive felt the sudden urge to scream, That’s not my song!

  At the cue, she drew a breath. But the first line came out shrill, and her voice cracked on the second. She trailed off to more laughter, tears burning her eyes.

  The director twisted around in her seat, scowling and hushing the others. When she turned back, Olive had already fled the stage.

  The sky hung low and gray as Olive sprinted from the arts center, past the poster-covered bus stop, and down the street. She slowed after two blocks, wiping her eyes. The humidity settled on her skin and coated her lungs as she made her way deeper into the theater district. With each street she crossed, the advertisements grew larger, flashier, brighter. They weren’t all for musicals, though most were. Or maybe Olive’s eyes just found those faster. Despite bad times, people were still willing to spend some of their hard-earned money on entertainment. They were just pickier now, and theaters fought for their attention with increasingly desperate promises of glitz and glamour.

  Excited tourists and harried locals bustled around her, a cacophony of snapping cameras, jabbing elbows, and muttered obscenities. The distant rumble of thunder did little to thin out the crowd. Olive wandered aimlessly, shoulders hunched, head down as if the storm had already begun. A fat drop splashed against her arm, then her cheek. Turning off onto a smaller, quieter street, Olive peered around for a place to hide, maybe a bookshop or café. Her gaze fell on a marquee that read:

  Another warm drop of water trickled down Olive’s forehead as she approached the theater. It wasn’t particularly large, as the city’s theaters went. Old but elegant, with a grand staircase, thick granite columns, and a mosaic of greens, blues, and browns adorning the facade like jewels. It glimmered enticingly. Perhaps this was one of the few places left still untouched by hard times.

  One of the thick double doors stood slightly ajar. The rainfall increased from sporadic to steady, and Olive made up her mind. She hurried up the steps and pulled the doors open. The downpour began with a crash of thunder the moment she stepped inside.

  Olive closed the doors, the click echoing off the black-and-white marble floor. She glanced around the empty lobby nervously. It was larger than she’d expected; not so much in width but in length, stretching back to another set of grand double doors to the auditorium. Wrought-iron chandeliers hung overhead, draped with…cobwebs?

  Olive’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. Squinting harder, she realized they were actually delicate strands of shimmering crystals, and she laughed a little at her mistake.

  “Hello?” she called, taking a few hesitant steps. No one answered. Monday, Olive realized: most theaters were closed on Mondays. But the doors had been open. Surely someone was here.

  When she passed the first of several stately white columns, Olive gasped. A large portrait hung on the wall to her right—a woman with dark curls and wide, glittering eyes, glancing coyly over her bare shoulder. Her lipsticked lips were curved in a small smile, but most of her face was hidden in shadow.

  Olive gazed at her for a moment, then continued forward. Different portraits of the same glamorous woman lined the walls between the columns. When Olive reached the doors to the auditorium, she glanced at the portrait on her left. The woman’s head was tilted back in easy laughter, her eyes dancing with mirth.

  A lightness filled Olive for the first time that day. She pulled the doors open and let out a small cry of astonishment.

  It wasn’t the largest hall she’d ever seen, but it was by far the most beautiful. The seats and curtains were a rich plum, the candelabras and railings bronze. The high, domed ceiling featured intricate carvings that, from this distance, formed a pattern resembling feathery wings.

  Many of the city’s theaters had begun to look run-down, and a few had even closed permanently. But this, this looked the way all theaters had looked to Olive back when money was unlimited, when everything was lavish and luxurious and easy and everyone believed life would be this way forever and ever.

  Oli
ve wandered down the aisle, brushing her fingers along the backs of the chairs and stirring up flurries of dust particles that sparkled in the soft light emanating from a lamp on the stage. She heard the muffled, distant sound of the thunderstorm, steady rainfall punctuated by the occasional rumble or whisper….

  Freezing, Olive glanced around the empty hall. She’d heard someone whisper; she was sure of it. Her eyes searched every corner before she continued, more cautiously now, toward the front.

  The orchestra pit contained a few chairs and an old upright piano, sheet music stacked neatly on top. Olive began climbing the steps to the stage, tripping when the pages rustled. She spun around and caught a glimpse of something—a flutter of movement accompanied by the scuttling sound of a feather-light spider. And now a single sheet of music stood at the ready, leaning against the rack over the piano keys.

  Olive blinked, casting a wary eye around the hall again before stepping onto the stage and walking to the center. Taking a deep breath, she faced the empty hall and imagined every seat filled. This was a stage on which one could become someone else, a character in a different, better world.

  The silence felt larger than the theater itself—even the storm outside had quieted. Yet still, there was a sense of anticipation here, one Olive thought must be inherent to any performance hall. The feeling that a collective breath was being held, waiting for the first note.

  Without thinking about it, as if she’d meant to do it all along, Olive began to sing.

  The lyrics, her lyrics, spilled out effortlessly. Her voice filled the hall, spreading out past every row and up into the balconies until it reached every corner. By the time the last note escaped her, Olive was beaming and breathless. She listened to the echo of her own voice fade somewhere up in the domed ceiling. This was the happiest she’d felt in almost a year.

  Then a shadow stirred in the far left corner of the hall, and fear seized her by the throat.

  Somehow, her mother had found her.

  Olive’s mind reeled for an explanation, an apology. But when the figure moved down the aisle into the light, words failed her completely. This was most definitely not her mother.

  The beautiful woman from the portraits stood in the aisle, dark and elegant. She was tall, very tall, and her crimson lips were curved in the widest smile Olive had ever seen.

  “Thank you for that lovely audition, darling,” she said, her voice low and throaty. “I believe I have just the part for you.”

  Olive gaped at the woman. “A-audition?” she stammered, the word round and clumsy in her mouth. “I wasn’t auditioning.”

  The woman arched a black eyebrow. “Weren’t you?” she asked pleasantly. “Forgive me. When someone stands on my stage and offers the perfect song, I suppose it’s only natural for me to assume she wants a part in my show.”

  The perfect song.

  Flushed, Olive squeezed her hands to stop her fingers from trembling. “I didn’t mean to…it was raining, and…” She tried to swallow it back, but the question burst out. “You thought that was perfect?”

  The smile grew wider. “Perfect for you, of course. I’m Maude Devore, my dear. May I ask your name?”

  “Olive Preiss.”

  “Hello, Olive Preiss.” Maude began climbing the stairs, and Olive heard another flurry of whispers. Startled, she glanced out at the empty seats. When she turned back, the woman loomed over her. Olive inhaled shakily, the warm scent of flowers and fresh dirt tickling her nostrils.

  Just as in her portraits, Maude Devore was all paint and powder: liquid black hair piled high on her head, with a few soft, loose curls contrasting her scalpel-slash cheekbones; shimmering chartreuse swiped beneath arched, penciled brows; and the reddest lipstick imaginable, which made her broad mouth appear broader and her many, many teeth shine whiter.

  “If you weren’t auditioning for my show,” Maude said, brushing a speck of dust off her skirt with a casual flick, “may I ask what brought you here?”

  Olive’s mouth opened and closed. She was here to wait out the storm…but of course, there was more. Much more. The whole story spilled out before Olive could stop herself: her controlling, critical mother; the disastrous audition; fleeing in humiliation.

  “I’m so sorry I just walked in like this,” Olive finished breathlessly. “I didn’t mean to come up here and start singing. It just…happened.”

  “Of course it did,” Maude agreed. “Because you, Olive, are a performer. That is what we do.” She stepped closer, and Olive caught another whiff of garden scent. It reminded her of the pot of red chrysanthemums her father used to keep on the desk in his study. “Regardless of what brought you here, my offer stands,” Maude said. “As it happens, my show stars a child. And you, darling, are absolutely perfect for the role.”

  Olive swayed slightly. “Me?”

  “You.” Maude smiled again. “I’m in a bit of a tight spot, you see, and I think we might be able to help each other out. My former star moved on rather unexpectedly, and I haven’t been able to find a worthy replacement. If you were to take on that role, I—and my cast—would be so grateful. And I would be happy to keep your participation a secret, at least for now. Your mother doesn’t need to know.” Maude gestured to the empty chairs. “Until opening night, of course.”

  Staring at the auditorium, Olive imagined a packed house, all eyes on her.

  “We can invite her if you wish,” Maude whispered. “And she’ll see how magnificent you really are.”

  Olive’s head felt fuzzy. This was entirely too easy. No one, absolutely no one, simply walked into a theater to be handed a role—a starring role. But standing in this beautiful hall, flushed from finally having sung her song and basking in praise she never heard at home, Olive felt herself nodding in agreement.

  “Okay.”

  Maude’s lips curved up once more.

  “Wonderful.”

  Turning, she glided across the stage toward the stairs, and Olive hurried after her. Maude continued talking as they made their way back to the lobby, but Olive hardly heard a word. She followed in a daze until a flutter against her elbow caused her to jump in fright.

  Olive spun in a circle, staring wildly around the lobby. Something had fallen near her feet: a coil of measuring tape.

  “Ah, I apologize.” Maude sounded amused. “My seamstresses are getting ahead of themselves, taking your measurements already.”

  “Seamstresses?” Olive repeated. “Where? I didn’t see anyone.”

  “As is often the case with ghosts.” Maude laughed at Olive’s expression. “Come now, darling. Every theater has its ghosts—surely you know that by now.”

  Olive did know. Most theaters in the city were rumored to be haunted—and everyone knew that the more ghosts a theater had, the better its reputation. After all, nothing attested to the quality of a performance hall more than the refusal of its artists to depart it, even in death. The Alcazar, where Mrs. Preiss had often performed, famously saved a single seat at every show for the ghost of its very first producer. Several theaters were known to light candles backstage to ward off malevolent spirits of former actors who might steal the show from the living. Olive had a clear memory of actually seeing a ghost onstage once, when she was seven and her parents had season tickets to Crescent Court Theater. A man in a pinstripe suit who had most certainly not been in the show had nonetheless taken a bow during curtain call with the cast—then vanished. Olive’s parents hadn’t noticed, but Olive heard the couple behind them whispering about the apparition. Apparently, he was the ghost of a well-known actor who’d performed at the theater decades earlier until a tragic prop mishap resulted in his rather dramatic onstage demise.

  But Olive had never had such a close encounter before. She cast another nervous glance around the lobby, rubbing the spot where the measuring tape had grazed her elbow. “Are they nice?” she asked timidly. “The ghosts?”

  “Oh, very,” Maude answered. “I wouldn’t allow them to stay otherwise.”

 
They reached the doors, and Maude smiled down at Olive.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

  A tingling spread through Olive’s chest, and she nodded. “Yes. And thank you!”

  Olive yanked the doors open and then hurried down the steps. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, silver light shining along the edge of the clouds. Olive floated through the streets like a helium balloon, filled to bursting with happiness. Forget theater camp—she was going to be part of a real show. In a haunted theater, no less. And her mother had no idea.

  Olive made her way back through the theater district with Maude’s Cheshire Cat smile still dancing in her vision.

  The parking space was empty.

  Confused, Olive gazed at the spot where her mother had parked the car. Maude’s encouraging words had rung in her ears the whole walk back to the arts center. But as the fog of Maudeville lifted, realization began to dawn. Over an hour had passed since Olive had fled her audition without a word to anyone. And now Mrs. Preiss was gone.

  Squinting at the arts center’s entrance, Olive wondered if she should ask someone inside for help. Auditions were still going on, after all. She imagined slinking back in, the daughter of one of the city’s theater legends, who couldn’t even get through an audition—the whispers, the stares, the laughter….

  Olive hesitated, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt. Then she turned away from the center. She didn’t have money for the bus, but she could walk home. It wasn’t too far.

  The hot midafternoon sun beat down on her as she trudged block after block. Her damp hair stuck to her forehead, sweat causing her starchy blouse to cling to her skin as if magnetized. Olive breathed a sigh of relief when she finally saw the city’s oldest library up ahead. The stately gray building sat on the outskirts of the historic district—a left turn and three more blocks, and she’d be home.

  When Olive turned onto her street at last, the sight of a police car parked in front of her building sent a chill through her despite the heat.