by Alan Russell
“She’s here,” one of the observers could be heard saying. Then the heads disappeared and the curtains closed.
“It looks as if no one was sure you’d really show up,” whispered Luke.
“Since I didn’t sign up in the first place,” she said, “they would have good reason to wonder.”
“Are you worried?”
“Should I be?” she asked.
“You have a great voice,” said Luke.
“You’re not exactly impartial.”
“Even when I sing in the shower,” he said, “I don’t sound good. Every time I’ve heard you sing along with a song, you’ve somehow managed to improve it. I’ve never heard anyone else do that.”
A girl with pink hair and large black-framed glasses came down the stage stairs and made directly for them. She had eschewed a clipboard in favor of a tablet and was looking very officious. The girl came to a stop in front of Stella.
“I’m Amanda,” she said. “I’m the director. You’re Stella Pierce?”
Stella nodded.
“You haven’t been to any of our rehearsals,” Amanda said with an accusing voice.
“I wasn’t told about the rehearsals,” said Stella.
Amanda sighed. “I was beginning to doubt you’d even be performing. Did you bring your Star Trek music for us to plug in to the sound system?”
“I only brought my voice.”
“No accompaniment? You’ll only need a microphone?”
“That’s right.”
“At least that makes it easy,” she said. “We’ll need you backstage before your act is due to go on. We can mike you up then.”
“Thank you.”
“Any idea how long your set will go?”
“I imagine no more than ten minutes.”
“That’s perfect. We’ve asked all the performers to not go any longer than that.”
“I promise I won’t.”
Amanda tapped a few entries into her tablet. “Good,” she said. “See you in about and a half.”
Stella thanked her, and Amanda went running off, disappearing behind the stage curtains.
Most of the aisle seats were taken, and Luke and Stella had to settle down only three rows back from the stage. From their seats they heard the sights and sounds of the controlled chaos leading to the start of the show. During one sound check, the curtain was left partially open. The Y-Girls were apparently helping out with the production, and they saw Tiffany look their way before turning her back and not acknowledging them.
“I wonder if Tiffany knew that you’d rise to her challenge,” said Luke.
“I wonder.”
The stage lights were turned low, and a spotlight shone down to the center of the stage. Courtney Crane came out wearing a low-cut, red-sequined dress. She pretended to take umbrage at the wolf whistles directed her way, putting her hands on her hips and mock-glaring at a few of the boys who were making noise, but it was clear she relished the attention.
“Good evening, TPA!” she said. “And welcome to the thirty-second annual Torrey Pines Academy Talent Show.”
Loud applause met her announcement, and Courtney added, “Go, Evergreens!”
When the cheers died down, Courtney said, “I’m Courtney Crane, and I will be the first presenter tonight. We have a great show in store for you.”
Courtney referred to an index card, and then carefully—albeit haltingly—read, “Our first performer is sophomore Emma Wong. She is a classically trained pianist who will be playing Claude Debussy’s Clair de Lune. She says this piece was taken from Debussy’s Suite Bergamasque. Emily thought that Clair de Lune, which means ‘light of the moon,’ was perfect for tonight’s full moon.”
The spotlight faded from center stage, with softer lights shining down upon a young woman sitting on a piano bench. Her fingers moved up and down the keyboards, and from the first moments, her soft and beautiful music enthralled the audience. For more than five enchanting minutes, the young pianist played. When she finished, enthusiastic applause rewarded her efforts. As Emma rose from the piano bench, Courtney emerged from backstage, holding an opened florist’s box with a dozen long-stem roses. Emma took the flowers, hugged them tight to her chest, and then waved to the audience and hurried backstage.
When the applause subsided, Courtney introduced the next act. “I think we all know Will the Thrill Ravines, Jake the Snake Keating, Isaac I. Sack Fuller, and Gabriel Go Gomez from their exploits on the football field,” she said, “but now we get to see them in a whole new light with their quartet called Styling.”
Four boys bounded out to the stage looking like the quintessential barbershop quartet. All of them sported white linen blazers and pants, along with red, white, and blue straw boater hats. Their faces were half-covered by the props of fake handlebar mustaches that each of them made a point of stroking.
Will called the quartet to order by blowing on a pitch pipe, and the foursome displayed their harmonizing with the lead, bass, tenor, and baritone. That led them into “My Darling Clementine.” They were midway through the song when everything changed. The quartet tossed aside their hats, ripped off their mustaches, and showed their Chippendale moves upon stripping off their coats. Their careful harmonies were suddenly reconstructed into the rants and riffs of rapping. From the audience, students began hooting and dancing in their seats while listening to the vocal editorials being rapped over a throbbing bass and loud drums. As the rapping ran its course, the background instrumentals grew softer. The audience began to applaud, assuming the performance was over, but Will once again produced his pitch pipe, and the quartet managed to segue into the song “Shine On Silver Moon.”
When Styling finished singing, there was a long and loud ovation. The foursome tossed their straw boater hats Frisbee-like into the audience; then each of them gave Courtney an enthusiastic hug as they gathered their boxes of chocolates.
“Life is like a box of chocolates,” shouted Jake Keating as he left the stage with his chocolates held aloft.
The next act was introduced by Kimberly, and as the show continued, different Y-Girls came out to introduce each new act. Luke and Stella watched troupes of dancers, a yo-yo performer, gymnasts, a comedian, and singers and musicians. Everyone got roses or chocolates, depending on their sex.
“I guess it’s time,” Stella whispered to Luke as the tenth act was leaving the stage.
“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked.
She shook her head. He touched his index and middle finger to his lips, blew a kiss her way, and said, “Break a leg.”
At Stella’s look of confusion, he said, “It means good luck.”
She departed with a smile on her face.
Luke watched her walk up the aisle. The moment she disappeared from sight, he began to second-guess his decision not to go backstage with her. I’m just overreacting, he tried to tell himself. But he grew even more uneasy when he saw that Tiffany was to be the closing presenter for the evening. As she emerged onto the stage, it was clear the queen bee wasn’t about to be upstaged by anyone. Tiffany was wearing a half-red, half-silver costume. The red half made her look like a devil, including one horn; the silver half made her look like an angel, complete with half a halo. Her wig of long hair was similarly divided between red and silver. The red side of her dress was short to the point of being risqué; the silver side was below the knee. Half her blouse was see-through; the other half was modest. She was wearing black fishnet stockings and red stiletto heels.
“Devil?” she asked the audience, pointing to her red side. “Or angel?”
The boys in the crowd reacted predictably, screaming for the devil to come out.
Tiffany pretended she couldn’t hear. The second time around, she pointed to her angel side, then pointed to the devil. She accentuated the devil side with a bump and grind, which landed her another ovation.
Luke hoped that Tiffany had gotten her fill of attention, but he doubted it was enough. It never was. She’d probably s
till take some kind of shot at Stella. He tried to think what she might have planned, and found himself looking up in the rafters to see if there was a hanging bucket. The week before, he’d seen the movie Carrie playing on the TCM channel. He remembered how a bucket of pig’s blood had been positioned over the stage, and just as Carrie’s Cinderella moment arrived and she was pronounced prom queen, the bucket of blood was dumped on her.
Luckily, thought Luke, Tiffany didn’t seem to have watched the movie or read Stephen King’s book. There was no bucket of blood to be seen. But the uneasy feeling in his gut wouldn’t go away. He knew Tiffany. She didn’t need Stephen King to tell her how to target someone.
Backstage, Amanda finished testing Stella’s microphone. “One more time,” she said.
“Testing one, two, three,” said Stella.
“That’s perfect,” said Amanda.
“One of the lights isn’t activating,” Amanda’s assistant yelled, and the director hurried away to help, leaving Stella standing by herself. From her vantage point of stage right, Stella watched Tiffany talking to the audience and acting out her dilemma of being an angel or devil. The other Y-Girls were also watching Tiffany from backstage, but they were positioned stage left. The Y-Girls acted delighted with their friend’s performance.
Finally, Tiffany got around to introducing the next performer, a junior juggler named Evan Rosenbluth.
“I’ve always admired men who know how to throw their balls in the air,” said Tiffany.
When the groundlings responded, she said, “What? What?” Then she added with a wink, “The devil made me do it!”
Stella was having trouble listening, and not just because of Tiffany’s pandering. She was distracted by something that felt ugly. Its presence came at her like a bad smell, although there was no odor attached to it. She took a few breaths, opening her mind to what was out there. Then she identified its source, or part of it at least. Guy Wilkerson was in the audience. She was certain of that, even without seeing him. His ugly intentions couldn’t be contained within his body. His foulness was seeping out, a toxicity that felt poisonous to her.
Once again, Stella’s awareness heightened. Like it or not, voices raised themselves in her head. It wasn’t only Wilkerson’s ugliness; there was this miasma of malice weighing upon her spirit. Again, she tried to open her mind to find its source. That’s when Courtney glanced at her for a moment, only to look away guiltily. But Stella clearly heard the other girl’s thoughts: Wait until Tiffany gives her the box.
The flower box, thought Stella. Her eyes settled on the remaining box of flowers. The box was closed, but the evil intentions surrounding it could not be contained.
“Tonight Evan will be doing his juggling to the music of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Modern Major-General,” Tiffany said.
As Tiffany concluded her introduction, the Gilbert and Sullivan music began to play, and the juggling act commenced. Everyone was looking at the stage except for Stella. She was staring at the florist’s box. Opening it would give her no pleasure, she knew, but it would be better to deal with what was inside of it on her own terms.
As Tiffany rejoined the Y-Girls and accepted all their praise, Stella walked toward the card table that was now empty save for one box of chocolates and one florist’s box. There was no mistaking what was meant for her. Her name had been printed on the florist’s box with a silver Sharpie. As she reached for it, Stella felt a venomous thought hurling her way: Bitch!
The surge of ill will was now accompanied by a voice: “What are you doing?”
Stella wasn’t deterred. She ignored Tiffany’s question and opened the box. Inside were twelve rose stems to be sure, but they seemed to have been selected only for their abundance of thorns. There were no flowers. Hanging on the thorns were impaled frogs. The still creatures stared at Stella; she looked back in pity.
The up-tempo music of Gilbert and Sullivan continued, and with it the pace of the juggling. There was a backstage monitor showing what was happening onstage. So many balls in the air, thought Stella. She was grateful for the music. It helped drown out the toxic chorus of Y-Girl thoughts.
I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,
I know the croaking chorus from the Frogs of Aristophanes!
Then I can hum a fugue of which I’ve heard the music’s din afore,
And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.
Stella closed the box. She shook her head, then turned toward the Y-Girls. Her look didn’t accuse; it pitied. Most of the group turned away from her glance, but not Tiffany. There was no way she was going to let Space Girl look at her dismissively.
Tiffany crossed the divide between them, closing the distance until she stood in front of Stella.
For a moment the Y-Girls hesitated to follow her, but then Courtney said, “Let’s go,” and Kimberly, Brittany, Emily, Cassidy, and Sherry all closed ranks. As they gathered behind Tiffany, the closing lyrics of a “Modern Major-General” played.
For my military knowledge, though I’m plucky and adventury,
Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;
But still in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.
Tiffany seemed to unconsciously pick up the cadence of the song, offering up a staccato rant directly in Stella’s face.
“You think your Princess Leia act makes you special, don’t you?” said Tiffany. “But it’s not working, and you know why? It’s because you’re crazy. Shouldn’t you be going back to the asylum you came from?”
“I’m afraid you are right about that,” said Stella, and then handed her the rose box. “This is yours,” she said. “You need to own it.”
Tiffany automatically took the box, but then dropped it on the table, acting like she’d been burned.
“I don’t believe in your space voodoo,” said Tiffany. But then she was clearly distracted. “What’s all that croaking?”
“Maybe it’s the frogs of Aristophanes,” whispered Stella.
“What?” Tiffany could barely hear over the croaking sounds, which seemed to be springing up from everywhere.
“Tiffany!” hissed Amanda, waving at her and gesturing to the stage. “Get out there now!”
The juggler had long finished, and the audience was beginning to stir. Tiffany reached for her hair, making sure it was in place, and smoothed her outfit. As she started toward the stage, Tiffany abruptly jumped to the side, as if reacting to the warning rattle of a rattlesnake. She landed awkwardly on her stiletto heels, snapping one of them off. Cursing, she wobbled out to the stage on unsteady legs.
Tiffany pretended not to hear the laughter at her drunken gait. In an overloud voice that had the audience covering their ears, she said, “Let’s give another big hand to Evan.”
As the audience applauded, Tiffany’s head jerked from side to side.
“Frogs,” she said.
A few in the audience tittered, wondering if Tiffany had lost it. She was looking to her right and left and covering her ears.
Then she shouted, “Can you hear me?”
The audience response of “Yes” was sustained and substantial, even though Tiffany seemed to have trouble hearing it.
“We have one final performer,” she said, and then began speaking louder again, as if trying to drown out some sound.
“If you think this last performer is out of this world,” Tiffany said, “then she’d tell you there’s a good reason for that. Singing for you is Stella Pierce, who has been lost in space for the last seven years.”
Tiffany gave Stella a wide berth as she hobbled offstage. She kept looking around, apparently distracted by something.
As Stella positioned herself in the middle of the stage, she acknowledged the uncertain applause. Her presence was still, contained, and her clothes were understated. She had on a batik blouse, jeans, and high-top cloth sneakers. Her long blonde hair was contained in a
single braid.
In a soft voice, she said, “I would like to say that I haven’t been lost in space. As for whether I’ve been found, I guess the jury is still out.”
Some clapping followed her response, and Stella looked out over the audience. There were a lot of cameras taking in her every move. She caught Luke’s eye, and smiled for him. Then she looked to the very back of the audience. Guy Wilkerson was in the shadows, but he was not hidden from her.
Stella decided on her swan song. It was a late choice, but she thought it was the right choice. When she left the stage, it would be for good. She would return to the universe one way or another.
In the stillness, she raised her right hand, lifting it high, as if reaching for the sky, and then both of her hands began to move, almost as if she was weaving something. Music seemingly emerged from her fingertips, an eerie sound that carried throughout the auditorium. The music didn’t seem to be coming from the speakers. Some in the audience tried muting the sound by lifting their hands to their ears, but that didn’t shut out the notes. The music was in their heads.
From backstage, Tiffany screamed, “Get out!” But she couldn’t get rid of her demon that way. Tiffany ran over to the pink-haired director. “Cut the witch’s mike! Cut it!”
Amanda tried to lower the volume on her soundboard, but that wasn’t good enough for Tiffany. She pulled the plug on Stella, shutting down all sound from the speakers. But that didn’t stop the music.
“Is she playing a theremin?” asked a grandmother who had come to see her granddaughter dance.
“What’s a theremin?” asked the student sitting next to her.
But the old woman didn’t have the words to respond; tears were falling down her cheeks as she imagined she was hearing the chorales of angels.
And then words came out of Stella’s mouth; some recognized the lyrics to the song “Mad World,” but no one in the audience had ever heard a song sung like this one. The barriers and laws of time and space and gravity no longer existed. It wasn’t enough for the audience to walk in Stella’s shoes; she took them with her on her journey.
