There was no good way to end this conversation. Besides, my stomach was growling.
“Arguing is a waste of time,” I said. “You’re gonna do what you’re gonna do. But if you wreck the show—so help me…”
“So help you, what?” Emma glared.
So help me, I had no idea. But theater is about making it look good, putting emotion across, digging in and inhabiting the character. By now I could do that.
“Slash! Thrust! Parry!” I did the sword-fight tango. “I know a thing or two about combat, Emma. Just keep that in mind.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
(SCENE: Dining room, early evening. NOAH and DAD are eating takeout Chinese food for dinner.)
NOAH (looking at his mom’s usual place): Where’s Mom again?
DAD: Department dinner. Those English professors will yak for hours.
NOAH: Physics professors don’t yak?
DAD: We write equations on the whiteboard.
NOAH (skeptical): Seriously?
DAD: No. We yak too. How was rehearsal today?
NOAH: It was cool. We have a set now. It’s awesome.
DAD: That’s good news. I’m looking forward to seeing it. Performance is coming right up, isn’t it?
NOAH (doesn’t look up, serves himself from takeout carton): Unh-hunh.
DAD: Noah, uh… you seem a little, I don’t know, distracted. Are you still disappointed you’re not playing Hamlet?
NOAH: Who says I was ever disappointed?
(DAD looks at NOAH, raises eyebrows—were you?)
NOAH (one-shoulder shrug): Maybe a little. (He recovers.) But, Dad, I not only play Fortinbras and Gravedigger One, but I also play Rosencrantz.
DAD: Slimy character, that guy, along with his good pal Guildenstern.
NOAH (nods): That’s what Mike says.
DAD (takes bite, chews): Oh yes?
NOAH: The two of them used to be Hamlet’s friends, but now they’re secretly working for the bad guy, Claudius.
DAD: Your Mike’s insightful, I think. I’ve always believed you can read Hamlet as a warning to young people: Beware of the old! They don’t want to hand over power. They do sneaky, wretched things to keep it.
NOAH (nods): Mike says that, too, which is why there’s so much spying. Old Polonius is the worst. He spies on his own children. He spies on Hamlet.
DAD (stops eating, looks at NOAH, blinks): Your Mike says that?
NOAH: My Mike? (He grins at DAD.) Sure, okay. My Mike. But how come you look like the old lady who swallowed a fly?
DAD (recovers, smiles, shakes head): Because most people when they talk about that play, they talk about memory or revenge. Up till now, I only knew one other person who saw the old-versus-young angle.
NOAH (mouth full, more interested in last bites of stir-fry than literary theory): Oh yeah? Who?
DAD (picks up water glass, drinks, wipes lips, resets, spears bite with fork): Nobody that important. Besides, he’s long gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Friday, Rehearsal Week Five, 7 Days till Performance
Miss Magnus went to New York City over spring break to see shows and was crossing Broadway, not even jaywalking, when a taxi hit her and broke her leg in three places, and that’s how it started.
Remember?
If it seems long ago, I’m with you, but the point is that one apparently random, unconnected thing, such as that taxi, can trigger a cascade of bloody and unnatural acts, accidental judgments, and casual slaughters. (Act five.)
And that’s exactly how it worked—more or less—when Mr. Garrier, my math teacher, delayed my arrival at rehearsal.
If you’ve wondered how I, an average sixth grader, could possibly keep up with all the demands of Hamlet, as well as Nate-the-Great detecting, preventing Emma from blabbing about Mike, and snacks, and homework, the answer is I didn’t.
And guess what suffered?
If you said snacks, you have never met a sixth-grade boy.
The right answer is homework, duh, and after school that day Mr. Garrier asked me—already on my feet and moving fast toward the door—to stay back one minute for a chat.
“I have rehearsal,” I said, still in motion.
“Do the words ‘summer school’ mean anything to you?” he asked.
I stopped, turned around, faced Mr. Garrier.
“Glad to have your attention,” he said. “Your math grade is in free fall. What are you going to do about it?”
“Try harder?” I suggested.
“Look, I realize you’re busy. I’m looking forward to the play myself. Still, I doubt you want to spend your summer in math class.”
“Summer is sacred,” I said.
“My sentiments too, and so I have a proposal.” Mr. Garrier nodded at some papers on the corner of his desk. “Here lie a few extra-credit worksheets to complete by Monday.”
He picked up the worksheets, handed them over. I swear there were a hundred. How could I possibly find time to do them this weekend—Hell Weekend, when the Plattsfield-Winklebottom Memorial Sixth-Grade Players would be at rehearsal day and night?
And speaking of rehearsal, I had to get going. We were working on the graveyard scene that day. Gravedigger One (me!) was kind of important.
If I was late, Mike would be annoyed and Mia would kill me.
“No problem, Mr. Garrier,” I lied, heading for the door. “Thanks a lot. See you Monday.”
Down the hallway, out the door, across the courtyard, up the steps—I ran to the aud in record time, expecting Mike to be frowning and Mia to be yelling, which in the end would have been preferable because what I actually saw was this: Emma onstage about to deliver a special recitation.
“I expect you’re wondering why I have called you here today—” Emma said.
“No one’s wondering. It’s rehearsal. Get to the point.” That was Mia, in case you had any doubt. She was onstage trading lethal looks with Emma. Everyone else was sitting in the first two rows of the house.
The interruption gave me my chance. Create a distraction! Go big or go home! Keep Emma from wrecking the show!
It was up to me, Noah McNichol.
“Hello! Hello! Hello! Sorry I’m late. What did I miss? Yorick still dead?”
It was boffo, if I do say so myself.
Only Emma wasn’t impressed. “It won’t work, Noah.” She turned her lethal look on me.
“Oh yes? What about this?” Someone had left a sword among the headstones. I gripped it, brandished it, cried: “En garde!”
Up in the booth, the holy spirit was watching because—bzzzzz—he let there be light, specifically a spotlight on me, Noah McNichol. Emma stepped back, and the audience gasped. For a moment I waved my sword, my triumph in sight.
Then Emma parried with an age-old trick.
She rolled her eyes.
And, like that, my spotlight dimmed. “Your sword’s not real, Noah,” she said. “None of this is real. Not the headstones, not the chapel, not Elsinore. And as for your director—”
“Don’t say it!” Clive called from his seat in the house.
“He’s as fake as everything else,” Emma said. “He claims he’s a ghost, and he’s not.”
Brianna squealed. “A ghost?”
“Cool!” said Eddie Muir.
“Heck yeah!” said Diego, and after that there were lots of comments, and soon the aud got noisy.
“Besides that”— Emma raised her voice to be heard —“Noah and Clive know all about it, and they’re so dumb, they believe him.”
“Clive and I are not the dumb ones,” I said, wishing I still had my spotlight, “just by the way. And maybe you’ve forgotten, but you and I had a deal, which makes you a dirty, low-down, thieving double-crosser.”
This line was not from Hamlet. I think maybe I borrowed it from another classic, SpongeBob SquarePants.
“Just wait till I tell my parents,” Emma said, and then, even without the help of the holy spirit, I thought I saw some light.
> “You haven’t told them yet?” I said.
“Mike has one more chance to give in to my demand.” Emma had crossed her arms over her chest.
“Demand?” From behind a headstone came a voice, disembodied at first. But then Mike himself appeared, and he looked the same as usual, his too too solid flesh in no danger either of melting or resolving into dew. (Act one.)
“She wants to go back to the old script, the No-Trauma script,” I explained.
“No, I don’t. Not anymore. My demand is different now because, uh… something happened,” Emma said.
What was she talking about?
“I think I know what she means,” Mia said, and, ever helpful, she held up her phone so we could all see.
“No, wait. Don’t show them!” Emma said. “Don’t look, everybody!”
Everybody looked. The mysterious D. Avventura had made another masterpiece, #EmmaIsPolonius, thirteen seconds in which still photos of regular Emma—at lunch, in class, in the hallway—morphed into the character of Polonius. The first images showed Emma herself at rehearsal, then there was a series of what must’ve been actors who played him in the movies, even Zazu, the bird in The Lion King. The end was a clip of Emma falling down dead, thud, and behind it the sound of slow clapping.
Technically, it was good, I guess. And it was funny too—clever. Still, I wasn’t sure how I would’ve felt if it had been about me.
“Oh, come on, Emma,” said Sarah. “It’s not like we haven’t seen it a thousand times already. It’s a D. Avventura classic!”
“You’ve all seen it?” Emma said weakly.
“Not me,” I said, and then, because Emma looked like she might stumble, I grabbed her elbow. “Here. Sit in Gertrude’s chair. And, uh… take deep breaths or whatever.”
“So, Emma—Miss Jessel. What is your demand?” Mike asked, and—even though she’d been threatening him two seconds ago—his voice was kind.
Emma looked around desperately, like what she wanted now was escape.
Then she shocked us all.
“I want to play Ophelia! I want to be young and glamorous and crazy, not a pompous old man.” She looked at Madeline. “Please! Just this one tiny favor and I’ll never ask you for anything again for the rest of my life? I swear!”
It was like watching tennis or something. Everybody had been looking at Emma, and now we turned to Madeline, whose face showed confusion then concern. This lasted about a nanosecond. “No, Emma. Just no.”
Of course, Emma could never play Ophelia, not even if Madeline had said okay. It was too late for such a big change. Still, even I had to feel bad for Emma. She was so upset.
After that, it was Mike who did something surprising.
He turned to Diego, gave him a stern look. “Mr. Arcati? Do you have anything you’d like to tell us?”
Diego adjusted his beret, which that day was tan with a plaid pattern. “Heck no,” he said, but without the usual energy. “I mean, it wasn’t me.”
And the way he said it, you could tell it meant exactly the opposite. Diego had made the PicPoc.
Mike raised his eyebrows.
Then he raised Diego. That is, he—Mike—tilted his face upward, and as he did, Diego rose as well—one foot, two feet, three feet into the air. On cue, the holy spirit gave him a spotlight, too.
“Hey! No!” cried Diego. Motionless at first, he was flailing now. His beret slipped sideways and dropped to the stage, then his round glasses. “Put me down! OMG, you really are a ghost!”
Brianna—skittish, easily freaked-out Brianna—put it together before anybody else: “Diego is D. Avventura!”
“Of course!” said somebody, and, “That kid? No way!” and, “Shoulda known!”
“Okay, okay, I made the PicPoc,” Diego cried. “But I didn’t mean to be mean or anything. It was more of an… an homage.”
A what?
Mike grinned, tried to stifle it, failed. “Oh, is that what it was? Did you perhaps think about how Ms. Jessel would receive it?”
“I thought she’d be flattered? Can I come down now?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mike nodded. Diego dropped.
“In the future, think before you post, Mr. Arcati,” Mike said. “From now on, if you don’t, someone just might be watching… from beyond the grave.”
A far-off organ played a minor chord, the footlights flickered like candles, bat shadows flitted among the clouds above, thunder boomed. Was the holy ghost in the booth fooling around?
Or was Mike?
Either way, the Plattsfield-Winklebottom Memorial Sixth-Grade Players stood in silence, stunned, their hearts—like mine—pounding.
Then Eddie Muir turned on Emma, palms upraised. “Are you crazy? Being directed by a ghost is the best thing ever!”
Emma replied, “There’s no such thing as ghosts,” but her voice was meek.
“So,” Mike asked, all business, “are we good here? Any questions?”
“What the heck is homage?” Clive asked.
Now Mike grinned for real. “A tribute?”
Clive nodded and translated. “Props,” he said.
For a few moments, the silence persisted, and I don’t mind telling you I felt dizzy. Mike was a ghost, everybody knew it, Emma didn’t want the old script, she wanted to play Ophelia, Diego, aka D. Avventura, had been levitated before our eyes… and now we were just going to rehearse like normal?
Yes, except…
There would be one more surprise in the graveyard that afternoon.
“No time for questions.” Mia waved the clipboard. “Places, everybody. Brianna? Noah? This is act five. The scene is Elsinore, a graveyard.”
By this time it was reflex to follow Mia’s orders. Fuli grabbed Yorick’s skull and a spade from the prop table while Marley and I dragged Ophelia’s coffin onstage so that Madeline could lie down and get comfy.
In this scene, Brianna and I are digging a grave for poor Ophelia who has drowned. Hamlet and Horatio are—guess what?—spying on them, not knowing whose grave it is. Later, Gertrude, Claudius, and Laertes will show up for the funeral.
Brianna and I picked up our spades and took our places on the platform beside the coffin. The platform was raised off the stage, and beneath it was just enough room for a shallow built-in grave. In the hole was a pile of dirt, something to shovel.
“How are you feeling today, Gravedigger One?” Mike asked me.
“Just another workday,” I said, in character. “I don’t care much who I’m burying.”
“Miss Larkin? Gravedigger Two? How about you?”
“The whole thing gives me the shivers,” Brianna said.
“Gives you the shivers, or your character?” Mike asked.
“Me!”
“Do you think the audience will get the shivers?” Mike asked.
Brianna grinned. “I hope so,” she said, then she thought a second. “Only maybe not at the beginning of the scene? Because Noah’s character, he makes jokes. It’s like he thinks death is funny.”
“Maybe he makes jokes to keep his mind off his work, to keep from getting depressed,” I said.
Mike nodded. “Excellent thinking. Both of you. Most of the time, this scene is played for laughs. After all, it’s the last chance the audience gets to smile before the tragedy becomes unbearable. How about if we try it that way, keep it light, see how we do?”
Gravedigger One had the first line: “ ‘Is she to be buried in Christian burial?’ ”
The idea was if Ophelia killed herself, that’s a sin, and back then she wouldn’t have been allowed to have the same service Christians usually get.
I forgot about Emma. I forgot about Mike. I forgot I was only a Plattsfield-Winklebottom Memorial Sixth-Grade Player, that Madeline’s eyes were open, that her padded casket looked pretty comfortable. I opened my mouth to speak and…
… Madeline sat up, scaring me half to death. I mean, a ghost for a director? Fine. Used to it. But this was too much. Ophelia’s corpse w
as not supposed to sit up in her coffin.
“I have a question.” Madeline looked at Mike, who was by now seated in the first row of the house.
“No, you don’t!” Mia said from the wings. “You’re dead!”
“Never stopped me,” Mike said.
“I saw a show you directed once when I was little. There were stars in it, movie stars. Back in your time, what was it like to work with them?” Madeline asked.
Mike did not seem surprised by the question. “ ‘My time’ indeed!” he said. “It wasn’t that long ago, and, for the most part, it was a pleasure. A few of the big names were egotists, of course, believed their own press clippings, wouldn’t take direction, but many more—”
“Wait, wait, wait a minute.” In the wings, sensible Marley awaited her entrance as Laertes. “What are you talking about? Our very own ghost directed movie stars? For reals?”
Brianna, naturally, shrieked.
Mia tossed her clipboard in the air. “I give up.”
I looked down at Madeline, leaned on my spade. “So you know who he is.”
“He’s Mike Einstein,” Madeline said. “Didn’t everybody know?”
“Never heard of ’im,” Sarah said.
“I thought he looked familiar,” Diego said.
“Liar,” Eddie said.
Madeline shook her head. “Some drama geeks you are. The man’s a legend.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Mike said. “Mythic maybe.”
Clive looked at Madeline. “So you knew all along. But did you know he was a ghost?”
“Well,” Madeline said. “I knew Mike Einstein died in 2014. So ghost seemed the most likely explanation. I mean, ‘there are more things in heaven and earth…’ ”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sunday, Rehearsal Week Six, 5 Days till Performance:
In the end, Emma’s blackmail scheme failed spectacularly. We didn’t go back to the No-Trauma script. She didn’t get to play Ophelia. The show went on.
How come?
Shakespeare had an explanation. It was right there in Hamlet, act four, the part where Claudius decides he can’t kill Hamlet the way he wants to because Hamlet is so popular with all the Danish people. “Loved of the distracted multitude” is how he says it. If Claudius had killed Hamlet, or locked him up, the people would have rebelled.
Noah McNichol and the Backstage Ghost Page 11
