by Andy Mientus
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. NAMES, CHARACTERS, PLACES, AND INCIDENTS ARE EITHER THE PRODUCT OF THE AUTHOR’S IMAGINATION OR USED FICTITIOUSLY, AND ANY RESEMBLANCE TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, BUSINESS ESTABLISHMENTS, EVENTS, OR LOCALES IS ENTIRELY COINCIDENTAL.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
NAMES: MIENTUS, ANDY, AUTHOR. | SYGH, RIAN, ILLUSTRATOR.
TITLE: THE BACKSTAGERS AND THE GHOST LIGHT / BY ANDY MIENTUS; ILLUSTRATED BY RIAN SYGH.
DESCRIPTION: NEW YORK: AMULET BOOKS, 2018. | SERIES: THE BACKSTAGERS; 1 | SUMMARY: WHEN JORY TRANSFERS TO ST. GENESIUS PREP, HE JOINS THE STAGE CREW AND DISCOVERS THE MAGIC THAT HAPPENS BACKSTAGE BUT WHEN SOME CAST MEMBERS PLAY WITH A SPIRIT BOARD, THE GHOST LIGHT GOES OUT AND STRANGE THINGS BEGIN TO HAPPEN.
IDENTIFIERS: LCCN 2018014306 | ISBN 978-1-4197-3120-4 (HARDBACK) | eISBN 978-1-68335-414-7
SUBJECTS: | CYAC: THEATER—FICTION. | CLUBS—FICTION. | MAGIC—FICTION. |
SUPERNATURAL—FICTION. | HIGH SCHOOLS—FICTION. | SCHOOLS—FICTION. |
BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / PERFORMING ARTS / THEATER. / JUVENILE FICTION / ACTION & ADVENTURE / GENERAL. / JUVENILE FICTION / SOCIAL ISSUES / FRIENDSHIP.
CLASSIFICATION: LCC PZ7.1.M519 BAC 2018 | DDC [FIC]—DC23
TEXT AND ILLUSTRATION COPYRIGHT © 2018 BOOM! STUDIOS
BOOK DESIGN BY CHAD W. BECKERMAN
THE BACKSTAGERS CREATED BY RIAN SYGH & JAMES TYNION IV.
THE BACKSTAGERS TM AND © 2018 RIAN SYGH & JAMES TYNION IV.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PUBLISHED IN 2018 BY AMULET BOOKS, AN IMPRINT OF ABRAMS.
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FOR MY DAD, BOB,
MY MOM, JEANIE,
MY BROTHER, JOE,
AND MY HUSBAND, MICHAEL,
WHO ARE BEHIND THE SCENES
OF EVERYTHING I DO, AND
FOR ALL THE GHOSTS
OF THE THEATER
CHAPTER 1
There are a lot of myths surrounding the theater—countless tales of doomed productions miraculously coming together just in time for opening night, of pants split right in the middle of big solos, of romances blossoming backstage on a ten-minute break and lasting for life.
Of course, most of these stories have little resemblance to the events that actually took place—theater kids have a way of embellishing their stories as much as they embellish their lockers with Playbills and show posters—but then, no one becomes a theater kid to look at life the way it actually is.
One theater myth that is particularly pesky is that the kids standing in the spotlight—the Onstagers—have all the fun and all the power, while the kids who control those very spotlights are just working in service of making the Onstagers shine. Which is so far from the truth!
Imagine if one of those Onstagers did something to tick off the wrong Backstager. That spotlight might just happen to malfunction during the Onstager’s big solo and plunge that kid’s shining moment into literal darkness.
Anyone who believes that particular myth has obviously never felt the power of illuminating someone else’s biggest moment with the touch of a button, and they have definitely never felt the joy of getting to wear a radio headset during a closing night performance, barking out cues and commands like a starship captain about to enter hyperdrive.
“Sasha, I HEARD that all the way in the light booth!” Beckett brayed into his headset, trying to sound stern but also trying to keep Diet Coke from spraying from his nose through his laughter. “That” which he heard all the way from the light booth was a big booming belch that erupted from the wings, interrupting a very tender and intimate moment of Lease, the tragic rock opera that was playing its final performance at St. Genesius Preparatory High School.
“How did you know it was me!?” Sasha asked. Ironically, the bellowing burp came from the smallest Backstager of the bunch. Sasha’s mop of blond hair appeared before he did, followed by his round, rosy face, tilting up with a big smile.
“Come on, dude, we all saw you housing that burrito on dinner break,” Beckett said. With his green spiky hair, plugs in his earlobes, and thick black glasses reflecting the constellation of light board controls below him, Beckett looked like a live wire and was fittingly high-strung in most situations. It didn’t help that he was never without a steady drip of caffeine from the cans and cans of Diet Coke he drank daily. When you power the lighting AND sound of a major theatrical production, something has to power you. Tonight, though, with all of the electrics work on the production almost behind him, he was relaxed and enjoying himself.
“Guys, focus, we’re moving into the finale. All hands on deck!” That was Hunter, official head builder of the St. Genesius Backstagers and unofficial leader of the group. He was a big bear hug of a guy whose tall brown hair added at least a half a foot more to his already impressive frame. He shot an eye roll across the stage to the opposite wing, where Jory, the newest Backstager (and Hunter’s newest boyfriend), was stationed.
Jory was smiling like an idiot. There is a special kind of warm feeling you get from managing to sneak a private moment in a crowded theater, and it is extra special when that private moment is part of a blossoming romance. Averagely tall, averagely built, averagely smart, and averagely social, Jory couldn’t believe that someone as remarkably, unbelievably, write-in-your-journal-about-it awesome as Hunter had noticed him so quickly in his first year at his new school. In his hometown, before his mom got her new job and they had to move, he always considered himself kind of invisible. Maybe that’s why he was so suited to making magic behind the scenes as a Backstager. Here, surrounded by his new friends, excelling in a new role, and finding his groove in a new place so quickly, he didn’t feel invisible at all. Tonight he felt incandescent.
“Have they gotten to the part about how they’re too artsy to pay their bills? Oh wait, that’s been all night . . .” Aziz wasn’t much impressed with the message of Lease. In fact, Aziz had found most of the shows St. Genesius had produced in his time as a Backstager cheesier than the kind of birthday cards parents give to each other. All that emotion, all that enthusiasm, all that SINGING—it made him cringe a thousand cringes. Still, as much as he hated what was happening onstage, he loved being backstage exponentially more, so he put up with it. Plus, Sasha was his best friend from childhood, and it was his duty to look out for him. Two birds, one glittery, obnoxious, all-singing, all-dancing stone.
“Hey, everybody shut UP,” Beckett commanded. “Her song is starting!”
All the Backstagers went quiet on headset, because Bailey Brentwood, a student from the nearby Penitent Angels School for Girls and, without question, the Coolest Girl in the World, was beginning her big number. For every show, St. Genesius brought in one girl from Penitent to play the female lead, and for the last three years, Bailey was cast every time, because she was truly a star. Even Aziz had to marvel at how she could take the most clichéd, classic show tune and make it fresh and personal. Moreover, unlike so many of the other actors who were loud, hyperactive
, and generally terrifying to the Backstagers, Bailey could hang.
They also went quiet because they all knew how much Beckett loved watching Bailey sing. Beckett and Bailey had become close friends freshman year when he was a student at Penitent Angels. Beckett transferred to Genesius before this, his sophomore year, and now he only got to hang with Bailey during the runs of the shows. He missed her a lot. The guys also knew that Beckett had a big, fat, teen-movie crush on Bailey, but he didn’t know that they knew and so they let him go on thinking that he was smooth about it.
Bailey had an inner glow about her, but she also had an outer glow with her impossibly sleek and shiny long dark hair and skin that was almost literally golden. As she began her plaintive solo, “Today Is Our Only Day,” you could hear a fly’s heartbeat, the audience was so still. Sasha was feeling very relieved that he’d let one rip when he did, because if any gas escaped him now, Beckett would surely place an eternal curse on him and his entire family. It was shocking, then, when Beckett broke her spell, speaking low and urgently over the radio.
“Backstagers. We have a problem.”
In an intense whisper, Beckett told them that Bailey’s mic was reading low battery. He would go fix it himself when she came offstage next, but the upcoming lighting sequence was too tricky for autopilot. Someone else would have to go backstage to get her a new battery from the sound room.
“I’m doing Kevin McQueen’s quick change,” Aziz said. “If I miss that, we all know he’ll have me arrested for theatrical assassination.”
“Yeah, and I have to do the scene change back to the gigantic artist’s loft,” Jory said. “For starving artists, their open-concept floor plan is really impressive.”
“I’ll do it!” Sasha exclaimed. “I shall be the savior of mic packs, and children will speak of my noble deeds!”
“Um, Sasha, don’t you have major props business to attend to?” Aziz asked, an edge in his voice.
“Nope! I’m free for, like, four scenes!”
“Sasha, are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure!”
“Because I thought we talked about how busy you’d be at this part . . .”
“Aziz, you KNOW this is my built-in pee break! We all remember what happened during Les Terribles when I didn’t have—”
Aziz cleared his throat loudly over the radio.
“Oh!” Sasha blurted. “RIGHT, yes, I’m—there’s a prop EMERGENCY! With—glue! I’ve sat in glue and now my butt is glued to . . . all the props. And I can’t move. So. Dealing with that. Right now. And—”
“Okay, guys,” Hunter interrupted. “I got this.”
It was just as well, because Hunter was a junior and had the most experience in the backstage. All of the guys were talented and dependable, but if you wanted something done fast, Hunter was your man.
For such a big guy, he moved like a ninja in the wings, his black crew clothes blending in with the hanging black curtains as he deftly made his way to the back wall of the theater, where he descended a staircase, deeper into the dark. At the bottom of the stairs, past some set pieces left over from their recent, acclaimed production of Les Terribles, he reached the stage door, which was unremarkable save for the thick padlock holding it shut. He pulled a key ring off the back of his tool belt, pressed the key into the lock, and paused for a moment.
He hadn’t been in the backstage for weeks. After everything that went down during the rehearsal period of Lease, the Backstagers had decided to padlock the door and to only go back there for extreme theatrical emergencies, at least until they had a new faculty advisor. Their last advisor, Mr. Rample, was fired in the wake of the incident, and while they all felt reasonably comfortable backstage by now, no one knew it like Rample. If anything unexpected went down without him, they’d be on their own.
Just past the stage door, Hunter walked into the Backstagers’ Club Room, and his heart sank a little. The Club Room was their own personal nerd-cave. There were no teachers there, no parents, and best of all, NO actors. Instead, there was a ratty old red couch, a much-loved gaming console and TV, a giant stone head from a past production of Once Upon Some Island, and a million stories. The names of every Backstager who had ever crewed at Genesius were graffitied on the brick wall that surrounded the stage door, and artifacts from all those boys’ time in the backstage filled the Club Room with a history you could feel. No one knew how the hatchet got buried into the wall above the couch, or even what show needed a REAL HATCHET, but one of the names spray-painted on the wall knew, and so they left it as a sign of respect and in hopes that whatever legends they left behind after graduation would be protected and preserved.
Hunter had missed this place. Starting tomorrow, after the sets and props and costumes were struck and stored, the Backstagers would enter the downtime between productions, when they spent time in the Club Room without any set building or light hanging to interrupt their chillaxation. Maybe they could talk about removing the lock and getting things back to normal. He couldn’t imagine downtime anywhere else.
But now was not the time to think about tomorrow, for “Today Is Our Only Day” (gosh, he couldn’t get that SONG out of his HEAD!). He walked to another padlocked door, this one of heavy metal and marked UNSAFE. He twisted the key, opened the door, and stepped through it into the darkness beyond.
Now he was in the tunnels—a seemingly endless sprawl of twisting and turning paths lined by innumerable unmarked doors and lit only by a sea of stars hanging impossibly high overhead.
Which brings us to the greatest theater myth of all.
CHAPTER 2
You know that thing when you see a show and you know you are looking at a room that is missing a wall, you can see the wires making the kids fly, it’s obvious that the maid is pouring air into the ladies’ cups instead of tea, and people start spontaneously breaking into song in the middle of conversation—but for some reason, you just go with it, and by the end you’re leaping to your feet and slapping your hands together?
That’s the magic at the heart of theater. All the Backstagers really knew about the tunnels and what lay beyond them is that they were a connection directly to that magic. When Jory joined the team earlier that year, he had a million questions about how it all worked—did they enter a different dimension in the backstage? How many rooms were there in total? What did the fantastical creatures that lived back there eat? How has it all gone unnoticed by scientists and stuff for all this time? The Backstagers didn’t know the answers to any of this.
Here’s what they did know.
WHAT WE DO KNOW (A WORKING LIST FOR ST. GENESIUS BACKSTAGERS ONLY)
1. The tunnels lead to the rooms.
2. Each department has its own room—a sound room, a prop room, a lighting room, and so on.
3. There are also rooms for, like, tigers and stuff. These rooms are weird.
4. The tunnels change when they feel like it, so the path to any specific room is never the same twice.
5. However, the ORDER of the rooms remains the same. Memorize the order and you should be able to find your way around.
6. The tunnels connect the St. Genesius stage to all of the other stages in the world. If you go too far, you may end up in another school, another state, or another country. You may also run into girls. Proceed with caution and don’t smell bad.
7. Time is funky in the backstage. You might go in for a couple of hours and come out to learn you have been missing for weeks. Keep it short.
8. If you reach the Patchwork Catwalk, TURN BACK.
9. So far, we have found no bathrooms in the backstage. Pee first.
As Hunter made his way through the tunnels, he felt a familiar surge of excitement and adventure. He opened a door at random to see where he was. Behind it was a river of color, like an oil spill, cascading in every imaginable shade at once down a craggy mountain through pools and waterfalls. The paint room. He was close.
He counted one, two, three, four doors to the left and swung the door open
. He was greeted by several thousand squirrels in top hats right in the middle of a lavish squirrel musical number. Their squirrel musical instruments squealed to a halt, and they all turned to look at him. He stared. They stared right back. He apologized and shut the door gently.
After retracing his steps and counting again to the right this time, he found the correct door.
The sound room looked like a Roman temple, except instead of columns, the ornate ceiling was held up by giant speakers all pointing toward the center. Rainbow-y streams of visible sound flew overhead. If one zoomed close enough to you, you would hear a snippet of some theater’s production from somewhere in the world. Songs from Hey There Molly and His Majesty and Me blended in midair with a scene from a Greek tragedy IN Greek and a symphonic movement, creating a cacophony. Hunter snapped open a compartment on his tool belt, retrieved a pair of orange earplugs, and blocked out the noise so he could focus.
He scanned the stone floor. Every few tiles, there was a handle labeled with a strange series of hieroglyphs—letters that didn’t seem to belong to any language currently used on Earth. Luckily, in Hunter’s three years of Backstager experience, he knew which one meant “batteries.” He located the correct handle and pulled it upward. A whole shelving unit rose easily out of the floor, extending just above Hunter’s towering height—hair included.
The shelves of the unit were lined neatly with pristine, fully charged battery packs. Once he located the proper one, he pushed lightly on one of the shelves, sending the unit smoothly back into the floor, and gasped, for when the shelving unit disappeared, he could see two faceless figures in long black robes standing silently across the room, looking right at him. One was tall and quite thin and the other shorter and more solid. They both stood motionless, as if they were totems erected in this temple eons ago, but Hunter had been in the sound room many times and knew that these figures most definitely didn’t belong here.
