The Backstagers and the Ghost Light

by Andy Mientus

  He looked at the Gamestation like a cartoon character looks at a pie cooling on a windowsill. Maybe he could put in just five minutes while he was down here. Just a few evil alien soldiers sent back to the mother ship.

  He drifted to the coffee table, still cluttered with Backstager artifacts, and picked up the Gamestation controller sheepishly. He held it to his nose and inhaled. It smelled like cheese puffs and victory.

  Before he knew it, he was easing back into his well-worn spot on the ratty sofa and powering on the flickering old TV. The Gamestation whooshed on with a satisfying musical tone and the Call of Honor logo glowed from the TV like a cozy fireplace. Sasha’s pupils widened in his big round eyes. He was home.

  Back up on the stage pizza came and was happily devoured, truths and dares were traded, a few quick kisses were stolen, and there was a very clumsy attempt to stumble through a number from last year’s winter musical, which went perfectly horribly and came to a breathless, boisterous crash landing when they got to the tap break.

  Then it was time for the last hugs goodbye before the winter break. It was just two weeks, but theater kids all bid one another farewell like the father seeing his daughter off to Siberia toward the end of Violinist on the Ceiling (spoiler alert).

  Hunter walked Jory out to the parking lot, where his mom was waiting in the car.

  “Well, have a great couple of weeks,” Jory said, trying to sound casual but failing as emotion welled up in his throat. Jory and his mom were driving back to their hometown to spend the holidays with family there, so it would be Jory’s first extended time away from his new friends since moving to the town. He was surprised at how emotional it made him.

  “You too, Jory. We’ll all really miss you,” Hunter said. “And I’ll really miss you.”

  Jory threw himself into Hunter’s made-for-hugging arms. They embraced for as long as they could, and then Jory was in the passenger seat and St. Genesius was in the rearview mirror. He leaned his head against the window and was quiet.

  Sasha had very nearly defeated the Spider Queen of Dark Space 12 when he glanced down at his phone and noticed he had five missed calls from the Scrapbooking Queen of Lakeview Drive—his mother.

  “Uh-oh,” he muttered to no one as he paused the game and called her back, racing out of the Club Room. Sasha’s mother had always been a worrier, but since the incident of the Backstagers’ disappearance, she was downright inconsolable if Sasha was unreachable for two minutes. It had been fully fifteen. He held the phone an arm’s length from his face and could still hear her screaming as he grabbed his coat, shut off the lights in the auditorium, and ran outside.

  The empty, dark auditorium was finally still and quiet after weeks of Lease performances and the raucous cast party.

  A thin wisp of smoke rose from the exploded bulb, still perched dark atop the metal pole at the lip of the stage.

  Something else moved in the dark . . . a small, thin shadow slipping past the burnt-out light to the spot where the Spirit Board game still lay abandoned. Two gloved hands lay on the planchette. It began to move.

  CHAPTER 4

  For Jory, being back in his hometown was a bit like being a ghost. All of his old haunts still looked and smelled and operated as they always had, but there was something alien about them now. Passing each of these landmarks as he and his mom drove around making holiday visits, he thought about how time and memory seem to put a filter on things the way stage lights do to a set and costumes.

  Time put a filter on people, too. A few of his old friends reached out to meet up at the local diner for coffee and pie, and as Jory sat there looking at these faces and hearing these voices he used to know so well, he felt like he was observing them through the wrong end of a telescope. The drama or hilarity of the anecdotes they shared was totally lost on him. Did he really used to care who Becca was sitting with at lunch? Did he really used to quote that meme as much as they all did? Did he really used to crush on Lizzie so hard he turned into a stammering mess around her? Were these people really as close to him as the Backstagers are now, after just a few short months?

  All of this swirled in Jory’s head and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. On the one hand, he felt infinitely more mature than his old classmates. They were still concerned about Becca, and he and his new friends had literally saved the world just weeks before. He also was certain that he had moved on. He missed his new friends and his new school and couldn’t wait to get back. Nothing was tying him to this place anymore. So why did he feel so sad?

  Maybe it was this creeping thought—if these places and people that used to mean so much to him left him so cold after such a short time, then all those formative years and experiences were essentially worthless. And who’s to say that he won’t forget the magic of the backstage and the Backstagers a few months after graduation? Would the rest of his life be like this? Little disposable episodes that play out and then close, leaving him as alone as he was before he started them?

  He called Hunter.

  “Hey, Jory! Merry Christmas!”

  “Merry Christmas to you! How’s it going?”

  Hunter sighed. “It’s fine, trying to balance family stuff with studying for the trials. Do you know what a grommet is?”

  “Is that, like, a mythical creature?”

  “It’s the little metal ring that you hang a curtain by. There is a NAME for that thing. And a million other things. I don’t know how I’m gonna learn all this.”

  “Wow, that’s—”

  “And did you know there were over five HUNDRED technical cues in Lease that Timothy was calling every night? Who can do something perfectly five hundred times in a row? What if you miss one?”

  “I’m sure he did miss one or two, it’s not really about that—”

  “And then the worst part—did you know that the stage managers have to manage the ACTORS?! Like, if any of them has any little problem with the way their shoes fit or if they are running late to rehearsal or their dog dies or something, it’s the stage manager’s job to handle that? Along WITH the five hundred cues and the grommets and the gels and the spike tape and the gobos and the—”

  “Hunter! Slow down, take a breath. You’re gonna make yourself crazy.”

  “Sorry. It’s all a bit overwhelming. I mean, I’m a Backstager, but I’m also a junior. I have all of my regular classes to worry about, and I have to start thinking about colleges. I just don’t know how I’m gonna get this all done.”

  “Just take one thing at a time. I’m here for you.”

  “Thanks, Jory. Yeah. Sorry, I feel like I’m just talking about myself. How are you?”

  “Um, well . . .”

  Suddenly, Jory’s creeping anxiety didn’t seem as urgent as when he’d called. Hunter was already stressed enough about actual problems; he didn’t need to be weighed down further with Jory’s fears about potential problems. He thought about that Lease song, “Today Is Our Only Day.” Why worry about stuff that hasn’t happened yet? Worry about what is right in front of you.

  “I’m great,” Jory lied. “I mean, my family is, like, completely exhausting around the holidays, but also adorable, and it is nice to be home.”

  “I bet. You seeing old friends?”

  “Oh yeah, tons. It’s been awesome to catch up.”

  “That’s so great, Jory—enjoy it!”

  “I will, for sure.”

  “Well, hey, I could talk to you all night, I really could, but I should get back to this. I only have, like, twenty more minutes of cram time before we have to start family dinner and—”

  “No, of course. Do what you gotta do, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Have a great Christmas, Hunter.”

  “You too, Jory. Big hugs.”

  “Big hugs.”

  Jory hung up the phone, and even though he didn’t feel less anxious, he felt in control of his anxiety, at least. He had chosen to push it down and rise above it. He suddenly felt very grown up . . . if not exactly better.

  C
HAPTER 5

  Jory could feel himself coming back to life as his mom’s car sped closer and closer to St. Genesius. He had survived the rest of winter break by entering a kind of hibernation, cooped up in a guest room in his aunt’s house consuming a steady stream of junk food and episodes of British baking competition shows.

  Not only was he finally returning to the place and the people he loved, but it was an especially excellent time to be a Backstager: downtime, the time between productions of shows. For the next couple of weeks, there would be no sets to build, props to locate, or fires to put out (metaphorical or literal). It was the time some of the best memories were made, and it let the Backstagers recharge a bit before the hard work began on the next show.

  When Jory spotted his crew in the cafeteria, he practically pounced on them as they greeted him with the warmth that was so sorely missing from his experience back in his hometown. Now he was truly home.

  “JORRRRRRRRRYYYYY,” Sasha more sang than shouted. “You missed SO much while you were away! My mom accidentally gave me Christmas cookies with nuts in them and I got a rash that looked like a DRAGON!”

  “Truly exciting stuff,” Aziz said, patting Sasha on the head affectionately. “Almost as exciting as Sasha’s reaction to the allergy medicine.”

  “I could taste COLORS!” Sasha exclaimed.

  “We thought he was a goner for sure,” said Aziz, “but he pulled through and his mom felt so bad about the whole thing, she caved and bought him his own Gamestation.”

  “It was a Christmas MIRACLE! I miss my rash-dragon, though. I named her Jessica.”

  “Anyway,” Beckett said, cracking open what must have been his fourth Diet Coke of the morning, “that was the big news around here. That, and my dad learning how to use photo apps on his phone. He thinks he invented the dog-ears filter.”

  Beckett’s phone buzzed in his pocket and he shuddered.

  “Ugh. There’s another one now. The man has an addiction.”

  “Where’s Hunter?” Jory asked.

  “Backstage,” Beckett said, replying “LOL” to his dad once again. “He’s gonna be taking lunch back there with Timothy and Jamie for a while to do extra trials prep.”

  “Oh,” Jory said, deflating.

  “He can’t wait to see you, though,” Aziz offered. “He talked about you all break.”

  Jory smiled through his disappointment and they all sat down to lunch.

  The day crawled toward the final bell, and when it rang, Backstager downtime was ON! Sasha and Aziz went straight for the Gamestation in the Club Room and booted up Call of Honor.

  “Okay, Spider Queen,” Sasha said, his eyes narrowing, “I’ve been practicing at home. You shall not survive!”

  He and Aziz spent a red-eyed, white-knuckled hour with the game while Jory watched, pretending to be thrilled, really keeping his eye on the Unsafe door that separated him from the backstage and Hunter. Then he got bored and went off to see what Beckett was up to. He found him, per usual, up in the light booth.

  “Hey,” Jory said, announcing himself. “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Trying to untie the Gordian knot of cables the actors left me after the Lease strike,” Beckett said, clearly agitated. He was crouching in the corner opposite the light board pulling apart long, thick cables like some kind of giant alien pasta. “I told Hunter we shouldn’t let them help with strike—it’s faster on closing night, sure, but if they put stuff away like this, it takes double the time to set up the next one.”

  “But it’s downtime,” Jory said. “Can’t that wait until we go back into production?”

  “My wires are literally crossed, Jory. I won’t sleep until I know everything is put away right.”

  “Oh, okay. Want some help?”

  “Kind of you, dude, I appreciate it, really, but I know where everything goes and I think it’ll go faster if I just stay the course.”

  “Totally. Okay.”

  Jory started for the door. Beckett sensed his gloom.

  “He still not back yet?”

  “Not yet, no. And I’m not really much for Call of Honor.”

  “Ugh, me neither. That’s actually how I ended up in electrics—I was so bad at the game, I ended up getting in their way, so I just started hanging out up here. Timothy noticed and trained me on the board. If you wanna hang, Jory, I’d love your help.”

  “No, Beck, that’s okay, I don’t wanna get in your way.”

  “Hopefully I’ll be done soon and chillaxing can commence.”

  “See you then,” Jory said as he left the booth.

  After checking the Unsafe door one more time for signs of life, Jory made his way to the library. If he got his homework done now, he could be totally free to maximize his time with Hunter and the rest of the guys when they all emerged.

  He spread his books out on one of the tables and got to work, but soon his concentration was broken by a group of upperclassmen snickering at the next table over.

  “I mean, he wears all black every single day,” one of them said. “Like, we get it dude, you’re spooky. Someone should tell him to be a little more original.”

  Jory looked up to see who they were talking about. Across the library, at the most secluded table in the room, a lone boy sat working feverishly on a laptop. He was indeed wearing all black—a slouchy outfit of baggy sweatpants, a long cloak-like sweater, and a big wide-brimmed hat, which made a dark halo around his sleek black hair.

  “Who would tell him?” another upperclassman asked. “He doesn’t have any friends.”

  “Careful, don’t let him hear you!” said a third. “My buddy Ross got a look at one of his books one day and it was on magic. Not like pulling rabbits out of hats, like spells. For real. He might turn you into a frog!”

  Jory’s ears pricked up. All-black clothes. Bit of a loner. Interested in magic. Could the boy in the corner be . . . another Backstager?

  After the upperclassmen had cleared the room, Jory approached the boy in black. He was standing right over him, but the boy either didn’t notice or didn’t care. His fingers flew over the keyboard, and his eyes were fixed to the screen. Jory broke the ice—or tried to, at least.

  “Hey, sorry to bother you.”

  No response. Just typing.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?”

  “Seat’s empty,” the boy said, not looking up from the screen.

  “Cool, thanks.”

  Jory sat and a full minute passed in silence as the boy worked. Finally Jory just came right out with it.

  “So listen, I noticed you were wearing all black and I heard some guys say you knew something about magic and—”

  “Okay,” the boy said, snapping the laptop shut and looking Jory dead in the eye for the first time. “Let’s get this over with. You’re here to get a closer look at the witch-kid. Well, here he is. Yes, I’m a witch. No, you don’t have to be an old woman with boils on her nose to be a witch. Yes, I do spells. No, I won’t do one for you. No, I don’t worship the devil—that’s a modern, religious invention, so that one is all yours—and no, I don’t love that musical with the witches, because frankly I hate all musicals, especially that one, which I find shrill and silly. We done?”

  The boy threw his laptop into his shoulder bag (black, of course), and started to scurry off.

  “Wait!” Jory said. “I just meant I thought you were a Backstager! I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “A what?” The boy stopped, frozen between staying and leaving.

  “A Backstager. I’m on the crew for the St. Genesius Drama Club. And we tend to wear all black and prefer secluded corners, too. I thought you might be one of us.”

  “Oh,” the boy said, relaxing slightly. “Sorry. I can be a little anxious. Especially around new people.”

  “I can relate to that for sure. I’m new here at Genesius. I’m Jory.”

  “Reo. Hey.”

  “Reo? That’s so cool, it’s like a name from the future.”

  “Japanese, on my
dad’s side. Irish on my mom’s, or Celtic, she would say, hence the witch thing. Runs in the family.”

  “So you’re really a witch?”

  “Is that weirder than being a theater kid?”

  “I guess it isn’t.”

  They laughed.

  “Those guys back there said you don’t have any friends—is that true?” Jory asked.

  “Pretty much,” Reo said, unashamed. “Most people I’ve let in tend to get freaked out when I tell them about the witch stuff. I only told one kid I thought was my friend freshman year, and he told everyone, so now the black cat is outta the bag. I decided it’s easier not to trust people.”

  “Is that why you wear black? To scare people away?”

  “Black is the color of protection. I wear it as a shield.”

  “I love that,” Jory said. “Well, listen, I totally get it if you do better on your own, believe me, but if you ever get bored of that screen and see me around, feel free to come say hey.”

  Reo looked touched.

  “Okay. Cool. I will.”

  “See you around, Reo.”

  “See ya, Jory.”

  Jory headed back toward the auditorium, feeling a little lighter than before. Then he went almost airborne when he saw Hunter, standing at the end of the hallway, looking for him. Hunter’s gaze met Jory’s and a smile cracked across his face.

  “THERE you are!” Hunter exclaimed as he bounded toward Jory and scooped him up off his feet into a hug. “I am so, so sorry. We were doing quick changes today and I don’t know if you gathered this from my amazing fashion sense, but wardrobe is really not my department.”

  “That’s okay,” Jory said, hugging back tightly. “I understand. I’m just so glad to see you.”

  For the moment, Jory felt like himself again.

  CHAPTER 6

  Downtime was over almost as quickly as it had begun. Beckett managed to fix all of the hastily disassembled electrics, but then he found that the sound equipment was left in an equally disastrous state. He ended up spending the entire two weeks cursing under his breath at actors who were more interested in getting to the cast party quickly than properly caring for the things that let the audience hear and see them.