Stagestruck

by Shelley Peterson

  “Miss Small, the principal’s assistant?”

  “Yes. She’s the actress playing Pinocchio’s good fairy. We’ll have costumes for the first time tonight, which makes it an extremely important rehearsal, but I called her at home and told her to stay in bed and drink lots of clear fluids. I’d love you to fill in until she feels better. For the other actors. Can you do it, Abby?”

  Abby’s eyes widened. “Are you a mind reader?”

  “Why?”

  “Remember you asked me ‘What was your choice’?”

  “Because you’d just said, ‘It was my choice.’ You were talking to yourself.”

  “Exactly. I was thinking how much I wanted to be in Pinocchio, and it was my choice not to be. Because I didn’t pursue it after I missed the audition.”

  “Now, Abby, Miss Small will be coming back to do the show. I’m asking if you’ll stand in for her for the first dress rehearsal tonight. We have two more weeks before opening night, by which time she’ll be back. I hope I haven’t raised your expectations.” Joy looked concerned.

  “Perfect!” exclaimed Abby. “I’m sure I’d die of stage fright if there was an audience. This way, I’ll be involved and live to tell the tale.”

  Joy laughed happily. “Then it’s a win-win situation. I’ll leave the script on the kitchen table. The rehearsal is called for seven o’clock. Will you have time to ride Dancer and eat dinner before then? It’ll be a late night.”

  Abby worked it out. “I’ll pack some dinner. Then I can go straight to Wick Farm from Hogscroft. I’ll have plenty of time.” They were at the history classroom door.

  “Thanks, Abby!” called Joy as she waved goodbye. “See you at seven! Ride carefully. I don’t want to have to find a stand-in for my stand-in!”

  Abby smiled and returned the wave. She wanted to be just like Mrs. Featherstone when she got old.

  After school, Cody followed Abby’s bike to Hogscroft. As usual, padding along the path in the woods beside the road, he listened intently for human noises coming from the Bad Man’s den. Just to be sure, he detoured up through the woods and stared at the place where the Bad Man lived. He could see no activity. He could smell nothing new. But something was happening. He could sense it. Cody’s ruff went up.

  As intensely as Cody stared, another pair of eyes stared at Cody.

  Abby tacked up Dancer in the Hogscroft barn, singing softly under her breath.

  She had found the script, as promised, on the kitchen table. Abby had quickly gone through it as she gobbled up a snack, reading her lines out loud, and skimming the rest. It was a good script, Abby thought. Lots of action, bad guys, good guys, pathos, and a satisfying resolution. Joy had also left Abby a meaty sandwich for her dinner, with chocolate milk, a banana, and cookies separately wrapped up.

  Dancer had become a cherished friend, she thought as she threw the saddle over the saddle pad and tightened the girth. He watched for her each day. She swore he’d tack himself up if he could.

  “I’ve got sunshi-ine, on a cloudy day-ay. When it’s cold out-si-i-ide, I’ve got the month of May-ay . . .”

  Abby still could not get over it. She, Abby Malone, would be showing Dancer, the one and only Dancer, in a week and two days. Not just showing him, either. She’d be showing him in the Grand Invitational, against some of Canada’s top riders. She didn’t want to think of it. She’d get more nervous.

  But what could go wrong? Abby wondered, fitting the bridle over Dancer’s head. She had the best horse in the world. No other came close.

  “Stop!” Abby chastised herself aloud. “That’s such bad luck!” She rapped on the wooden stall door. “Knock on wood. Everything can go wrong! And at the same time, too. I could forget the course, I could panic and screw up Dancer’s timing, Dancer could go lame. Anything might happen.” Abby touched wood again. “Please, please, please let bad things not happen.”

  Today was a jumping day, and Abby was pleased when she led the muscular stallion into the paddock. The ground was neither too wet nor too dry. Just right. She’d already set up the jumps according to Hilary’s diagram, and Abby hopped onto Dancer’s back with a sense of cheerful anticipation.

  Cody continued to watch the Bad Man’s den. He saw him load the trunk of his moving machine. There were two big brown boxes and a digging tool.

  The coyote was curious. He sensed that whatever this human was up to was not good. He waited.

  Another creature waited nearby, attending carefully to the direction of the wind. Soon, he was joined by another of his species, then another. All eyes were on Cody.

  Dancer’s training session had gone remarkably well, so Abby left well enough alone, brushed the horse down, and biked the few minutes over to the theatre.

  She was early. Nobody else had arrived, and Abby had the place to herself. She nervously opened the door into the dressing rooms under the stage and felt around for the light switch. It was to the right of the door. She cautiously turned on the lights and looked around.

  There was a big open area in the middle. The cement floor was painted a rosy purple. There were vending machines at the end where you could get coffee, tea, or the most delicious-smelling hot chocolate.

  On her right was a light-blue painted dressing table as long as the wall. There was a mirror above, with lights completely surrounding it. Green chairs were tucked under the table every three feet, all the way down the wall. Abby counted fifteen chairs.

  On the yellow wall to her left was a series of six open doors, all different colours. Peeking into the first one, Abby reasoned that up to four people could occupy each room, based on the four chairs under the dressing table.

  Abby hugged herself in sheer delight. She did a little dance of joy in the middle of the big room, then plunked herself down at the far end of the long table and opened her packed dinner. She searched for some change in her pocket, and jumped up again to get hot chocolate to drink with dinner.

  As she waited for the machine to fill her cup, her eyes settled on a purple door to the left of the long dressing table. Where did it go? With hot chocolate in hand, Abby opened the door. Of course! The orchestra pit! This is how the musicians would get into the section below the seats in front of the stage. Very clever, she thought, closing the door.

  Sitting down again, Abby bit into the sandwich that Joy had made for her. Joy made the best food, Abby concluded. Even a lowly sandwich became a work of art in her hands. Thick slabs of fresh, five-grain, buttered bread held thinly sliced cucumbers and tomatoes, with multiple thin slices of pastrami. Joy had spread mayonnaise on one side and Dijon mustard on the other, and sprinkled it liberally with freshly ground pepper. Abby took another bite. De-licious.

  As she ate, she looked more closely at her surroundings. On the ceiling, right in the centre of the spacious hall, she noticed a large cut-out door. She contemplated what it could be. Perhaps a trap door, where an actor could either appear or disappear from the stage? She’d ask Joy.

  The smell of the theatre was the best thing, Abby thought. She’d noticed it the day of the storm, and even though the theatre had been completely renovated since then, the smell remained. Greasepaint, dusty costumes, new stage sets, excitement. It was a living, breathing smell. It energized her. She loved just being here.

  Abby flicked on the lights around her section of the long dressing table. She looked at herself as she chewed. Nice nose. Funny hairline. Freckles. Stark, unsettling green eyes.

  Am I pretty? Not bad, but certainly not gorgeous. Abby finished her mouthful and wiped away the mayonnaise. She pouted, going for the model look she envied in the fashion magazines. Abby pulled her silky blond hair out of its elastic band and fluffed it up with her fingers. She struck a pose. Any better?

  She turned around quickly.

  “Hello?” she called loudly. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

  Was it her imagination? Was somebody watching? She swore she’d heard a chuckle, but nobody was there.

  Minutes passed. Raising her ey
ebrows at her own wild imagination, Abby finished her banana and started on the cookies. The chocolate milk was gone and, now that it had cooled sufficiently, she sipped the hot chocolate. Wow. It tasted as good as it smelled.

  “Aren’t you going to save me some?” asked a voice. Abby twirled around in a flash, knocking down her green chair as she stood.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Ambrose.”

  Ambrose? Abby thought hard. The ghost? Was he talking to me?

  “Yes, the ghost. I’m talking to you.”

  “No!” gasped Abby. “I don’t believe it!”

  Abby heard a deep sigh. “It’s a problem. If people can’t see something, they don’t believe it exists, possibly because they’re afraid.”

  “No. Not quite,” said Abby, pretending to be calm. Am I really talking to a ghost? “I’m far more worried about a nasty person creeping up on me pretending to be a ghost. I’m all alone here. I hope you understand. I’m not challenging your reality, I’m checking for my own safety.”

  Ambrose Brown took his time responding. “I accept that.”

  “Good. So you are a real ghost?”

  “Yes.”

  Wow. “May I ask where you are right now? So I can look at you and not somewhere else, and also to confirm that you are indeed a ghost?”

  Casually leaning on the hot chocolate machine, right hand on his hip, Ambrose Brown became visible in degrees. First as a fog-like apparition, then filling in until he looked, for all the world, like a human being.

  A handsome human being. He was of medium height and medium build. He was fit and trim, with a shock of blond hair rakishly hanging over his left eye. With his sparkling blue eyes and mischievous grin his face resembled an elf, or more precisely, a leprechaun.

  His well-shaped athletic legs were clad in dark green tights. His long thin feet wore dark green, pointed slipper-like ankle-boots. A green tunic in a slightly lighter shade covered his body, and on his head he wore a jaunty green cap with a feather.

  “Peter Pan?” asked Abby with delight.

  “Robin Hood!” corrected Ambrose harshly.

  “Excuse me, please,” demurred Abby.

  “Although I could use it for both, couldn’t I?”

  “Yes, you could.” It seemed to Abby that they’d been friends for years. “If you had a bow and some arrows I’d have known it was Robin Hood, for sure.”

  “Then let me rectify the lack of a quiver at once.” As the ghost spoke, a dark brown leather sack appeared, slung so that he could reach over his shoulder to pull out one of the dozen handmade arrows that it contained.

  “Amazing!” Abby cried.

  “Amazing, you say? Then look at this!”

  The dressing room became a forest. A magical forest of multiple shades of green. Tree by tree it grew, until it became as dense and dark as Sherwood Forest.

  “You’re right. Mr. Brown, this is amazing.”

  “Call me Ambrose, my dear, everybody does. Mr. Brown was my father. Can’t have that.” The trees started to disappear as quickly as they had appeared. Abby stood, as before, at the long blue dressing table in the big yellow room.

  “Ambrose, what’s happening to you?”

  “I’m changing. I’m an actor, after all. Guess who I am, and don’t be too quick to jump to your conclusion, I warn you.”

  Abby studied the costume. Shakespearean, probably. An old man. A king, for sure, from the bejewelled crown that had just materialized. Ambrose’s face had become jowly and saggy. His eyelids drooped and his lips looked purple with ill health. Veins crept all over his red, bulbous nose.

  “You look altogether different.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “You looked better before.”

  “For Robin Hood, yes, but an actor must be a chameleon if he wants to play different parts. You can’t be vain. When a part requires ugly and old, you must become ugly and old.”

  “Which you’ve accomplished beautifully,” Abby said, hoping it came across as a compliment.

  “Enough chat!” Ambrose spoke regally. “Who am I?”

  “Your Majesty,” Abby said as she curtsied. “May your humble servant offer her guess without fear of decapitation?”

  “Perhaps. We make no promises.”

  “Is Your Majesty King Henry VIII?”

  “Correct! Excellent! How did you know?”

  “Actually, I was waffling between King Lear and King John when I noticed the puffy sleeves.”

  “Muttonleg sleeves, yes. That was a good call. Otherwise, we would have proclaimed, ‘Off with her head!’”

  Abby laughed, delighted. Ambrose, meanwhile, was changing again. This time, he looked almost exactly like a large alley cat.

  “Who are you now?” asked Abby. “Mistoffelees in Cats?”

  Ambrose suddenly looked slightly alarmed. He opened his whiskered mouth and said, “People are here. See you later.” And he was gone.

  Abby was alone again. Her head was spinning. Was Ambrose real or had it been an incredible dream?

  The door opened and Joy popped her head in. “Abby! I’m so glad you’re here. Did you and Dancer have a good ride?”

  Abby stared for a split second, then snapped back into reality. “The best!” Abby’s face broke into a huge grin. “We’re ready to kick some serious butt.”

  Joy pretended to be shocked. “Watch how you say things, Abby.” She looked around the room. “Are you alone?”

  “Don’t I look alone?” Abby looked around. She wondered if Joy could see a man-sized cat.

  “I thought I heard more than one person in here.”

  “Well, actually, I was practising my lines.”

  “Wonderful. How are you doing with them?” Joy asked.

  Before Abby could answer, a loud chattering group of kids came clattering down the stairs, led by George Farrow, Lucy’s grandfather.

  “Abby! I didn’t know you were in the play!” he enthused. “So glad you are! We’ve been having such fun. You’ll love it.”

  “I’m standing in for the Blue-Winged Fairy, Mr. Farrow. And congratulations on getting the part of Geppetto.”

  “I’m trying my best, Abby, thank you. It’s not easy teaching an old dog new tricks. Has Lucy arrived yet?”

  At that moment, Lucy came hurtling down the stairs into the big room. “Abby, I heard! It’s so great you’re here! Maybe Margaret Small’s flu will turn into some horribly dire virus so you can play the Fairy for the run!”

  “Lucy,” spoke Mr. Farrow sternly. “You must not wish ill on people.”

  “I know, but wouldn’t it be fun to have Abby here all the time?”

  Abby giggled, then covered her mouth. She didn’t want Mr. Farrow to think she wished Margaret ill. “I have horrible stage fright, Lucy. I couldn’t go on even if she dies.”

  “Who’s dying?” asked Leslie, who came through the door panting. She thought she was late.

  “Nobody’s dying,” said Abby. “I was just saying that—”

  Lucy interjected. “Abby is a wimp. She’s afraid to act in front of an audience.”

  Leslie looked empathetic. “I’m just the same, Abby. If I wasn’t wearing a dog suit, I couldn’t possibly be in the play.”

  “You’re always so nice to people!” mocked Lucy humourously as she turned to get some hot chocolate from the machine. “You’re no fun at all!”

  Lucy walked smack into a tall person with the head of a fox.

  “Ahhh!” she screamed.

  “Gotcha!” laughed Sam. “Isn’t it great? Orangeville Theatre lent it to us.”

  “It’s perfect. Utterly perfect,” said Leslie to her brother. “What’s the rest of the fox costume like?”

  “I’m just going to put it on. Your Trooper outfit is over there.” Sam pointed to two long wardrobe racks that had been wheeled in.

  Lucy wasted no time. She pushed past Leslie in her eagerness to try on her costumes. She was the townsperson who pushes a cart of cheese that gets overturn
ed in the town scene, and she wore a partial donkey outfit in the carnival scene on Runaway Island.

  “Abby! Come quick!” Lucy called, holding up a sheer blue sparkly dress with wings attached. “The Blue-Winged Fairy!”

  Abby gasped. Lucky I’m only here for two rehearsals, she thought. I’d never go out in public wearing that.

  13

  THE SECRET OF AMBROSE BROWN

  ABBY WAS ENTHRALLED. The people she went to school with and had known all her life had become different people altogether. The change occurred, she reflected, as they stepped into their costumes. Within minutes, Sam was slinking along sneakily as the Sly Fox. Leslie was so much like a dog that she was almost scratching her ears with her back leg. Mr. Farrow, even, had become a humble carpenter in his demeanor, cap in hand.

  On stage, as scene followed scene, Abby felt transported into the world of the story.

  Because this was her first rehearsal, everybody helped her. She was pushed on stage at every cue, and when she forgot what to say, someone would invariably prompt her.

  Even so, the magic of the theatre began to possess her. This is what it is all about, she thought. This is why Ambrose Brown became an actor.

  Cody waited outside the theatre. The Bad Man had been here in his moving machine for a long time. Now he got out of the machine and opened the trunk at the rear.

  Cody’s ruff bristled. Nothing bad would happen to his Abby.

  The little coyote detected movement behind him. He froze as he realized that he had made the hunter’s worst mistake. He hadn’t noticed that he himself was being hunted.

  Whipping around, Cody caught shadowy movements for a fleeting second. Now, all was still. He was not fooled. There were probably five or six wild coyotes here, waiting for their chance to finish him off. He had trespassed in cubbing season.

  Cody must make no more mistakes.

  Joy Featherstone walked onto the stage between acts. The actors were waiting for notes on the first act. They’d had a break and were now sitting in the audience seats in excited, talkative groups.