Revenge of the Evil Librarian

by Michelle Knudsen

  Because: West Side Story. I mean, come on.

  In the morning, our bunk is buzzing with first-day-of-rehearsal fervor. All of the other bunk 6 girls are performers, and they are all relatively pleased with their show assignments, although not everyone got their first choices. Hana is in the chorus of Scarlet Pimpernel. When I mentioned last night that my boyfriend (!) was cast as Chauvelin, ten pairs of eyes turned to stare at me incredulously.

  “Ryan Halsey is your boyfriend?” they asked in screechy harmony.

  I keep forgetting that everyone here knows him.

  They hadn’t really seemed to know what to talk to me about before now, since they don’t quite get the appeal of backstage track, but this gave them plenty of conversational material. It’s not so much that they suddenly find me more interesting; it’s just that now there’s an obvious entry point for discussion. They want to know what he’s like back home, what he was like in Sweeney (when I tell them that’s how we got to know each other; I leave out our other shared, demon-related activities), what he’s like in the kissing department (that was just Lisa P., who is very nosy). None of them seem to know him very well, they just know who he is, like everyone here knows the people who tend to get cast as leads again and again.

  “I thought he and Jules Frisk were together,” Amina says.

  “Nope,” I say quickly. And firmly. “They’re just friends.”

  “Huh,” she says. “They look so good together, though. And they spend like all day together, every summer.”

  Not this summer! I want to shout at her, but I just smile. I am happy and secure in my relationship. I will not be threatened by everyone else’s apparent certainty that Ryan and Jules belong together. Because if they really belonged together, they would have gotten together by now. And that has not happened. And Ryan is with me. So everyone should probably just shut up.

  Today is a little like the first day of school. People have chosen their T-shirts and tank tops with care. Breakfast is brief and high-energy. I give Ryan a quick kiss good-bye and watch him head off toward the Colosseum (what they call the theater where Scarlet Pimpernel will be performed) with Jules and some of their friends. Hana gives me a tiny wave as she trots off after them.

  Sasha is in Aftermass with me. She’s got a part, but since none of us know anything about the show yet, she has no idea whether it’s the lead or the smallest non-chorus part or something in between. She wanted Marguerite but seems to feel no animosity at losing out to Jules. “She’s amazing,” Sasha had said with all apparent sincerity. “You should have heard her at callbacks. Oh, my God. That’s going to be an amazing show.” (Sasha likes to use the word amazing.)

  As we leave the dining hall, Sasha fills me in on the gossip she heard this morning. “So there are these two girls, Darleen and Celia? And they hate each other. I mean, like, they’ve got this lifelong blood-feud thing happening — it’s crazy. Generally the powers that be try to keep them out of the same shows, just for everyone’s health and safety, you know? But for some reason, this year they’re both in our show. Something is totally going to happen. And we’ll be there to see it. It’s going to be amazing.”

  Our show is in Blake, out past the music buildings. We join a growing procession of campers headed in the same direction. I expected to be nervous, at least a little, but I’m not. I’m just excited. I don’t have to perform, after all; today I just get to watch and listen and take in all the initial information that I will then begin to sort through and use to create my wonderful set design. Later, once there is something on the line, I will start to be nervous, I’m sure.

  We reach the theater and head inside. The counselor/director is sitting in a metal folding chair on the stage, talking with a teenager in another folding chair next to him. Probably the writer/composer, I imagine. He’s turned away from me at first, but when he looks away from the director for a second to glance out at the theater, I see that he is rather easy on the eyes, in a buttoned-up kind of way. Dark, slightly longish hair, blue eyes behind black plastic eyeglass frames, cheekbones to die for.

  Hey, I may have a boyfriend, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate some delicious eye candy when it presents itself.

  The cast is directed to sit in the audience, those with named parts in the first two rows, chorus behind them in vocal sections. Backstage/technical-track kids are directed to another section. Sasha bids me farewell and heads toward her designated area. I take a breath and head up the stage steps to introduce myself to the director and the writer.

  Before I can open my mouth, the director gives me an exasperated look. “Did you not hear the instructions? No one should be onstage right now other than Peter and myself. Are you either of those two people?”

  I blink, taken aback. “But —”

  “Do you not know whether you are performance or backstage track? Do you need me to find your name on the list?”

  Awesome. The director is an asshole.

  I will admit I had not foreseen this exciting development.

  I raise my hands in surrender and turn back for the steps. The camper — Peter, I assume — reaches out a hand to stop me. “Are you Cynthia? Set designer?”

  I turn back, warily. “Yes. I just thought I should introduce myself. But I can certainly do that later.”

  “No, no. I’m glad you came up. I’m Peter. I’m really looking forward to working with you, Cynthia.” The director sighs loudly and rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything else. I decide it’s safe to respond.

  “Cyn, please.” I smile at him, trying to communicate my gratefulness for his civility and general contrast to the asshole. “And likewise.”

  He smiles back, and there is something very much not-buttoned-up in that smile. “Nice to meet you, Cyn. Let’s get together after the sing-through and we can start talking ideas, all right?”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Peter.”

  I head down to the backstage section and take a seat, deliberately not looking back at the director at any point. At least the writer is a decent human being. In addition to being super cute. Not that I care. I’m just being thorough in my description. And it looks like he can hold his own against the director, so that’s good. It never occurred to me to worry about the director being so unpleasant. Valuable reminder, I suppose. Liking musical theater does not automatically make one a nice person. I suddenly realize how much I’ve been spoiled by dear Mr. Henry back home.

  Once the rest of the cast and crew arrive and find their correct places to sit, the director stands up and welcomes everyone, managing to sound sincere. Maybe he can at least act nice when he feels like it. It is theater camp, after all. While a girl who appears to be his deputized assistant hands out the scores, he tells us how excited we should be to be working on a brand-new show and how lucky we are to have him for our director. (Okay, he doesn’t exactly say that second part, but it’s very clearly implied.) He says we’re going to just jump right into the sing-through right after the writer/composer says a few words.

  Everyone turns politely to Peter, who stands up and walks to the front of the stage.

  “Hey, guys,” he says in a not quite shy but completely adorable understated way, and I can tell his contrast to the director’s self-assured arrogance (which comes across even when he’s acting nice) instantly wins over the entire theater. “I thought it would help to give you a quick idea of what the show’s about before we get started. Some of this is written up in the front of your scores, along with full descriptions of all the characters, but basically, Aftermass is a postapocalyptic thriller/romance/adventure about the enduring power of love in the shadow of the end of the world.”

  Now, this is not generally a statement that a lot of people could pull off with a straight face, let alone without eliciting a bunch of eye rolling and awkward titters and seat shifting from those hearing it, but Peter manages to do just that. The only response is one of palpable quiet excitement, and as he goes on to describe the basic outline of the plot, everyon
e is clearly and enthusiastically on board. Including me. And I’m not usually a postapocalyptic kind of girl. The story focuses on a handful of survivors thrown together after a mysterious world-ending disaster, and the two main characters have conflicting ideas about how to carve out a new life for themselves and the others in their little group. It’s part love story, part horror story, part ghost story, with some exciting-sounding fight scenes and soul-wrenching difficult choices to be made and a lot of other things that I personally happen to love in my musical theater.

  “I’ll stop talking now and turn things back over to Michael,” Peter says, giving the group a final charming smile. He doesn’t look at Michael (who, by the way, never actually bothered to introduce himself, presumably assuming everyone already knew who he was), but somehow I can tell that Peter knows how antsy the director is to take back over. His timing is perfect; he’s been brief enough that Michael really can’t object, but he’s milking it just enough to make the director squirm. “I’ll just say this one last thing: I cannot wait to see what you guys do with this show. Thank you so much for helping me bring it to life.”

  Everyone cheers and applauds at this, and Peter ducks his head in semi-embarrassed thanks as he retakes his seat. Michael gets up with an air of tolerant beneficence, like a dinner host who’s let the visiting elderly relative hold forth at the table just a bit longer than courtesy dictates, but he has to wait a few seconds for the cheering to die down before he can begin speaking again.

  “All right, then,” he says. “Let’s get started.” He nods to the accompanist, who nods back and then begins to play the overture on the piano.

  We all listen.

  Waiting.

  Hoping.

  And the overture is really, really good.

  After just a few notes, people start looking around at one another, wide eyes communicating how impressed they are. Before now, I hadn’t quite allowed myself to dwell on the fact that the show might not be any good. I mean of course you’d expect whoever won the competition to have created something really great, but, well, you never really know. Plus, what if the people judging the contest just had horrible taste? But this music is . . . incredible.

  I sneak a glance at Peter up on the stage. He’s looking at the pianist, not out at the audience, but it’s plain from his expression that he can tell how everyone is reacting. I know that feeling — that moment of sharing something you’ve created, believing in your heart that it’s good, but still, in that second of actually revealing it to others, you can’t help but be a little terrified that it’s not. Peter’s face shows that barely contained joy/relief/satisfaction of having your heart’s original opinion confirmed by the ones you most hoped would do so.

  There is more enthusiastic applause after the overture, and then the sing-through begins. I’m always in awe of people who can look at music and lyrics in a score that they’ve never seen or heard before and just sing it. I can’t sing worth a damn even when I know the song by heart. The singing isn’t perfect, by any means, and once or twice Peter or Michael or the accompanist (Leon) jumps in to help someone who’s struggling, but overall the cast is really great. Sasha’s part turns out to be a cool one — she’s the ghost of the hero’s best friend, who was secretly in love with the hero’s sister but never had the courage to act on it while she was alive. (And now that she’s a ghost, no one else in the cast can see or hear her, so she finally confesses everything, but no one knows except the other ghosts.) Her songs are a little funny and a little tragic, and Sasha’s voice is perfect — kind of tart and sweet with something a bit 1940s girl Friday about it.

  Darleen and Celia both have fairly large supporting roles. I can tell who’s who because there’s a copy of the cast list tucked inside the front cover of the score. Both girls have great voices and their parts are about the same size, which is probably good in the avoiding-trouble department. Neither of them immediately seems to be an aggressive lunatic or raging diva; I’ll have to ask Sasha for more of their backstory.

  The sing-through takes nearly the entire morning rehearsal period, but it feels like it flies by in a second. The show is that good. Postapocalyptic America and ghosts and battles and love scenes and death scenes and big dance numbers are all beginning to swirl around in very exciting ways in my head as I start to think about what the stage might look like through all of this. I don’t want to get too attached to any ideas until I have a chance to talk to Peter, though. I believe the final say is mine, but obviously I want to create something that he’s going to love as well. And ideally Michael, too, although I could probably live with myself if he didn’t.

  Michael declares that we’ll take a short break and then use the rest of the time before lunch to start work on the first big chorus number. Peter is instantly besieged by adoring fans. I wait, smiling, watching his obvious pleasure as they tell him how much they love the show. Michael is also watching, with less smiling. I don’t really know what his deal is yet. He can’t not want people to be excited, and he must understand that in this particular case, with the show having been written by one of the campers, everyone is going to be very interested in the author. But I suspect he’s used to a certain amount of director-worship and is maybe worried that Peter is going to steal the spotlight entirely.

  Suddenly there is some unhappy-sounding shouting from some of the girls in Peter’s fan group. At first I can’t even see what’s happening, and then I hear “Hey, watch it!” just before Celia goes tumbling off the edge of the stage. There’s a collective gasp and then several people run over to help her. Peter hasn’t moved; he seems transfixed by this sudden explosion of violent activity.

  Darleen is standing on the stage just above Celia. “I told her to move over,” she says calmly to no one in particular. “It’s not my fault she fell.”

  “The hell it’s not,” Celia says back, launching herself up toward the other girl amid a confusion of shouts from assorted friends and onlookers. Everyone has stopped whatever else he or she was doing at this point and is just watching the drama unfold. Michael strides purposefully toward them, looking somewhat pleased to have a way in which to demonstrate his authority.

  Interesting as all of this is, something else catches my eye and draws it away from Michael’s advance upon the fray. I thought, for a second . . .

  There.

  A flash of red. The you-know-what kind of red. The kind I swore I didn’t see and would not see, not here, because demons do not go to theater camp. They just do not. Because that would be ludicrous. And so not fair.

  Except apparently I was mistaken about that.

  Everyone else is drifting over toward the fight, and Michael is trying to sort out what happened, and Celia is crying now, and someone is saying that her ankle is totally sprained and that Darleen is going to be sorry and it doesn’t matter what happened last night at dinner, but I only register this in a far-off, unimportant kind of way.

  My attention is arrested by the demon halo that has flickered into solidity and remains clearly visible, denying me any opportunity to reconvince myself that I don’t see it.

  Nope. No denying it. There it is.

  Right above Peter’s head.

  My feet are moving before I can even really think about it. I bound up the steps toward Peter.

  He turns and sees me coming. Starts to smile, then sees my face, and his expression freezes. His eyes flick up. The halo disappears.

  “Too late,” I tell him, grabbing his arm. I drag him backward, into the wings and deeper backstage. Back to where set construction will be happening. Except it won’t be. Not now. Because . . . because . . .

  “Are you kidding me? Are you seriously freaking kidding me?” I push him away, and he stumbles, catching himself on the wall.

  “Cyn, what —”

  “You’re a demon!”

  “What? No!”

  I just look at him.

  “Well, okay. Yes. But it’s not what you think!”

  “How can it possib
ly not be what I think?”

  “It’s not, I swear. I’m not —” He looks around, lowering his voice. “I’m not evil.”

  I laugh, but it’s not remotely funny. I cannot believe this is happening.

  “All demons are evil. It’s part of the definition.”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s not. Really. Lots of demons are evil, but there are plenty of us who don’t want anything to do with the whole demon-throne-maim-and-destroy-torture-humans-and-feed-on-their-souls way of life. Well, okay, maybe not plenty, but definitely a whole bunch. Or, well . . . a few, anyway.”

  I wait.

  “No, that’s it. I’m sticking with a few.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “No, really, I think a few is pretty accurate.”

  “I mean,” I say through clenched teeth, “I don’t believe that you’re not evil.”

  “Oh.” He seems to think about this for a minute. “Well, I’m just going to have to convince you.” He smiles his charming smile at me.

  “Don’t you smile at me! You are not nearly as charming as you think you are.”

  His smile broadens. “Oh, yes, I am. Don’t lie. I’m pretty charming.”

  “Not anymore,” I say, trying to avoid looking directly at him. The smile is kind of distracting. “Not now that I know what you are.”

  That makes me think of something.

  “How did you hide it, anyway? The halo.”

  “Oh, that,” he says. “It’s pretty easy, really. It’s just that normally there’s no reason to. But I knew that you were able to see them, so I masked it. It just takes a little concentration. But I guess I got distracted for a minute and let it reappear.” He peers out toward the theater. “I wonder what’s happening out there. Did Darleen really just totally push Celia off the stage?”

  “Hey! Focus.”

  “Sorry. What were we talking about?”

  “You were about to explain what the hell you are doing here.”

  He squints at me. “Are you sure? I don’t remember that.”