“No, it was not,” Annie agrees. “But I’m doing okay. Still nightmares, but William helps with those.” She can’t help smiling whenever she says his name. It’s super adorable. “I hate knowing Mr. Gabriel is still alive, though. Even if he’s trapped somewhere, even if he’s being tortured and punished by the demoness . . . I wish he were dead. Totally and completely dead. I don’t know how I can ever really relax while he’s still out there. Down there. Whatever. You know what I mean.”
I do. “Yeah. I hate knowing that he’s going to be there the next time the demoness summons me.”
“Well, he won’t be there, like, like standing right there. He’ll be locked away somewhere.”
“I know.” I have to believe that will be true, or I will not be able to function. “But still. I hate the idea of being in the same place as he is. Even if it’s only for a short time.”
“Well, at least the next time she summons you will be the last time, right?”
“Right.” For some reason, saying this out loud makes me nervous. But that’s dumb. A deal’s a deal, and I’ve got one more trip and that’s it. Forever.
“I wish you were coming home with us,” Annie says.
“I know. But there’s still two more sessions. Two more shows! Although there won’t be another original show in the next group. They only do that once a summer.”
“I guess you wouldn’t really want to leave Ryan up here with Jules for the next six weeks anyway.”
“Definitely not. I believe him that he’s not interested in her that way, but . . . better to stick around and keep an eye on things, just in case.”
“Okay, you two,” Leticia calls. “Time to say good-bye so we can get on the road. My mom will freak out if we don’t get home before it’s dark.”
There are hugs all around, and Annie and I both get a little weepy. Leticia rolls her eyes at us. “You already know we’re going to come up for the next show,” she says. “It’s not going to be that long.”
“Just promise to give us a heads-up if there are any more demon things happening this time, okay?” Diane adds. “I might pack some knives or halberds or something.”
“Strobe lights,” I say. “We should all stock up on strobe lights.”
Annie looks thoughtful; half remembering, I guess. Leticia and Diane look at me like I’m crazy. At some point I’ll have to fill in all the details for them of what happened in the fall.
Then they all pile into the car. Annie snuggles in against William in the backseat. Diane honks once in farewell before she pulls away from the curb.
I watch them go, and I think about what Annie said. About not being able to ever relax, knowing Mr. Gabriel is still out there. Down there. Whatever.
Obviously I know exactly what she means.
He’s going to be waiting for me the next time I respond to the demoness’s call. She may think she has him safely locked away . . . but I’ve stopped him from getting what he wants twice now. He already wanted to kill me before. Now I think . . . I think he’s going to be waiting down there, nursing his rage. Making some plans. His brother might still be alive and willing to help him. I would hope that his brother would grow a backbone and realize that Mr. Gabriel is not worth helping. But I doubt that’s going to happen. Little Brother didn’t really seem the backbone-growing type.
I can go back to hoping that the summons won’t come for a very long time. And maybe it won’t. Maybe this time it will be years before I hear from Aaron or the demoness again.
But somehow I have a feeling it will be sooner than that.
Our next two performances are later that day, and then everyone in the show helps to take apart the set and clean everything up and put the costumes and props back in central storage. Peter and I hang out backstage after strike, doing a final sweep of backstage. It makes me sad to know our flats are going to be painted over by the next crew, and everything we created was only for these three performances. But that’s part of the beauty of theater, too, of course. Every show is its own unique work of art, and every run is temporary and ephemeral.
But it’s still sad when a good show is over.
Especially when not everyone is sticking around for the next one.
“So, are you really just going to go on pretending you’re a seventeen-year-old?” I ask him. “Go to high school somewhere, then college, then get a job?”
“Pretty much,” he says. “Although not a job. I mean . . . please. I’m going to be a phenomenal international superstar. People are going to be falling all over themselves to work with me. It’s not really the same thing as having a job.”
“Noted,” I say. “That sense of humility is going to serve you well at the real Tonys.”
“Maybe we’ll be there together,” he says. “I would love to work with you again, Cyn.”
“Likewise,” I say, and I mean it. “I just hope you remember me when you’re a phenomenal international superstar.”
“I promise to really, really try.”
“Thanks.”
We’re both quiet for a minute.
“Maybe I should transfer to your high school,” he says. “What’s the story with Diane anyway? Are she and Leticia super serious or what?”
“Yes,” I say firmly. “And anyway, I would like you to consider all of my friends off-limits, please. Demon relationships are too complicated.”
Peter looks slightly wounded at this but lets it go. He’s holding one of the apocalypse-blackened street signs from our show, turning it over and over in his hands.
“I could still transfer, though,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet mine and then darting away again. “I could write next fall’s musical. We could work together again.”
“No.” I say it quickly before I can be tempted to reconsider. I did love working with him. And he really has become a friend. But he’s too . . . distracting. And more important: I just don’t think I should be encouraging demons of any kind, even the non-evil ones, to come to my school. They seem to attract one another. I would really, really, really like my senior year to be demon free.
“But —”
“No.”
“Oh, all right.” He turns the street sign over a few more times. “I’m going to miss you, though.”
“I’ll miss you, too, Peter.” I hesitate, then add, “You could stay for the rest of the summer, you know. I’m sure they’d let you.” I laugh, because I keep forgetting that he can just make those things happen if he wants to. “Or you could just arrange it, or whatever.”
“Nah,” he says. “I want to get started on writing something new, and I think staying here might be too”— he glances at me —“distracting. Besides, now that I can go wherever I want, I feel like I should do that. Explore the world! See dinner theater in Ohio! Okay, maybe not that. But I could go anywhere. For as long as I want. Without worrying about being dragged back to a place I don’t belong.”
“You should travel the world,” I say. “An international theater tour. Gather some inspiration.”
“That’s a great idea,” he says, his expression brightening significantly. “I’ll spend the rest of the summer traveling, then find somewhere to have a senior year of high school, then use my summer experiences to write the best college entrance essay ever.”
I laugh again. “I’m sure you will.”
He looks at me again, and his adorable grin sneaks slowly across his face. “One more kiss for the road?”
“Don’t make me hurt you, pony boy.”
The camp Tony Award ceremony happens that night.
Steven starts off by making a speech about how we’re all winners, blah-blah-blah, but no one is listening, because we just want him to get on with it. Different counselors and staff begin coming up to announce each award. The winner for Best Actor in a Featured Role in a Musical, Lower Camp, is announced (Draymond Johnson, who played Wolf in Shrek), then the same categories for Middle and Upper. They switch to Best Actress in a Featured Role in a Musical next, and Maria’s l
ittle sister, Lucia, wins in the Lower Camp category for her part as Ursula in Bye Bye Birdie. Maria stands up and cheers as Lucia takes the stage to accept her award, beaming and waving. Sasha wins for her supporting role in Aftermass, which makes me super happy, although I’m also slightly concerned about the glares she gets from both Darleen and Celia, who were both vying for that award themselves.
There aren’t any nominees; everyone is considered eligible for their categories. All the official Tony categories are represented, except things like “best revival,” which makes sense, since technically all of the shows are revivals except for Peter’s, and there are also some additional categories, like Musical Chorus Member MVP. I get more and more nervous, waiting. Ryan notices and takes my hand and then starts to pet it soothingly. I had been a little worried at first that maybe the whole ceremony would be kind of silly, but everyone takes it really seriously. Ryan told me there are often tears, both from winners and non-winners, and that the feeling of going up there and receiving the award, even though you know it’s just camp, and not, like, Broadway or anything, is beyond amazing.
“You’ll see,” he told me, sliding a welcome arm around my waist.
I really hope he’s right. I knew I wanted to win from the moment I found out the awards existed, but sitting here now with all the other campers, I am desperate to win. I want the recognition. I want the confirmation, from this group of mostly strangers whom I didn’t really get a chance to know because I was too busy dealing with demons. I don’t even know who half the members of the awards committee are. If they give me an award, it won’t be because they like me . . . it will be because they think I really deserve it. I think I really deserve it, but there’s something about outside validation that just . . . makes it feel more real. I suppose I shouldn’t put that much importance on what a group of summer camp counselors thinks. I know I shouldn’t. But, right now . . . I do.
I also made Peter swear to me that he would not do anything to influence the results in any way. I believe that he won’t; he was so insistent about proving himself without using demon magic. There’s no actual award for best book and score, since none of the other musicals are originals, but he will get to go up to accept a recognition award for his work. And, of course, all of the other awards won by his cast and crew will reflect back on what he gave us to work with. I know he’s going to be savoring every single win.
Of the categories I’m most interested in, Best Actress in a Leading Role in a Musical comes up first. I’m not surprised when Jules’s name is announced for the Upper Camp award, and the resounding cheer from the audience indicates that most people agree that she deserves it. I try not to mind when Ryan leaps up to hug her before she takes the stage. Things are . . . strained between them since the other night, but they obviously still care about each other. Ryan warned me that they’re probably going to have to have some long talks to get past what happened. I promised him I wouldn’t give him a hard time about it. As long as all they did was talk. I feel Old Cyn getting all squinty-eyed and jealous at the thought of them spending any time alone together (he’s your boyfriend! she reminds me for the zillionth time), but I stuff her back down in the back of my brain, where she belongs. Ryan’s right about the importance of being able to trust each other. I’ve got to trust him if I expect him to trust me in return.
Best Actor in a Leading Role in a Musical is next, and of course Ryan wins for Upper Camp. Jules and I both jump up to hug him, but without hesitation he turns to me first. I close my eyes so I don’t have to watch the expression on her face at being second in line. I think it might take longer than Ryan realizes for them to be okay again.
We both stay standing as he bounds sexily up to the stage to accept his award. There aren’t any speeches; that would take forever, and would be a little over the top in any case. The winners just get to stand there for a moment on the stage with their award and take a bow before heading back to their seats. Ryan bows with a flourish, and all of his friends are whistling and catcalling as he makes his way back to us. He wins a Tony almost every summer, so this is far from his first time, but he still looks radiantly happy as he walks back down the aisle.
When they announce the category for Best Scenic Design, I grab Ryan’s hand so tightly that I am probably hurting his beautiful fingers, but he is a sweetheart and lets me. “It’s going to be you,” he whispers. “No question.”
And it is. There is barely a second to register hearing my name before Ryan pulls me into the tightest, best hug ever. It’s hard to let it end, but I have to, because I have to go up there to get my award.
I walk quickly down the aisle, getting a few high fives from some of the bunk 6 girls and a few of Ryan’s friends who are sitting close enough to reach out to me as I go by. The cheering is nothing like what Ryan and Jules received, but I don’t care about that. They have been coming here forever and know pretty much everyone, after all. Still, even kids I’ve never met are clapping with more than just polite effort; people really did seem to love the look of the set, and everyone’s been talking nonstop about Peter’s show since it opened.
I climb the stairs, and Steven hands me the award. “Congratulations, Cynthia,” he says. “Well deserved!”
I thank him and turn to the audience to take my bow. I see Peter sitting a few rows back, surrounded by some of his many admirers, and he gives me a glowing smile and an energetic double thumbs-up, which makes me laugh.
And then it’s done, and I head back down the stairs and back to my seat. Ryan is standing up and still clapping, and I get another tight hug when I squeeze past him. “I’m so proud of you!” he says. “But not at all surprised.”
“Right back atcha,” I say. I feel like I’ll never be able to stop smiling. I sit and look down at the award in my hands. It’s heavier than I expected, and nicely crafted; they really do this whole awards thing right. Again, I know it’s just camp, but . . . this is the first award I’ve ever won for theater. That makes it really special. I keep glancing down at it and smiling all over again.
There are a few more awards before the big ones, Best Play and Best Musical. Michael wins for Best Director, which I’m not sure is deserved, but it counts as another win for Peter’s show, and so I’m happy on that score. Michael takes the longest, slowest bow I’ve ever seen.
And then Best Play is announced (The Adventures of Tom Sawyer for Lower Camp, Arsenic and Old Lace for Middle, and The Odd Couple for Upper), and then it’s time for Best Musical.
Everyone falls silent, waiting for this one.
It’s not really a given that Peter’s show will win. All of the Upper Camp shows were really, really good. Even the ones without Ryan in them. And The Scarlet Pimpernel did have Ryan, and got the leading actor and actress awards, as well as best costumes. . . . I mean it wouldn’t be unreasonable for it to win. But I would feel awful for Peter if it did. He really, really wants this.
And I really want it, too. For him and also for me. And for Sasha and everyone else who worked so hard to make it as good as it was. Even Darleen and Celia, who, when they are not busy fighting, are both really talented.
Steven tortures us by drawing out the Lower and Middle Camp awards as much as possible.
Finally, he brings out the last envelope.
“And the Tony for Best Musical, Upper Camp, goes to . . .”
There is a collective intake and holding of breath.
“Aftermass, book and score by Peter Franco!”
The applause is overpowering. Peter’s admirers include pretty much everyone in the entire camp at this point, and even the directors and casts of the other shows are clearly excited for him to have won. It takes him a full five minutes to get up to the stage because of all the hugs and high fives and fist bumps he gets along the way. As I watch, I realize I hadn’t known what last name he’d chosen for himself until now. He doesn’t look like a Franco to me, but I’m sure he had his reasons.
When he gets up there and Steven hands him the Tony, Pet
er looks down at it with the happiest expression I have ever seen on anyone’s face ever. I know he’s thinking about it being the first of many, that this is his first step toward the life he has dreamed about for so very, very long. He faces the crowd, and he’s forgotten about his demon aura in his excitement, and so there’s an extra glow about him for my eyes in addition to the one that everyone can see. His eyes find mine across the theater, and he adds a special personal thank-you smile before bowing deeply with the perfect blend of pride and humility and gratitude. People start getting to their feet, and before long, the entire audience is standing, and everyone keeps clapping and cheering until Steven finally has to break in and tell us that if we don’t stop soon, all the ice cream at the reception is going to melt before we get there.
This gets a dutiful laugh, but it also does the trick. Peter heads back down from the stage, and the standing ovation becomes a general exodus to Hines Hall, which is where the reception is being held. There is indeed ice cream, as well as an assortment of other desserts and nonalcoholic beverages.
Ryan and Jules and I meet up with Toby and Maria and a bunch of Ryan’s other friends. I guess they’re starting to become my friends, too. Sasha and Lisa R. join us after a while, as does Craig, who immediately brings the conversation around to what we think the next set of shows might be, and what the chances are that this time they will include Candide. Everyone makes their obligatory, teasing no-one-likes-Candide-but-you comment and goes on with their other conversations. Except Lisa R., who says she doesn’t know Candide, at which point Craig drags her over to the bleachers to sit down so he can tell her all about it.
Peter is on the other side of the room, surrounded by even more admirers than usual, soaking in the congratulations and accolades and gently fending off adorable Lower Campers who seem to be trying to bring him more desserts. He’ll be heading out in the morning along with the other single-session campers, and then a fresh group of kids will arrive in the afternoon. I’m sure I’ll talk to him again sometime during the evening or tomorrow before he leaves, but whatever else happens, I feel like Peter and I have already said our real good-bye.
Revenge of the Evil Librarian Page 22
