Look Both Ways (26 page)

“Oooh, the
circuit
number. Look at you, Little Miss Technical.” Zoe pokes me in the side, and I giggle, but I’m kind of proud that I knew something she didn’t.

We’re both quiet for a minute, and I nibble on a tiny brownie and listen to the soft, comforting hum of the dimmer rack. “I love theaters when they’re dark and empty like this,” I say.

“I love theaters more when they’re full of people cheering for us,” Zoe says.

“I love theaters even
more
when they’re full of you and me eating tiny delicious brownies
after
people cheered for us.”

“I love theaters most when they’re full of you and me eating brownies
and
making out,” Zoe says, and she leans over and kisses me softly. There’s more
I love you
than
I want you
in it, and it feels perfect.

I’m reaching out to pull her closer when I notice that the acrid smell of burning dust seems to be getting stronger. “Do you smell something weird?” I ask.

Zoe laughs. “Are you trying to tell me I need a shower?”

“No, I’m serious. It kind of smells like something’s burning. But maybe it’s—”

I don’t even get to finish my sentence before the fire alarm goes off.

“Oh
shit,
” Zoe shouts over the deafening buzzer, and we both leap to our feet and run for the spiral staircase. The smell gets worse as we near the ground, and as we dash down the center aisle toward the lobby, I notice smoke pouring out from under the black velour curtain at the back of the stage. I cover my mouth with my shirt and try to get a better look at where it’s coming from, but Zoe pulls me forward.

“Should we call 911?” I yell.

“We need to get
out
!”

We burst into the cool night air and run for the tent full of patrons, looking for Bob or Marcus, but everyone has heard the alarm and is already stampeding in our direction. Barb stalks toward us like an angry bull, and Bob scurries behind her, shouting into his phone.

“Were you two inside?” Barb bellows when she spots us.

Zoe looks terrified. “Yes, but we didn’t do anything, I swear!”

“Is there anyone else in the building?”

I shake my head. “Not that we saw, but we were only in the auditorium.”

“Did you see smoke or flames?”

“There was a lot of smoke. It was coming from upstage left.”

“Smoke upstage left!” Barb yells to Bob, and he repeats it into the phone.

The whole company and most of the donors have caught up with us now, and everyone’s talking at once. “Back up!” Barb shouts, her voice like a megaphone. “Move away from the building! This is not a drill! The fire department is on the way. Seriously, guys,
move away from the building
!”

We back across the lawn and gather together in a tight knot. “That’s our stage for
Birdie,
” Zoe says. “What are we going to do?”

“Maybe they’ll put it out quickly,” I say. “It probably looked worse than it is. The theater will probably be fine.”

But the glassed-in lobby is growing hazy with smoke by the time the police arrive a few minutes later, and it doesn’t look like everything is going to be fine. In the next few minutes, two fire engines and two ambulances arrive and drive straight up onto the lawn, digging deep ruts into the perfectly manicured grass. The way the spinning blue and red lights wash over the company reminds me of Pandemonium. Firefighters spill off the trucks and surround the theater, shouting things like “working structure fire” and “flake the line out” and “upgrade to next alarm,” and then they start unrolling hoses and strapping on masks and air tanks. Even from here, I can see flickers of flame when they open the theater doors and charge inside. Almost the entire company is taking photos and video on their phones, but I don’t want to document this. I stand very still with my arms wrapped tight around me, watching the theater burn.

Putting out the fire takes way longer than I expected. Pandora and Natasha cling to each other and wail as they watch firefighters rush in and out of the building, and I wish I could duct tape their mouths shut; everyone’s already upset, and they’re making things worse. Zoe cries silently, and I put my arms around her as a few men climb up onto the roof and cut into it with saws, releasing spirals of smoke into the night air. Everything reeks of charred wood and burning synthetic fabric, and it’s getting harder to breathe, but nobody makes a move to leave.

After about forty-five minutes, the firefighters finally get the flames under control, and we applaud as they emerge from the building, blackened from head to toe. Water streams out of the sooty lobby and soaks into our shoes as they remove their air tanks and start packing up their gear. Bob confers with the fire marshal, and when he finally heads in our direction, everyone starts shouting questions at the same time. Barb lets out an ear-piercing whistle to make us shut up.

“My dear, brave company,” Bob says. “What a tragedy that you had to witness the death of our beautiful theater. But nobody was hurt, and we can all be grateful for that.” I’ve never seen him look defeated before, and it’s heartbreaking.

“What started the fire?” calls one of the non-eqs.

“We’ll know more once we’ve done a thorough investigation, but it looks like the hazer shorted out backstage and ignited the curtains.” Zoe and I exchange a startled look; if we hadn’t used the hazer for our show tonight, would the theater still be standing? Is this all our fault? I wait for Bob to ask to see our group alone in his office, but he doesn’t even glance at us. “I’m sure this goes without saying,” he continues, “but you
must not
enter the theater again for any reason. It has sustained major structural damage, and you could be seriously injured. A contractor will board up the building tomorrow.”

“But we’re supposed to load in
Birdie
on Saturday,” Livvy says.

Bob looks pained. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Haydu will be out of commission for the rest of the summer.”

Zoe grips my hand. “Is the show going to be canceled?” she asks.

“Hopefully not,” Bob says. “My esteemed colleagues and I will talk over some possible solutions tonight, and we’ll all reconvene in Legrand for an update at eleven tomorrow morning, okay? In the meantime, be safe and get some sleep. It’s been a long day, and everything’s under control now.”

He tries to smile at us, and we try to smile back. But as we watch him turn away from the charred remnants of Haydu Hall and head toward his office, flanked by Barb and Marcus, it’s impossible not to worry.

I wake up the next morning to the sound of my phone ringing. It’s barely seven, and I don’t recognize the number on the screen, but no one ever calls this early unless it’s an emergency. Maybe something happened to my parents. I’m suddenly wide-awake.

“Make it stop,” Zoe mumbles. She pulls my pillow over her head as I hit talk.

“Hello?” I choke. My throat is scratchy from all the smoke I inhaled last night.

“Good morning,” says a calm, pleasant man’s voice. “Is this Brooklyn?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?”

“This is Bob Sussman, the managing director. I’m so sorry if I woke you, but we’d appreciate it if you could join us in my office as soon as possible.”

I struggle into a sitting position. “What? Why?”

“I’ll explain everything in person,” Bob says. “Can you be here in twenty minutes?”

I throw on some clothes, and my mind starts spinning as I trudge across campus in the early-morning quiet. Have they decided the fire is my fault after all? Am I about to get kicked out of Allerdale? If I am, at least I went out on a high note, plus my parents will never know I wasn’t really cast in
Birdie.
Maybe this is for the best. Then again, leaving Allerdale three weeks early means leaving Zoe three weeks early, and I’m not sure I can stand that. We’ve barely had any time to be together.

I push into the main office, ready to plead my case, and find Russell sitting outside Bob’s closed office door. “Hey,” he says. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know. They told me to come in as quickly as I could. What are
you
doing here?”

“Same.”

I sit down next to him. “Do you think we’re in trouble?”

“What? No. Why would we be?”

“I mean, Bob said the hazer burned down the theater, and we’re the ones who used it last, right? So doesn’t that kind of make it our fault?”

“
We
didn’t know it was broken,” Russell says. “If we hadn’t used it, they would’ve turned it on for
Dreamgirls
today, and the same thing would’ve happened. Right?”

“I guess.” I pick at the hem of my shorts. “Tell me something weird to distract me?”

“A group of weasels is called a boogle,” he says. “Everyone has a unique tongue print. The largest recorded snowflake was fifteen inches across. Is this helping?”

“Not really. But I do love the word ‘boogle.’ ”

The office door opens, and Bob sticks his head out and beams at us. “You made it! Come in, come in.” He certainly doesn’t seem angy with us, but I can’t imagine why we’d be here unless we’re in trouble. I take a deep breath and follow Russell inside.

Bob’s office is cluttered and cheerful, the walls crowded with framed Allerdale show posters and children’s drawings. Barb and Marcus are seated on either side of the desk, and the third-rotation stage managers, Lauren and Magdalena, are crammed into narrow folding chairs against one of the walls. Russell and I sit down in the two remaining seats, and Bob boosts himself up onto his desk like a little kid and plunks down right on top of a pile of papers. I see the word “INSURANCE” poking out from under his thigh.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve called you here,” he says.

“Yeah,” Russell says, at the same time that I blurt out, “Are you kicking us out?”

Bob laughs. “No, of course not! Far from it. We have a proposal for you, actually. You two were the brains behind
A Midsummer Night’s Dreamgirls,
correct?”

I nod. “I mean, the cast helped. But yeah, we wrote pretty much all of it.”

“Wonderful. As you know, we’re in a bit of a bind right now. We’re down a performance space, but we can’t cancel any of the actors’ contracts or shorten the run of either
Birdie
or
Macbeth.
We considered trying to run the shows in repertory in Legrand, but we don’t have the resources or the crew to do that many changeovers. So we wondered if the two of you might be interested in helping us create a
new
show, one in which the actors from both casts could perform.”

We’re both silent for a minute, and then Russell says, “Wait. You want us to write another mash-up?”

“
Precisely!
A full-length one, this time. We were thinking the original
Macbeth
actors could perform most of Shakespeare’s text as planned, and you two could rewrite all the lyrics to the songs from
Birdie
to fit in with Shakespeare’s story. Whenever it was time for a song, the
Macbeth
actors would leave the stage, and identically dressed
Birdie
actors would take their places and sing. That way, everyone can be included, and everyone can play to their strengths.”

“It’s not a perfect solution, of course,” Marcus says. He’s obviously disgusted by the whole idea.

“But it’s the best one we can think of on short notice,” Bob says. “What do you two think?”

Russell and I look at each other, and the stunned expression on his face mirrors my feelings exactly. This whole Shakespeare-musical mash-up thing was supposed to be a silly joke. And now
this
is happening?

Bob must take our silence for reluctance, because he starts talking again. “We wouldn’t be able to compensate you properly for all your hard work, and I’m sorry about that, but we can offer you a small stipend. And you’d be released from any prior obligations, of course—crew calls and assistantships and whatnot. We’d need you in rehearsals full-time.”

“I’d get to withdraw from
Señor Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders
?” I ask.

“Do you have a large role?”

I sneak a glance at Russell, and we both bite back a laugh. “Replacing me shouldn’t be a problem,” I answer.

“Perfect. Consider it done. So? What do you say?”

No more ridiculous ensemble work and slam poetry and pretending the floor is made of tar. No more gluing sequins or sorting screws. No more master classes that reinforce my lukewarm feelings about performing. I’d get to be in charge of something again, to immerse myself in work-that-doesn’t-feel-like-work for more than a fleeting twenty-four hours. I’d get to mess around on the piano with my friend all day every day, and I’d get
paid
for it. For the last three weeks, Allerdale could be exactly what I want it to be.

“I’m in if you are,” Russell says. His fingers are tapping his thighs like they can’t wait to get to a keyboard.

“Let’s do it,” I say. “We can call it
Bye Bye Banquo.
”