Man Made Boy (6 page)

Working on my big project had become like meditation for me. For a little while, I could escape all the stress about humans, parents, Shaun’s crew, Liel, and everything else. I had been working on the project for years now. I had never heard of anyone trying to weave magic and technology together like this. It had become such a part of my life that it was a necessary function, like breathing or eating. And on the off chance that I
did
finish it…well, not to brag, but it would take the Internet to the next stage of its evolution.

A reminder window popped up, breaking me out of my flow. The Show began in ten minutes. I powered down my computer and unhooked the cable from the back of my head. The real world swirled into focus in a way that always made me a little nauseous. Then I unplugged the cables from my wrists and pulled the stitches tight to close the flaps. My hands were once again the massive, clumsy chunks of meat at the end of my arms.

I walked out into the living room feeling a little groggy. Mom wasn’t home. As the resident mechanic for the theater, she was in and out a lot. I poured myself a glass of Dew, still thinking through a specific snarl in the code I had run into. I had chugged about half the glass when I suddenly remembered why I planned to watch The Show that night. The tense chill I’d felt in the Diva’s dressing room ran through me again like it was still in my muscle memory.

FRIDAY NIGHTS WERE always sold out, so I didn’t even try to find a seat in the back of the house. Instead, I worked my way through the backstage passageways to the control booth.

The booth was a small room that overlooked the stage. The lights, sound effects, and a few other things were operated from up there. The entrance was a black wooden door nestled in the side of a wall at the back of the house. The Show had already started by the time I reached it. When I opened the door, I was greeted by a musky smell and no lights. I followed the small strips of glow tape up a steep, narrow staircase, closing the door behind me.

“They’re a bit off tonight,” came Laurellen’s soft, liquid voice.

“The whole show’s off,” growled Mozart. “Something in the air.”

“Other than your stink?”

“Just sayin’. The whole vibe’s not right tonight.”

When I reached the top of the stairs and stepped into the small, dimly lit booth, I could just make out the panels of dials, knobs, and switches that covered three of the four walls. The booth tech was out of bounds for me. Only the light operator, Laurellen, and the sound operator, Mozart, touched these instruments.
The fourth wall was a window that looked out over the audience and the stage below.

“Hey, guys,” I said. “Can I watch from up here for a little bit?”

“Certainly,” said Laurellen. “Although I’m surprised you have any interest at this point.” Laurellen had long, chestnut-brown hair, pulled back so he could wear the headset that allowed him to communicate with the rest of the run crew and get his cues from the stage manager. Everything about Laurellen was thin and wispy: his body, his face, his voice. The clunky headphones, which didn’t quite cover his long, pointed ears, looked too heavy for his neck to support. Like the trowe, Laurellen didn’t like the negative connotations of the old fashioned name for his kind: faerie. He felt it was too limiting. Instead, he wanted people to call him a fag, because he said fags could be movie stars, politicians, or anything else they wanted.

“I’ll bet there’s one act he hasn’t seen,” said Mozart. The gray streaks in his bearded face glowed luminous greens and reds from the soundboard in front of him. He was a werewolf. He was just fine with being called a werewolf. He generally preferred his wolf form, but he had to be in his human shape during The Show so he could operate his soundboard.

“After all this time?” Laurellen turned to me. “What act haven’t you seen?”

“Uh…the Diva.”

“Oh,” said Laurellen.

Mozart let out a laugh that sounded more like a bark. “Well, pull up a seat for the best show in town!” He patted a stool between them. “It’s the stage manager’s chair, but I don’t think he’ll mind.”

“The stage manager?” I asked. “Have you ever seen him?”

“I’m a wolf, kid. Not a medium.”

“I think I saw him once,” said Laurellen. “Though it could have been the drugs.”

“I’ve never really talked to him much,” I said. “Is he nice?”

Mozart shrugged. “For a dead guy.”

“He leaves me a bit cold,” said Laurellen.

They smirked at each other.

“Maybe you guys spend too much time together,” I said.

“Possibly,” agreed Laurellen. Then he pressed a hand to one earphone. “Ooops.” He moved the attached microphone closer to his mouth. “Yes, cue thirty, standing by.” He leaned over his board and began turning dials and pushing faders.

“The Diva’s on next, kid.” Mozart turned away to hunch over his soundboard. “I really would recommend sitting down for this.”

I sat on the narrow, backless stool between them and looked out through the window on to the stage. The Fates were in the middle of their act. They always had a volunteer come up onstage for a little fortune-telling. This time, it was a young Wall Street–looking guy in a suit.

Clotho, the young Fate, had wavy blonde hair, soft hazel eyes, and round, rosy cheeks. She told him about all the great things that were going to happen to him: a promotion, money, a beautiful wife. “It’s going to be such an amazing time!” she told him in her bright, cheerful voice. He smiled.

Then Lachesis, the middle-aged Fate, came in. She had long, straight hair that was a mix of brown and gray. Her eyes were gray, too. She told him he’d get laid off, start having trouble with his marriage, struggle to find meaning in his life. He looked upset, which was understandable. “It’s going to get tough,” she told him. “But, in the end, you’ll get through it, find a new job, reconcile with your wife, and come to understand
what’s really important in life.” The guy nodded, looking relieved.

“Of course,” said Atropos, the old hag of the Fates. “Six months after that, you’ll drop dead from testicular cancer.”

All three of them cracked up at that like it was a great joke. The guy looked like he was about to faint as he stumbled back to his seat.

Then Laurellen and Mozart, prompted by the stage manager’s cue over the headset, brought down the lights and closing music to darkness and silence while the Fates exited.

The stage stayed dark, and nothing seemed to be happening. I glanced over at Laurellen, who was clearly waiting for a cue. His eyes flickered back to me.

“The Diva enjoys making them wait a bit.” Then his eyebrows raised as he listened to something over the headset. “Standing by.” He pushed a button on the board.

The lights slowly began to lift on the stage, dim red and orange, streaked with purple. All the while, a low bass hum rose, so rich that it felt like it was growing up from the ground. The lights got brighter, and the bass reached a decibel level that shook my stomach.

Then a robed and hooded figure glided smoothly onstage. The robe was black, with a deep cowl like a monk’s. The head was bowed and the hands were folded into the sleeves. It could have been anyone beneath that robe, or anything. The slow beat of kettledrums rose over the speakers. The figure swiveled toward the audience as if floating, the head still bowed. She stood like that for a while. If it had been anyone else, it would have been boring. But not when it was Medusa. It was like tension rolled off her, and my body absorbed it. My heart was beating hard, and I think it would have taken something like an explosion to break
my concentration. So slowly that I could barely see the movement, she lifted her head up completely so that I was looking at a face covered with several layers of white veils. I could only make out the faintest of shadows beneath, but it was enough to make my pulse speed up and my jaw clench like I’d just gotten a sudden jolt of caffeine.

Then she reached up with one black velvet–gloved hand and unhooked the outermost veil. I could make out the suggestion of the outline of the face. My mouth tasted like a lead pipe and I thought I heard strange whispers and sighs, like the echoes of sounds. When I closed my eyes for a moment, I saw angry red splotches beneath my lids. But I couldn’t keep them closed.

She took off another veil, and I could now see the faintest contours of the face. I thought how much this was like life—how we could rarely, if ever, see it clearly. Right now I could see it: my whole life, as it really was. But it came in short bursts, like static. I needed more.

She took off another veil, and I could see the shaded areas of the mouth and eyes, the outline of a face. I saw what was really there. And I wasn’t at all surprised. It really couldn’t be another way. Much like my life, it was inevitable. So I gave into it, let it sweep me away like a river of dust and broken glass. It hurt some, but it seemed minor compared to what now lay so heavily on me. The illusions of my life folded in on themselves one by one, until there was nothing left but the Real. I felt like I was almost there. Just a little further, just a little closer, and I would understand
everything
…

Then I fell backward off the stool. I blinked swirling lights from my eyes as I heard Laurellen and Mozart laughing quietly. Neither of them offered to help me up. It was just as well, because I wasn’t quite ready to move yet. In addition to the dizziness,
I had a huge boner. I struggled slowly to my feet and back onto the stool. The stage had gone dark again and the run crew was hustling in for a quick set change.

“So, how’d you like it?” asked Mozart.

“That was it?” I asked.

“You want more?”

“Well, no, I mean…I don’t remember what actually happened.”

“You never do the first time. Takes a while to figure out how to not get caught up in it.”

“So what happened?”

“She took off the first three veils.”

“Out of how many?”

“Seven.”

“That’s all she had to do?”

“That’s all she’s
allowed
to do,” said Laurellen. “Any more, and…well…”

“I’ve heard,” I said. “Humans have seizures and heart attacks and stuff like that, then my dad has to come in and take her off the stage.”

“I’ve seen her pick one out of the crowd occasionally,” said Mozart. “Some guy that she decides for whatever reason she really likes—”

“Or hates,” said Laurellen.

“Whichever,” said Mozart. “She’ll walk out into the aisle and stop right next to him, lean over, and look him dead in the face. Even with the veils, that kind of direct attention is enough to give the poor guy a heart attack. The Monster comes in and hauls her offstage while Ruthven gets somebody to do CPR until the poor bastard’s heart starts back up.”

“Has anyone ever died?” I asked.

“No, they recover once she’s out of the area,” said Mozart. “But here’s the thing that gets me. You’d think that the sorry bastard would do everything in his power to avoid her after that. But every single time it happens, he’s at the stage door after The Show, begging your dad to let him in to see her.”

Laurellen sighed. “And that, gentlemen, is why she is the Diva.”

I DECIDED TO stick around to watch the last two numbers from the booth. I didn’t mind seeing the trowe’s new number again. Well, Liel, really. They all wore their traditional costumes for the performance. The clothing was mostly leather and thick, rough wool, but it left a lot of their bodies uncovered. I watched Liel dance, her white hair swirling through the air, her iron-and-bone jewelry slapping against her sweaty, dark green skin. I think my mouth must have been hanging open or something, because Mozart gave me a nudge and grinned.

After the trowe, the Siren came on for the finale. I always loved her number. It was so simple, but it was one you could always count on to get a standing ovation. She walked onstage wearing a light blue linen dress. It was hard to explain what she looked like. She could probably pass for human. But her features were rough, like they had been painted by one of those crazy expressionist guys. Her hair stuck out in pointy clumps, almost like feathers, and she moved fast and jerky, like a bird. She looked out at the audience and you could tell she hated them. Or it seemed that way, anyway. It was hard to know for sure with the Siren because she didn’t talk. Charon once told me she couldn’t—that she could only sing. And when she sang,
she had to be really careful because her song was irresistible. Back in the old days, when she lived by the sea, she would lure sailors into shore with her song so they crashed their ships into the rocks. Then she’d eat them.