Spark (13 page)

I like the idea, to be honest. “I'll tell her,” I promise.

“I've got an idea, too,” one of the red ball caps announces. Toby. His name's Toby. “For the background. I was thinking, why not use a black sheet—for the sky, you know? I could rig it to where white lights poked through. You know, for stars.”

Stars?
This tickles the back of my thoughts. Bertie. The night sky. Star-crossed lovers uncrossed.

A thump behind me steals my attention. Dylan's staring at his toes, while another red cap—Michael, this one's name is Michael—is thunking him on the back. Dylan's face is red,
and he's looking uncomfortable. I'm about to tell Michael to beat it—what's he doing, slapping Dylan on the back, teasing him about his stutter? Acting like he's trying to free him of words stuck in his throat like chicken bones, saying, “Come on, spit it out already”?

But that's not it at all. That slap isn't a tease. It's congratulatory. “She's really into you,” Michael says. Followed by two decidedly
way to go
thumps.

I'm wondering who Michael means as a smile squirms across Dylan's face.

“I'm taking that as a yes. I'll get right on it,” Toby announces triumphantly. When I glance his way, he's backing up, insisting, “You'll see. This'll be great.”

When I turn back toward Dylan and Michael, the two are already gone. I sigh, reaching for the strap of my backpack. Beside my stash, Cass's phone begins to buzz on top of her small tower of textbooks. I glance at the screen as a text comes in from Dylan:
Meet me. Same time 2day. Avery.

His voice is every bit as clear via text as it is inside that old theater.

C
ass's VW putters along toward the square. Her hair flutters out around her face, and she's humming to the radio, that station she recently found—the one that plays her old faves. The one that Mom visited to make the first
Anything Goes
announcement. I stare, waiting. But Cass says nothing. Not about meeting Dylan later. Not about what the two of them are up to in the Avery. Not even when the DJ reminds his listeners, between songs, that tickets for our production are on sale now.

Cass isn't talking to me. And I'm not talking to her, either. One omission has led to another, and here we are, sitting on a mountain of silence. She's got Dylan on her mind. She's rushing to meet him. She's racing toward whatever's happening to
her inside that old theater. She's sharing it with Dylan. Not with me.

I get a panicky feeling, wondering if we're standing on a road that forks. Like she's choosing something other than me, for the first time since those days of paste eating and afternoon naps.

This can't be happening—and still, it is. I'm losing my hold on her. She has a secret. An enormous one.

And so do I.

And neither one of us says anything.

And I hate it.

As we pile out of the Bug, I'm still expecting it to come. Some mention of the text. Something as simple as for her to turn and sprint straight for the Avery right in front of me. But she takes a step toward Duds.

“Hey, Cass—” I call.
Just come out with it, already. I saw the text. Tell me what this is all about.

She turns, staring blankly. But I can't decode this face—maybe because it isn't honest. This isn't an open, waiting-for-what-comes-next blank face. This is a poker face, a cover—for the first time since I've known her, the face Cass turns toward me is a lie. Not just an omission. This face insists nothing's going on. This face says her life right now is none of my business.

I pull off my glasses and wipe the lenses with the bottom
of my T-shirt. Like maybe I could see something else when I slide them back on.

But no—nothing. Just Cass standing in a pair of bell-bottoms with embroidered hems. A red-checkered blouse. And that blank face she's put on to cover whatever it is she feels she needs to hide. From me, of all people.

“See you in the a.m.,” she calls. Like it's any other day, no big deal. And more—she says it in order to put a giant “The End” on this conversation. To make sure I don't have a chance to pry.

I take the long way around the square, walking down the sidewalk that makes up the perimeter. When I get to Ferguson's, I cup my eyes and press my face against the glass. No sign of Dylan. Only Kiki's father, reorganizing his display of instruction booklets.

I try the alley behind the Avery. Still no sign of Dylan—no bike, no half-open back door. The knob won't twist when I try it. Surely he'd have to leave it open for Cass, right? He's the one with the filed-down skeleton key.

Reluctantly, I give up. At least for now. Maybe, I think, they're supposed to meet up later. After dark, even.

“You'll give me a sign, won't you?” I ask out loud, placing my palm against the rough brick on the back of the Avery.

Like Cass, the Avery decides to remain silent.

Mom's already home when I finally step inside. The
microwave is beeping, and the kitchen smells like tomato sauce. Lasagna, I think—one of the many frozen dinners she's been dropping on our dinner table ever since we both got involved in the musical.
Two months.
A crazy deadline. The kind that induces panic and keeps the stove from ever getting turned on, any real home cooking from ever getting served.

Without even a hello, she launches into a tirade on the numbers. “Ticket sales have slowed down
dramatically
—no pun intended. But I did place a few calls to some people I think might offer to invest in the Avery once they see our production and everyone starts getting riled up about it again—including their kids.”

Her white hair tumbles over the top of her glasses. “And once we get those investors, it'll all come back—the whole square. After all, what do people need once the final bow has been taken? Pie!”

I giggle. But the look Mom flashes is serious. She hadn't meant that as a joke. “The businesses on the square closed, one after another, after the Avery died. But let me tell you, when people get out of the theater—or leave from a movie—they don't want to go home. They want to talk about what they've seen. They need coffee shops, restaurants. They need a table for two and a little dessert plate between them. Pie! One plate, two forks. Something sweet. They need a sidewalk café in the summer. They need—”

“—specialty hot chocolates in the winter,” I finish. “Late
dinners. Then, if the conversation gets heated, an early breakfast.”

Mom smiles, nodding in agreement. “We need a florist showing off their green thumb, too. Create almost a—well, a minipark—right there in the center of the square. With bushes and flowers growing up around benches. And once everyone sees what that florist's created, they'll start thinking about getting some flowers of their own. Maybe people could come to like corsages again! Wear them to the theater! Yes! Wouldn't Cass's mother like a flower shop down here? If there was a lot of traffic? Wouldn't it please her as much—more, even—to see people going into the Avery wearing a corsage like the ones she wears every day than it would to make floral arrangements for sick people at the hospital?

“Even the businesses still here,” Mom goes on, sliding the lasagna out of the microwave and cutting single-serving squares with a spatula, plopping them onto two plates. “They'd benefit directly, too! Ferguson's would always be renting or selling or repairing instruments for the musicians in the orchestra. And sound equipment! They'd have to supply the Avery with that, too. But after seeing a musical, wouldn't people be walking into Ferguson's inspired? Wouldn't they point to a guitar or violin hanging on the wall, wanting to try it out for themselves? Wouldn't that mean that Ferguson's would need more music teachers?

“And Duds!” She's on a roll now. “Same thing. Sure, Duds
would provide costumes, but then, wouldn't more people be passing by Duds, window-shopping at first, then going inside, deciding one of Vanessa's old sixties-era jackets would be fun with a pair of their own jeans?

“It would spiral out from there—those people who had bought instruments of their own at Ferguson's, well, they'd get to be half-decent pickers. And they'd want a place to play on Friday nights. So we'd need a good watering hole. And with more people buying up vintage clothes from Duds, wouldn't it make sense that a cleaner's would go in next door, one that would do alterations?

“A destination! Don't you see? Because of the Avery, the square would become a hot spot again. Even Rosarita's would wind up with a permanent sign!”

She pants as though she's crossed the finish line of a marathon as she places our plates on the small table. But she's not the least bit exhausted—energized is more like it.

“So! Rehearsals!” Mom shouts, trying to catch her breath. She stares at me expectantly.

And now I don't want to eat at all. She's banking on
Anything Goes
being
the
thing that ignites enough interest to revive the entire town of Verona, and what have I done? I've changed the entire musical—new scenes, new dialogue. I should tell her. Now is the time to say something, because if all this fails, if it comes crashing down, I'll be the one to blame for the death of not only the Avery but the whole town. I mean,
what'll happen when she shows up on opening night, and it's nothing at all like the play she remembers? When she realizes I've taken her childhood memories and cut them apart, pasted them into a different picture? What will she think about that?

But I'm a coward.
The music,
I think.
The music hasn't changed. Tell her about that. It's safe.

“Cass and Dylan are really amazing,” I say. Which is true. “So good, they've wound up inspiring the rest of the cast.”

She grins. “See? What'd I tell you? People rise to the occasion. High expectations can be an incredible tool. Get everyone performing at their best.”

“I love the title number,” I babble. “It's really strong—Cass really puts her heart into the lyrics in the verse. And Dylan kind of pushes her forward, increasing the tempo sometimes, until the notes almost start to sound staccato—”

“Mmm,” Mom says, understanding. “Grace notes.” And she grimaces. That's what Nick called her when she met him at the train. Right then, I see her little-girl features, still there in her face. I see Dahlia—Trouble—who didn't like to be seen as small, unimportant.

She shakes it off, though, saying, “If the Avery comes back, and the square comes back, Potions will still matter. Maybe you won't want a perfumery any more than I wanted Hattie's. But because of its location, you'll be able to carry on, make it into whatever you want it to be. You'll have something of value.”

Wow. As if the weight of the musical wasn't already enough—save the theater, save the town—now Mom's piling my financial future on top of it all. No wonder this thing's so important to her.

“You know, though,” I say quietly, “you don't just inherit stuff.”

She glances across the table, surprise washing her face. When the surprise lets go, I see a flash of satisfaction. I've pleased her.

Without warning, night falls. I look through the window as the neon Avery sign ignites, throwing a shower of sparks high in the air. The marquee lights, too, casting a glow across the square, through the window, my plate, the side of Mom's face.

I can't breathe. Mom's staring right at the theater. I want to scream,
It's alive! Little Dahlia, the chaser of trains, don't you see it? The Avery is back from the dead, looking like it did all those years ago. It's not so far gone. . . .

She only sighs. “Thought I saw headlights. But who would be driving down here at this time of day? Probably all my blabbering about what the square could be. Kind of getting ahead of myself, wasn't I? Letting my imagination get the best of me.”

She doesn't see it?

The yellow neon glow slowly vanishes from the side of her face. The Avery's dark again.

It has to be a sign. I have to find out what's going on inside the Avery.

Searching for any excuse to get out to investigate, I tell her, “I've got a lot of homework.”

She waves her hand, shooing me away as she warns, “Don't let rehearsals get in the way of your other classes. Don't let those grades slip. . . .”

But I'm moving too fast to hear the rest. I'm dropping my leftover lasagna serving in a refrigerator bowl and rinsing my plate.

Mom's still picking at her own dinner as I grab my backpack, shouting, “I just remembered. I promised to meet up—with Cass—to study. Won't be late.” My feet are already on the stairs, and I'm running, running, straight to the alley behind the Avery.

The door's shut, but not locked.

I push my way inside.

Muffled voices bounce through the darkness.

I
t's Cass and Dylan. I recognize their voices instantly. I press forward, afraid of the floor squeaking beneath my feet. Afraid to breathe and give myself away.

I haven't been invited. I'm eavesdropping. All in a single
whoosh
, I feel both guilty about it and glad to be witness to whatever's happening. I need everything in here—my best friend. The theater. To find out what, exactly, my next step should be.

I've got the feeling I'm walking a tightrope. It's hard to swallow. I press forward, deeper into the darkness.

A sudden burst of light pops behind my shoulder. I squat, hiding behind the nearest seat along the far side of the theater.

It's a spotlight. And Cass and Dylan are beneath it, both of them sitting in the center of the stage.

I'm too close. The spotlight's throwing too many strange shadows. I need to get to a safer spot. A spot where no light can show me snooping.

I've never been in the balcony, but the stairs are close enough for me to sneak up. I decide to give it a shot.

I put my weight on the bottom step; it creaks a little. Not dangerously, but like I've startled it. Like it's never expected to feel footsteps again.

The railing at the front of the balcony feels surprisingly sturdy. I take a seat, swallowing a yelp as I plop down on something hard. A pair of tiny binoculars. Opera glasses. Left behind after the last performance. And something soft beneath them—a handkerchief, maybe?

I imagine a woman moved to tears, right here, in this very seat. Blown away by the power of the performances. I picture her so overcome, she staggers out of the theater, unable to think straight.

What will be the response to our own performance? Polite applause? Or sneers?

The opera glasses come in handy—as if left behind just for me to use. They bring me closer to Cass and Dylan, sitting in front of the old, toppled stairs. They're both in full costume—and by “costume,” I don't mean the old blue pillbox hat or the too-small jacket. I mean that Cass has no birthmark. I mean Dylan's moving his mouth, gesturing animatedly, in a picture of complete confidence.

I chuckle to myself. Dylan's suddenly got more swagger than all the guys on the varsity football team combined. Maybe that's always been his great fantasy—a touch of swagger to go along with perfectly polished words—the way other boys dream about fame or passing calculus or finally winning a smile from the prettiest girl in school.

“I could pick you up, you know,” Cass is telling him.

“It's all right,” he says, shrugging. “It'd seem strange to see me without my bike. My folks would ask questions.”

“How come you haven't gotten your license?”

He laughs. “Are you kidding? My stutter gets worse when I'm nervous. I can see myself trying to take a test. I'd turn into a regular jackhammer.”

“You're going to take it sometime, though, aren't you?”

“I'd rather stick with the bike till my age flips triple digits.” He shrugs. “I've got the bus when the weather's bad.”

“At least you can avoid drawing attention to yourself,” Cass offers, in a
trust me, you're better off than I am
sort of way. “My splotchy red face is front and center everywhere I go.”

“I can avoid—? Oh, man. It's
always
there. Everyone pretends not to see me so they don't have to talk to me. Teachers don't call on me. Kids walk around me. People are afraid to say hi, because they know that it'll take an hour and a half for me to get a hello out.”

“People never look at me. They don't talk to you, but they
won't
look
at me. It makes me feel like a ghost sometimes.”

“So stupid,” Dylan says, shaking his head is disbelief. “It's like not looking at a flower or a sunset or a painting.”

“Don't—” Cass shakes her head. “It's a lot harder to look at me outside here. You know it is.”

“No, it's not.” Dylan says it so quietly, I almost miss it completely. “It's especially not hard to look at you when you're singing. That's what I think, anyway. Every day we're at rehearsals.”

“Would you look at me in rehearsal, though, if it weren't for our time in here?” Cass asks.

“Would you have let me?” Dylan counters. “Or would me looking at you make you so uncomfortable you'd have to turn away?”

When Cass doesn't answer, he asks, “Would you have ever talked to me if it weren't for our time in here?”

“And would you have answered? Or would you have been too self-conscious about your stutter?”

“I don't know,” Dylan answers honestly.

“You ever wonder why this—change—in both of us—only happens in here?” Cass finally asks. “Or why it even happens in here at all? I'd tell myself I was dreaming—or think I was completely losing it—if it weren't for you.”

Instead of answering, Dylan confesses, “I always wished I could go to a school for deaf kids. I wish I could pretend to be
deaf, and use sign language the rest of my life.”

“Wow,” Cass breathes. “Then I could go to a school for blind kids. And no one would ever be pretending not to look at me.”

“Me deaf—you blind. What a couple of brave souls.”

Their laughter clatters against the walls, bouncing away from the stage and then back at them again.

“Still,” Cass says. “I wonder sometimes what it'll be like when we leave Verona High. When I have to go to a campus where no one's seen me, and every single time I hit the sidewalk, people will be giving me double takes. Or trying to pretend that the thing on my face doesn't matter, which feels as bad as pretending it's not there at all.”

“And majoring in—”

Cass takes a deep breath. Shakes her head. “Do you know?”

“I want it to be music. But I couldn't even teach music, not with—” He points at his throat. “I hate that the majors that make the world a beautiful place never do seem to translate into money. It's horrible jobs that pay real salaries. You know—like data entry or teeth pulling.”

Again, laughter.

“We never would have gotten to know each other without this place,” Dylan says softly. “Maybe that's why this happened—so we'd forget ourselves long enough to finally meet. I feel like that—like I've been so consumed with what
everyone thinks about me that I've never actually met most people.”

“Life would be better if it were a musical,” Cass insists. “You could sing yourself through the whole thing. Get good grades on your finals, and you could tap dance down the hallway. Get your finger slammed in a locker door, and you could belt out something really sad—sadder than a funeral dirge. It'd be nice to have applause now and then.”

“What about when the guy gets the girl?” Dylan asks. “What's that sound like?”

When Cass doesn't answer right off, he holds out his hand. “Maybe we should go find out.”

They sit at the piano together; Dylan strikes a few chords, and Cass strings together a new melody line. They're improvising, just as they improvised on the first day when Cass joined in on Dylan's music from the Avery's front step.

Without a stutter, Dylan sings, too; their harmony is emotional, rhythmic. I start to sway.

Until my phone vibrates.