Standing for Weirdo

Chapter 7

"I present you the master list!" Stella waved a piece of paper with a drawing of our stage, a few big squares drawn in it, and scribbled notes in the back that were illegible for anyone but her. I'd been her best friend since second grade and still could not decipher her handwriting.

"What we need is the address." Alex shifted his weight, hopping from foot to foot uncomfortably. The temperature had fallen fast, autumn giving way to wintry days, and the cold had taken the three of us by surprise.

Yes, three. In the end, it was Stella, Alex and me. Even Josh had deserted us, saying there were better things to do on a Friday evening.

"Of course we do. Good thing I'm always ready." She sighed to add more drama and produced another piece of paper with a flourish, this one written with the orderly capital letters of Mr. Hedford. She shoved it into Alex's chest. "You're the man. You get us there."

He punched the address into his cell phone's GPS without complaint and pointed down the road. Not typical manly, but effective.

"That way," he said. "Just ten minutes or so."

It turned out to be closer to half an hour. Not because we took any detour or got lost, but because the neighborhood was so huge that Alex had grossly miscalculated distances. "Walk one street up" is one thing in town, but another altogether when suddenly the block is one sprawling mansion with about a square mile of yard around it.

"So..." Alex said as we passed perfectly manicured lawns, "why are we getting this stuff now?"

"My mother asked the same thing," I huffed. "Why can't we rehearse surrounded by nice things, just for once? Since we don't have to pay for rent time and all that."

Stella nodded, but Alex looked far from convinced.

"I want to see how Lady Windermere's drawing room is going to look too, but haven't you wondered where we're going to store it? We can't leave it in place on stage."

I hadn't thought of that. "And why can't we leave it prepared?" I countered, as if I had.

"Speeches. Meetings. Football pep talks. All that takes place in the auditorium, and they use the stage. A stage that can't be cluttered with random Victorian crap, way too expensive for our high school to pay for if it's broken," Stella said, slowly.

Alex nodded. "My point."

"If it's so expensive, why are we borrowing it in the first place?" I wondered.

His answer was cut short by a beep on his phone. He checked the screen and pointed to the left. "That's our stop," he said, the doubts forgotten in the face of the elegant house.

Pathetic as it was, we stood for a good minute at the door, trying to decide who'd ring the bell. The whole neighborhood was grandiose, looking like an imported British residential area, right out of the past century, but this one mansion dwarfed the rest. It didn't stand taller or bigger than the others, but it exuded an air of authenticity that made my jeans and denim jacket feel highly inadequate.

In the end, we got Alex to ring—him being a guy and a gentleman and all—and the bell echoed through the three floors, reverberating in large, empty spaces for seconds on end before the sound died.

"Creepy," Stella whispered, and I had to agree.

I fully expected the door to be opened by a mummified butler with stiff looks and disdainful eyes to tell us that his Lord was not available for visits. Instead, a middle-aged woman appeared on the threshold. She had mousy-brown hair and wide eyes, which were, in turn, set widely on her face. Her smile was polite and welcoming as she took us in.

"You must have come on Mr. Hedford's behalf," she said, speaking with a perfect Oxford accent. "Come on in, my husband is waiting for you in the sitting room."

"Which one of them?" Stella murmured as we entered the house under cover of the shield provided by Alex's presence.

Quietly, the woman led us along a long corridor, wide enough for the three of us to walk abreast—scraping a bit against the paneled walls, granted, but no one wanted to be left behind. The ceilings hung so high over our heads that I don't think I'd have reached to change a light bulb with the standard ladder of my own home, and the floor was covered in a thick-fitted carpet that muffled our steps and the creaking of the wooden planks below.

Our sponsor waited on the first room to the left, an airy sitting room with two small sofas, a glass table, and a balcony overlooking the garden. He was a middle-aged man, with dark hair that started to show hints of steel gray around the temples, and while he dressed casually, his "house clothes" looked more expensive than the average of what any given classmate of ours would wear to prom.

"Ah, welcome." He had a kind smile, at least.

"Hello, Mr. Nightray." Stella found her voice first and Alex and I could only nod. "My name's Stella, and this is Alice and Alexander, from the theatre group at St. Francis. I hope we're not coming at a bad time?"

"No, not at all, my dear. I was waiting for you. Mr. Hedford announced your visit yesterday. I imagine you're anxious to see what your stage will look like, correct?"

"We're deeply engaged with this play, Mr. Nightray. I can't stress how thankful we all are that you're providing the furniture and props." Stella smiled. The noisy, amusing girl from school was gone... but then again, while she was a bad liar, she was a great actress and she had this "nice girl persona" down to a "t" from attending her parents' parties. I let her do the talking and stared at the room some more.

It oozed... class or riches or standing, I don't know. Everything was delicate and antique and expensive, but it didn't look like it had been bought or exposed to show off the family wealth. It looked unassuming, elegant, like it belonged right where it was.

Funnily enough, the result was more humbling that an overt display.

"This way, please," Mr. Nightray said, pulling me from my musings.

Stella led us this time, Alex and I close behind her, and we went back to the corridor, up a flight of stairs so wide that the cheerleading team could have done their number on them without falling, and then through a set of double doors.

"Here it is," he said, stepping aside to let us see, with a tinge of pride in his voice. "Lady Windermere's drawing room."

Muted gold and green upholstery. Heavy curtains. Mahogany shining deep and rich everywhere. A spider chandelier. It was nothing like our list, nothing like we'd discussed with the group.

But, it was perfect. "How are we going to fit all this on stage?" Alex muttered by my side, and I knew he felt the same way.

After all, he'd asked how to fit it, not what we'd leave behind.

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