The Phamtomime

Chapter 5

Because I preferred not to make the same mistake twice, I propped the theater door open this time. I stood with my butt jammed up against the door while I scanned the area for something heavy enough to keep it from closing.

I spotted a square, metal trash can and shoved that between the doors. It didn't help much, light-wise, but it did give me a handy escape route.

"What you doin'?"

Will's voice came from nowhere and surprised me so much that I banged my knee, hard, against the trash can's pointy corner. I yelped, "Ow," before yelling some other things I don't know how to spell. When I spun—or hobbled—around, Will sat with his rear-end perched on the back of one of the theater seats, his feet on the arm-rests.

I rubbed at my stinging knee, trying not to look like he'd freaked me out. "Where did you come from?"

"Over there." He pointed at the stage. "Then over there." He pointed at the aisle halfway across the seating. "And now, here." He pointed at the seat.

My eyes narrowed until I saw him through a pair of slits. "I didn't hear you coming."

Will leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper. "That's because I'm very quiet."

Limping a little, I picked a seat close to the door and whacked at the dust on it. A smoke signal of particles billowed up to choke me. I moved a few rows down, leaving the dirt where it was.

"You can't sit there," said Will.

"Sure I can. It's very comfortable." I folded my arms and leaned back in my seat.

"That's only because spider's nests are soft."

I probably broke several records getting out of that chair and up to the front of the theater. On the way, I invented a new dance I called "the Arachnophobe." It involved flailing arms, stripping off my coat, slapping at my body, and shaking out my hair. Will cackled in a way that made me wish I still had my arm-rest weapon from my last visit.

As I leaned against the piano, I did my best to look casual, even though that ship had sailed. I glanced around, not keen on the distance between me and the door. "My mom knows I'm here. She'll know where to look if I turn up missing."

"Are you planning on going missing?" Will asked.

"I don't know, am I?" This wasn't getting us very far.

Will sidled up and leaned on the piano next to me, copying me. This close, his skin was the sort of pale Andy couldn't get with layers of SPF 5000 on his face all summer.

"I think," Will said, loud enough for the whole theater to hear, "that Poppy should meet everyone before we get started."

The disembodied voice of Cresswell answered, and it sounded nervous. "I prefer to let my art speak for me."

"Everyone? There's more than two of you?" I asked.

Will nodded. "There's more than four of us, even."

A whispered argument started up in the wings. None of the words were repeatable. Theater people had quite a wide vocabulary.

"Fine," said Cresswell. "But after this, we must get on with rehearsal."

Apparently everyone arrived on stage with a shove in the Majestic.

I'm not sure what I expected. Some proper looking guy with a stiff upper lip and a megaphone, at least. That's not what appeared from the wings. The man who stumbled out wasn't any taller than me. Instead of a costume, he wore a pair of jeans that rode way too low on his hips and a look of utter panic. He glanced backstage, then at Will, and finally, at me.