“We want to see a good show,” he says.
“We were told it was going to be a good show,” the woman says to me.
“That’s all we want to see, Ms. Fitch. A good show.” Did she just call me Ms. Fitch?
Peter looks at me.
“Of course. It is going to be a good show,” I tell them. “A very good show. May I ask if you have a ticket?”
“Of course we have tickets,” the woman says. “What are we, animals?” She holds up two tickets I’ve never seen before. Red as the poppies on my dress. ADMIT ONE.
Then I notice everyone in the crowd, their hands. Each hand clutching a red ticket like this. Panic rising like black waves. I let them carry me. I smile more widely at the crowd.
“All right, Peter, let them in.”
“But, Professor, those aren’t even our tickets,” Peter says.
“Sure they are,” I lie.
Peter looks perturbed by this betrayal. Then he narrows his eyes. He has embodied the role of usher so completely. “Professor, I’m sorry, but I think you’re lying to me.”
I look at Peter, my inept former tree.
“Peter, listen to me. Let these people in, all right? They have tickets. You don’t turn anyone away with tickets.”
“But there’s no room. The theater’s full!”
“So get chairs from the props room and line them up along the aisles.”
Peter looks appalled. “But, Professor, that’s a fire hazard!”
“Peter, theater is about risk, all right? Whoever said theater was safe? No one. This is your moment to shine. These people came to see a good show and we can’t let them down, okay? You can’t let them down. I believe in you, Peter. So much. All right?”
“Professor Fitch!”
I turn. Ashley/Michelle, half-dressed as Diana the virgin. Face flushed with some sort of drama. “You have to come backstage now, Professor. It’s Briana.”
Of course it is, I think. Absolutely it is.
“Briana,” I say. “What about Briana?”
“She’s sick. I think she’s getting worse,” Ashley/Michelle says with unconcealed glee. “I don’t think she’ll be able to go onstage!”
I run to the back. There is Briana, her body draped dramatically across two plastic chairs. Looking frail yet regal in her fake beard and glittering robe. Leaning on her scepter. Face quite pale. She’s mouth-breathing quickly. Fauve’s kneeling at her side, of course she is. A small cluster of the cast is gathered around them, looking on helplessly. Trevor stands nearby, dressed in his Bertram costume, which suits him well. Making little fists at his sides that keep opening and closing. He looks sheepish, culpable. Like Briana’s body is a bike he crashed into a tree.
“I found her like this, just collapsed backstage,” Ashley/Michelle says, pointing at Briana.
“I wasn’t collapsed. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Fauve says, turning to look pointedly at me. And then her face changes. She takes in my dripping dress, my hair of seaweed. Horror, then happiness. My ruin, she thinks wrongly. So wrongly. I’ve never been better.
“Miranda,” she gasps. “Are you—”
“Wonderful. I’m wonderful.”
I gaze down at Briana’s pale body. Small and broken-looking. A sheen of sweat on her face.
“How are we feeling tonight, Briana?” I ask, the picture of professionalism, politeness. Briana looks up at me from her reclined position on the two chairs. Inscrutable, her expression. Too dark to fully see her eyes. Suddenly I can’t help but feel like Mark. The way he looked down at my hunched, fallen body in the treatment room. Impatient. Bored. Annoyed. Is she truly sick? Or is this her revenge? Her true performance? Impossible to say, really. She’s improved so much as an actress.
“Fine,” she says quietly. “Ready.”
She looks at me. A small, sickly smile across her deathly-pale face.
“I feel wonderful,” she says. “All’s well.”
“You’re not well,” Fauve insists, shaking her head. “Miranda, please do something. She’s really ill.”
I look at Ashley/Michelle and Fauve, kneeling at Briana’s side. Ashley/Michelle is stroking Briana’s forehead, taking Briana’s hand like she saw perhaps in a painting of a martyr. Fauve is crouched down beside her like her Prince Charming. Trying to ask her questions. Would she like to go home? No! A nurse? No. Can she please at least bring her parents backstage? NO!