Page 18 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

When we took our seats in the theater, Fox was already there, and their expression was sour.

“Any luck?” I asked.

“Not to speak of,” they said. “I lost Tinny in the lobby.”

“We couldn’t find your father.”

“He’s always running around before a performance,” Fox said. “It’ll be easier to talk to him after.”

At that point, the house lights went down, and Cheri-Ann Fryman (the biggest gossip in Hastings Rock, except for possibly Millie) turned around to give me a look that was the cozy, civilized, we’re-friends-and-neighbors-in-a-charming-community version of Be quiet now .

So, I shut up.

The play began with a moment of silence for Kyson.

I was surprised that Pippi was the one who spoke; I had the feeling Terrence didn’t give up the spotlight (literally) easily.

Pippi said a few words about the pleasure of seeing her play performed in her hometown, and her gratitude to the actors and the crew of The Foxworthy, and yada yada yada.

Then the play got rolling, and in a weird way, I found myself enjoying it even more than the first time (especially since I was pretty sure I’d perfected the right blink-to-not-blink ratio with these contacts).

Sure, I didn’t love the Daniel Dank character.

But the play was actually pretty funny if you didn’t dwell on the fact that your fictional alter-ego was the butt of most of the jokes.

There was suspense. The acting was top-notch, as it had been the night before.

For all Pippi’s, uh, schemes (which was probably the kindest word for them), she did have some writing chops buried deep down.

No wonder she was happy. The play was a huge success.

She was getting to see it performed. Heck, her son was playing one of the leading roles.

And Dylan was doing a great job—you could tell he was nervous, sure, but he was a cute kid, and the town loved him, and as the play went on, he grew more and more confident.

There was one scene (which I honestly shouldn’t dignify by including here) in which Daniel Dank tries to explore the secret passage in the fireplace—the one that connects his bedroom to Marienne’s.

He manages to get himself stuck in the secret passage, kind of like Winnie the Pooh in a honey pot, and Dylan nailed it.

The crowd was roaring. Chester’s dad, Tony, was wiping his eyes.

Aric Akhtar had slid down in his seat like he was melting.

Mr. Cheek had a particular gleam in his eyes like he’d discovered a new way to get rid of me.

This was what every author wanted. What every creator wanted.

To have your work find an audience. To have the commercial success that meant, among other things, money and prestige.

To be validated. This—a show like this, a performance like this, an audience like this—was it , at the end of the day.

This was proof. That all the years of striving, all the effort, all the sacrifices were worth it.

That you were talented. That you were good. That you were special.

And, of course, if that never happened for you—well, what did that mean?

That you weren’t.

Well, it wasn’t going to help to go down that road again. Especially not where Bobby could see me—I was starting to suspect he had a sixth sense for Dashiell Dawson Dane’s meltdowns, and I didn’t want to have another conversation about, quote, whatever you’re feeling .

I’m feeling bad; that’s what I wanted to say. Actually, I feel like crap. Do you want to talk about that?

Instead, I turned my attention to the theater.

Everyone was still having a great time. And there was Pippi again, sticking her head out stage left.

Someone probably needed to tell her that if you can see them, they can see you, which was something the school nurse had to tell Jimmy Boyle in third grade when he kept trying to pee on the playground.

You didn’t see a pro like Betty hovering in the wings, although Betty seemed like she was made out of gaff tape and safety pins and probably lived in the theater.

It wasn’t until my third sweep that it hit me: Terrence and Tinny weren’t here. They weren’t anywhere in the theater.

Why?

I mean, Terrence was the creative director, whatever that meant.

And Tinny was…Tinny. They both seemed to have a vested interest in the production that went beyond making the show a financial success.

But neither of them was here watching this performance.

That went beyond the limits of belief. Were they backstage?

Were they in the control booth? After the hiccups in last night’s show, had they decided they needed a more hands-on role?

Maybe.

I mean, nothing bad could have happened to them. Right?

It turns out, it’s a lot harder to focus on a play once you start asking yourself that kind of question. I kept thinking about how no one knew where Terrence was. And about the fact that Kyson had those pictures of him. And the fact that someone had put that altered script in Kyson’s room.

Behind all of it, like an afterimage that wouldn’t quite clear: Milton above me on the catwalk, and that movement like he was throwing something over the rail, and his laughter trailing away.

It felt like a long, long time before we reached the end of act one. Instead of Kyson’s line from the night before, Dylan delivered the speech he was supposed to give, and then the curtain fell, and the house lights came up for intermission.

No script swap.

No sudden blackout.

Bobby and I shared a look.

Fox said, “What does that mean? Nothing happened—is that good?” Then Fox flushed. “Not that I expected—I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“We’ll have to wait and see.” Bobby squeezed my knee. “Come on, let’s get you some popcorn and M he’s the one Kyson had all those pictures of.

A nasty little voice inside my head answered, Then where is he?

I needed to stand. I tried stretching. I tried getting up on tip-toes and doing calf raises. I thought about how great it would feel to eat a healthy breakfast and go for a run again tomorrow, work all this stress out of my body with exercise, like a good, red-blooded American male. (Barf.)

The control booth.

Fox had said their dad was either backstage or in the booth.

I should wait for Fox.

But intermission was almost over.

I should go now. Just to check.

I didn’t need to go. This was ridiculous; I was making a big deal out of nothing.

But what would it hurt?

I’d look like an idiot.

I waffled.

I wavered.

I dithered.

And then, groaning so loudly that Tony called, “Is it your tummy, Dash? Did you have too much candy? I have an Alka-Seltzer in my wallet,” I dragged myself out into the aisle and headed out of the theater.

The lobby was packed, people crowding the concessions counter. Bobby was at one of the registers, and bless his heart, he’d gotten one of the giant tubs of popcorn, and M&M’s, and a Coke that was the size of a toddler, and a box of Reese’s Pieces, a box of Sno-Caps, and a box of Sour Patch Kids.

My eyes misted.

This was true love.

Then I reminded myself about The Man of Steel Project: Dashiell Dawson Dane 2.0. And I went back to trying to find the control booth.

I’d seen the window of the control booth overhead in the theater, so it had to be somewhere on the second floor. A narrow flight of stairs, tucked off a small hallway, led me straight to a door marked CONTROL.

That had been easier than I’d expected.

I rapped on the door.

Nothing.

Because he’s not in there, I told myself. It’s all programmed. They don’t need a person up there anymore. It’s basically a robot light show.

(Which, at another time in my life, would have prompted a veritable cascade of ideas about Will Gower as a robot light show detective.)

I knocked again. Harder.

Still nothing.

He’s busy. He’s working. He might have headphones on, so he can’t hear you.

This last thought sounded like it might actually be plausible, so I took a deep breath and tried the handle of the door.

It turned.

The fluorescent light from the stairwell fanned across the darkened booth as the door swung open.

At first, all I could see was a narrow patch of carpet and a large control table supporting pieces of big, expensive-looking equipment—about the only thing I recognized was a sound board. Lights glowed back at me.

And then a metallic smell reached me, and my stomach lurched.

“Terrence?” I pushed the door open wider. “Are you—”

My eyes were still adjusting. A patch of darkness under the table resolved into shapes. Shapes into clearer outlines.

A face.

Terrence lay under the table. He was dressed all in black, which made it hard to make out anything but his face. His eyes were closed. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

“Help!” I shouted down the stairs. “Help!”

I had to pull out a rolling chair and send it skittering toward the stairs so I could get under the table. That hot, sickening smell was stronger here. The world tilted. I took deep breaths through my mouth and shook Terrence by the arm. “Terrence, open your eyes. Terrence, can you hear me?”

His sleeve was wet. In the faint light from the stairwell, my hand was crimson.

“Help!” I shouted again

Down below, the tenor of the voices had changed. Tense. Subdued. Footsteps hammered up the stairs.

I leaned closer, searching for a pulse as I brought my ear to Terrence’s mouth. His skin was clammy, but his heart was beating, and he was breathing.

“Sheriff’s office,” Bobby said from the doorway and slapped the lights.

White.

Bright.

“Dash, what—”

The blood was everywhere, and it caught the light and shone. Even against the shredded black of Terrence’s shirt, it glistened. The wounds were deep. Vicious. And there were so many of them.

“Somebody stabbed him,” I said. “He needs an ambulance.”