Part 3 (1/2)
The air crackled with electricity. Overhead, in the flies, someone shook the thunder sheet.
The Stage Manager's voice crawled out of the storm, like a G.o.d's p.r.o.nouncement from the heavens. ”It is with deepest regret that I convey this news to you all: The Theater Manager is in his Office at this very moment, telling Beatrice Shakespeare Smith she must leave the theater.”
CHAPTER THREE.
What Will
Become of You?
Static crackled in Bertie's ears, like the time the technicians had roused her from sleep by running a sound check. She barely heard the fairies' wail of protest or Nate's rea.s.suring words that it must be a misunderstanding as panic and disbelief hit her, twin punches to the gut.
”Say nothin' here, la.s.s,” Nate said. ”We'll get ye upstairs an' ask for an explanation. . . .”
Stage whispers broke out all over the theater, echoing one another: ”He's asking her to leave?”
”Where will she-”
”What will she-”
”How can they do this?”
”It is my hope,” the Stage Manager said, raising his voice to be heard, ”that she will be gone within the day, although it's not for me to say how long the Theater Manager will give her to gather her things and say good-bye-”
Bertie shoved her way to the front of the crowd. ”You're lying.”
The Stage Manager paled at the sight of her. ”You're supposed to be in the Theater Manager's Office!”
”Surprise!” She sang the word like the last note in a musical number and waved jazz hands in his face. ”I'm here!”
”I should have known!” he said, eyebrows bristling. ”And I should have hog-tied you and delivered you upstairs myself-”
”What you should have done is not told lies about me!” Bertie countered. ”Leaving the theater? What a load of rubbis.h.!.+”
”Not rubbish this time, my girl,” the Stage Manager said with toadlike satisfaction. ”Your shenanigans yesterday finally exceeded the limits of even the Theater Manager's endurance!”
Bertie would have leapt at him, except Nate shoved his way between them and pointed a finger at the Stage Manager. ”Keep yer hair on, featherleg, an' remember yer manners.” The perpetual sandpaper stubble on Nate's chin contributed to an already menacing demeanor.
As the Stage Manager sputtered, the door in the back of the auditorium slammed open. Everyone jumped, startled by the echoing boom, and turned to see who'd entered.
The Theater Manager was the fun house mirror reflection of the Stage Manager; tall, where the other was short; cultured and refined, where the Stage Manager was rumpled and red. Today, however, something had disturbed his usually calm expression. ”Beatrice Shakespeare Smith?”
The use of all three of her names sent Bertie running to meet him at the front of the stage. ”Sir-”
The Theater Manager pulled a pocket watch out of his vest pocket and checked it as everything, even time, splintered around Bertie and crashed to the red-carpeted floor. ”You were supposed to be in my Office fifteen minutes ago, Beatrice.”
”I know that, sir, and I'm very sorry-”
He held up his hand for silence. ”This is not something I wished to discuss before the entire Company, but missing our meeting and sneaking in here only confirms your lack of respect for the theater's procedures.”
Bertie twisted her fingers together, startled by how cold they were. ”If this is about the cannon-”
”That's just one instance in a long line of infractions,” he said, his expression stern and unyielding. ”The Stage Manager has complained for years, but time and again I let you go with just a reprimand or some minor punishment.”
”Give me a bigger punishment. I'll clean the theater from top to bottom, fold the programs, polish the chandeliers, whatever you want. I can behave myself, truly I can. I'll be quiet as anything! You won't even know I'm here.”
The Theater Manager's voice regained a bit of gentleness, which was somehow worse than his temper. ”You're not the sort of girl who fades into the background. I had hoped you'd find your place with us, your niche, but I see now you must follow your stars elsewhere.”
”But I belong here!” The last word came out a squeak. Fearing she'd cry in front of everyone, Bertie dug her black-painted fingernails into her palms.
”That's just the trouble, Bertie,” he said. ”You don't belong here. You're not a Player, you're not part of the crew-”
”You're a menace,” the Stage Manager added, glowing with triumph.
”We've tolerated your exuberance,” the Theater Manager continued, ”in the expectation that you might contribute something valuable to the Company-”
Bertie leapt upon that tiny bit of hope. ”If I could find a way to . . . to contribute, could I stay?”
The Theater Manager looked around at the countless shocked faces of the Players: Nate, Ariel, the fairies. Even Ophelia, standing in her puddle, looked vaguely dismayed. ”No, my dear, it's best if you go now without a fuss.”
”But you said it's because I'm troublesome, and that I don't contribute,” Bertie persisted, chasing his logic as though it were a golden thread disappearing down a bottomless black hole. She caught it in her hand, wrapped her desperate, silver hopes around the metallic filament, and clung to it like a life-line. ”What if I change that?”
”You've had countless chances over the years,” the Theater Manager said.
Bertie could hear her pulse in her ears, like the slamming of doors. ”I can change. I swear it, in front of all these witnesses.”
The Players murmured variations of ”that poor girl” and ”he should give her a chance.” Their whispers wrapped around Bertie's thread of hope and tugged at it.
They weren't the only ones on Bertie's tug-of-war team. Nate stepped forward, every muscle a threat. ”If she goes, I go.”
”Us, too!” Peaseblossom said as the boys chimed in their agreements. The idea, perhaps never before entertained by the majority of the Players, sparked a wildfire.
”You can't do that,” the Theater Manager snapped, trying to douse the notion with cold water, but too late. ”The Players can't leave the theater. It's impossible-”
Vicious wind rushed around Bertie, carrying with it the thousands of speculative-and in some cases, rebellious-whispers of the Company. The word-hurricane twisted about the Theater Manager, tugged at his coat, mussed his hair.
”I might be persuaded,” he yelled into the onslaught, ”to reconsider an immediate departure.” As the winds and the whispers faded, the Theater Manager looked at the Players, then back to Bertie. The reluctance in his tone might as well have been a neon sign. ”If you can find an invaluable way to contribute, I suppose you may stay.” His inflections on the words ”invaluable way” gave every indication that he didn't think for a moment that she could manage such a thing.
Bertie tossed aside his lack of confidence in her. ”Do you promise?”
After a very long moment, he nodded. ”I give you my word.”
The walls of the theater trembled in acknowledgment of the promise.