Katie and another girl, who split that particular fairy part, began their speech of fifteen lines:
"Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire…"
I tried to concentrate on what they were saying, but my stomach felt queasy. My hands grew moist.
"We do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And we serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green."
My heart beat fast. I took deep breaths, trying to slow it down.
"The cowslips tall her pensioners be,
In their gold coats spots you see:
Those be rubies, fairy favors,
In those freckles live their savors."
My knees shook. I was drenched with sweat. I needed chalk to grip the beam.
"'Farewell, thou lob of spirits,'" the fairies concluded. "'We'll be gone. Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.'"
The next set of lines was mine.
"'The King doth keep his revels here tonight,'" I said, pull ing myself up on the beam as if I'd never mounted one before. "'Take heed the Queen come not within his sight.'"
I rose slowly from a crouch, my heart pounding.
"'For Oberon is passing fell and wrath because that she as her attendant hath—'"
It was unnerving the way the others watched me, as if waiting for me to slip.
"'—A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king.'"
I struggled to keep my focus.
"'She never had so sweet a changeling. And jealous Oberon—'"
A wave of sickness washed over me.
"'And jealous Oberon—'"
I clutched my stomach. My mind went blank. I couldn't even think to call "line," as actors do when they forget one. I began to teeter. I caught my balance then heard a collective catching of breath.
"For heaven's sake, Walker!" Maggie chided.
"All right. House lights."
I dismounted the beam, then grasped it like a stair rail, trying to steady myself. The lights came on. Walker climbed up the steps and stood in the middle of the stage, pivoting slowly, looking us over.
"Take lunch," he said, then strode toward the back stairs. No one moved until the sound of his footsteps disappeared.
I returned to the seats to gather my things, but Shawna already had them for me. Brian spoke to his mother, and everyone else filed out quietly. I left with Shawna on one side and Tomas on the other, avoiding everyone's eyes. When we got outside, I found that Mike had positioned himself at the top of the concrete steps.
"Jenny? Jenny, look at me."
I glanced up, miserable and ashamed, knowing I could never explain my fear to someone who, like Liza, thought being onstage was "a blast."
"It takes a certain kind of person," I told him, "to believe that everyone wants to love you. And I'm not her."
Dear Uncle Louie,
I'm here at drama camp. (Thanks again for your recommendation.) I have a question, one I'd rather ask you than my father. Our director, Walker Burke, knew Dad years ago in New York. Here at camp Walker is quick to criticize New York theater and put down Dad. (Of course, he doesn't know I'm a Montgomery.) Someone here told me that Dad was in Walker's last show—that Dad pulled out of it and the show failed. Could you tell me what happened?
I'm not going to say anything to Walker—I just want to know what stands between them. Thanks.
Jen
I sent the e-mail to my godfather, then took a long shower. I was grateful to Maggie for allowing me to spend lunch alone at Drama House, and I returned to the theater feeling much better. Things seemed back to normal, except that Brian was watching me a lot.
"I'm fine," I whispered to him. "Don't stare. People will notice and I don't need any more attention than I've already gotten."
Walker had decided to spend the afternoon getting the rustics straight. Tomas was told to divide the crew work among the rest of us and proved that he was more savvy about people than he let on. He gave Ken, Paul, and two others flats to paint inside, where they could be supervised, and sent Lynne and three responsible types outside with the spray paint. Two neat, quiet girls were assigned leaf stencils. Maybe he thought Mike and I were friends after yesterday: he asked us to paint the canvas that would cover the vaulting horse.
We worked on the ground floor, underneath the theater, across the hall from the dressing rooms and wardrobe. Sawhorses, drafting tables, and workbenches were spread throughout the cavernous room. There were pegboard walls of tools, shelves of paint supplies, and large rolls of canvas and paper, along with flats and screens that looked as if they had been painted over a hundred times.
After getting the other kids started, Tomas explained the job he was giving Mike and me. He unrolled a piece of prepared canvas, ten feet by five, on which he had chalked outlines of stones to create a wall. He showed us the finished version of pieces that would cover the ends of the horse and how to use varying shades of gray and brown paint to make the stones look three-dimensional.
Mike and I poured our paint and set to work. We talked little and about nothing important, but both the small talk and the silences were comfortable between us, as they were on the boat. I enjoyed the rhythm of our work, dipping and brushing, dipping and brushing. Mike began to sing to himself, snatches of songs. I giggled when a rock song wavered into a religious hymn, then shifted back into hard rock.
The music stopped. "Is something funny?"
"No," I said, but couldn't keep from smiling.
"You're laughing at my voice."
"No, just at you," I told him. "Uh, that didn't come out right."
"No, it didn't," he agreed.
I glanced up and saw his eyes sparkling.
"It's just funny the way you sing, mixing up all your songs. My friend in kindergarten used to sing like that when he finger-painted."
"So am I your friend?"
The question caught me off guard. "Sure."
He must have heard the uncertainty in my voice. "Maybe you'd like to think about it some more."
I didn't want to think about him any more than I already was. I focused on my brush strokes. Mike was silent for a while, then started singing again.
Tomas stopped by to see how we were doing.
"Looks great!" he said. "When you're finished, take it to the drying room next door. You'll see clothesline there. Hang it up securely."
About three-thirty Mike and I carried our canvas to the next room. We lined it up along a rope, each of us attaching an end with a clothespin. Standing on opposite sides of our painted wall, we continued to work our way toward the middle of the ten-foot piece, clipping it every six inches. I made slower progress, having to climb up on a stool each time to reach the high clothesline. Mike waited for me at the center.
"Do you know how many freckles you got yesterday?" he asked when I had attached the last clothespin.
"One point six million."
He laughed.
Aware of being eye level with him, feeling self-conscious, I surveyed the painted rocks, which were on my side of the canvas. "We did a good job."
"Sometimes you look at me, Jenny, and sometimes you don't. Why?"
"You expect girls to look at you all the time?"
He smiled a lopsided smile. "No. But it's as if sometimes you're afraid to meet my eyes."
"I'm not," I assured him, and stared at his neck. It was strong with a little hollow at the base of his throat.
"Higher," he said.
I gazed at his mouth.
"Higher."
But when I found the courage to look up, he was looking down, gazing at my lips, his lashes long and dark, almost hiding the shimmer of his eyes. His face moved slowly closer to mine. He tilted his head. If I wanted to bail out, it had to be now. I held still. Feeling the nearness of him, I waited breathlessly.
His lips touched mine.
How could a touch so soft, so barely there, be so wonderful? He wasn't even holding me. It was just his mouth against mine, light as a whisper.
"Hey, you guys. What have you been working on?"
We both pulled back. Shawna entered the room.
"Walker's going to keep my group til five," she said, "but we're taking fifteen. Let's see what you've done."
"A wall," Mike said quietly.
"This side," I mumbled, stepping down from the stool. I fought the urge to touch my hand to my lips. Had his kiss felt as incredible to Liza? What had made it that magic?
Shawna ducked under the rope.
How had my kiss felt to him?
Shawna studied the canvas, then me. "You sure did get a lot of sun this weekend, Jenny," she said, smiling. "You white people ought to be more careful."
Mike flashed a sly smile over the top of the clothesline.
Shawna caught it.
"What?" she asked. "Did I miss something?"
"I didn't say anything," Mike replied.
Shawna got a knowing look on her face. "Come on, girl," she said to me. "Take a break. I need some air."
I knew I was going to be interrogated but decided I could handle that better than one more moment alone with Mike. I did not want to fall for him—fall farther than I already had.
Shawna and I took the back exit of the building, climbed to the top of the outside stairwell, and sprawled on the grass.
"Okay, Reds, what's going on between you two?"
"You two who?" I asked.
"Don't play dumb. You and Mike."
"Nothing."
"Un-hunh."
"Really, nothing!"
"That's the fastest fading sunburn I've ever seen," she remarked.
I plucked at the grass.
"Did he kiss you?" she persisted. "Is that what you were doing when I barged in?"
"Why would you even think something like that?" I replied.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, smiling. "Maybe it's those glances you keep stealing at each other during rehearsal, or maybe the way Mike murmured, 'A wall,' as if he was still feeling your kiss on his lips." She eyed me. "Whoa! There it is again, that mysterious recurring sunburn."
I bit my lip.
"Why are you fighting this?" she asked.
Because he was Liza's boyfriend and had lied about it. Because I knew I couldn't compete. Because it was scary, the spel he cast on me, the way I felt when he was near.
"He lives in Trenton," I told Shawna. "I live in New York."
"So what's that—an hour and a half by car, less by train? Ever heard of Greyhound? Amtrak? E-mail? I think you're making excuses."
I didn't deny it.
"But I'll play along," she said. "This afternoon, at least," she added with a grin, then mercifully changed the subject.
When she returned to rehearsal I went downstairs to see what Tomas wanted me to do next. Mike must have cleaned up our paints. He and Paul were in the corner of the room, Mike measuring a board, Paul standing a foot away, running his finger up and down the length of a saw. Keri sat nearby, chipping at her fingernails, looking bored.
Brian had come downstairs and was talking with Tomas. I watched them a moment, feeling proud of Tomas, the way he was managing everything and earning people's respect.
"Hey, Jen," Tomas called, "would you bring over a hammer? There's one in the toolbox right behind you."
I nodded and knelt down to unfasten the latches of the metal box. Lifting the lid, seeing that the hammer's handle was buried beneath other tools, I reached for its head, trying to extract it. I pulled back in surprise. The steel felt ice cold. Reaching down to grasp it again, I saw the metal glimmering blue. I touched it and cold traveled up my arm, as if my veins had been injected with ice. My shoulders and neck grew numb, my head light, so light I had to close my eyes.
Then I jerked and was free of the floating feeling, but I wasn't at Stoddard anymore. I stood breathless, as if I'd been running fast. Clutching my side, I opened my mouth trying to breathe silently, afraid to make the slightest noise. I could see little in the darkness that surrounded me, but I smelled the creek and heard its black water lapping against the pilings. I knew I was in terrible danger.
Soft footsteps hurried across the structure above me. I looked up and listened, trying to judge the direction the person was heading. My direction, I thought, panicking, no matter what, it would be my direction.
Step by step I moved forward in the darkness, hating the feel of the swampy ooze but knowing I had to keep on. About twenty feet behind me I heard the muffled thud of feet landing on wet ground.
I hid behind a piling and listened to my pursuer walking in the mud, moving steadily closer. My heart pounded so loudly I thought the person had to hear it. If he or she discovered me now, I'd be trapped.
I bolted, splashing through the shallow water. The person was after me in a flash. I tripped and fel facedown. Tasting mud, gasping for breath, I scrambled to my feet. A distance ahead I saw a wall of grass, tall as com, and beyond that, a lighter, open area. Bright lights shone from the tops of poles.
If I could make it as far as the lights, maybe someone would see me, maybe someone would help me.
Then I felt a powerful blow from behind. Pain exploded at the base of my skull. Every nerve in my body buzzed with it—every second of agony so excruciating, I could not stay conscious. I fel headfirst into darkness.
Chapter 13
When I opened my eyes I was in Brian's arms. He knelt on the floor next to the toolbox, holding me, searching my face, his own face lined with worry.
"Jenny, Jenny, are you all right?"
I nodded, unable to speak. The crushing pain at the back of my skull had disappeared, but the memory of it was so intense it dulled my senses and made the present seem less real. Tomas and others working on scenery had gathered around me. Paul watched me with keen eyes. Keri stood next to him, looking as if she'd finally seen something of interest. I knew Mike was next to Keri, but I didn't allow myself to look at him, afraid he'd see how much I wished he was the one holding me.
"What happened?" Brian asked gently.
"I don't know."
"Why did you faint?"
I shook my head, unable to think of an answer that would make sense to him and the others.
"Did you get lunch, Jen?" Tomas asked. "When you went back to Drama House, did you get something to eat?"
"No. I'm sure that's it," I said, seizing upon the excuse.
Brian brushed my hair back from my cheek, his dark eyes doubtful.
"I'm okay," I told him, sitting up, pull ing away from him.
He let go reluctantly. Tomas, who had been searching his pockets, leaned over and handed me a candy bar.
"Perfect," I said. "Thanks."
"Why don't I walk you back to Drama House?" Brian suggested.
"No, I'm fine and want to keep working. There's the hammer, Tomas."
He picked it up, then glanced at his watch. "Everybody, let's start cleaning up. It's going to take us a while."
I stood and followed some of the others to the corner of the room where they had been cutting out leaves. Brian, shaking his head at my stubbornness, returned to rehearsal.
For five minutes I picked up scraps of paper, then, when I thought no one was paying attention to me, I walked back to the toolbox. I sorted through it and grasped a hammer, first by the handle, then by its steel head, wrapping my fingers tightly around it. Nothing, I felt nothing, just a tool that was cool to the touch like the others in the box. It didn't turn icy cold, didn't make my head grow light; nothing glimmered blue.
I walked to the bench where Tomas had been working and laid my hand on the first hammer. Just cool, I told myself, but then the cold began to seep through the tips of my fingers. It flowed through my veins and up my arm. The bench's fluorescent fixture buzzed blue. My head grew light. I quickly thrust out my other hand, grasping the edge of the workbench to steady myself.
"You doing okay
?"
I let go of the hammer. "Fine."
"Sorry," Mike said, "but I don't believe you."
"I've never been better."
"Better at what? Acting?" He waited, as if he thought I would change my answer. "So I guess there's nothing I can do to help," he concluded.
"No, but thanks."
He took a step closer, leaned down, and whispered, "Just so you know, you're supposed to swoon when I kiss you, not a half hour afterward."
"That's not why I fainted."
"Darn! And I was so sure."
"Our kiss—that was just an accident," I told him.
"An accident? You mean you were aiming for someone else's lips and ran into mine instead?"
"I—I mean the kiss didn't mean anything." "I see."
"Sometimes things just happen," I said. "They happen and don't mean anything at al."
"Really."
Paul called out to Mike then, asking for help in lifting a flat.
"Well, hope you're feeling better," Mike said, and went to help his friend.
I took a deep breath and glanced down at the hammer. I couldn't bring myself to touch it again. My blue visions were becoming like the frightening blue dreams I'd had as a child—bizarre and yet very, very real.
The real "Teen Psychic," I thought. What if I were? What if the images that had seemed so strange to me as a child had been retrieved from other people's minds? Maybe Liza wasn't simply comforting me after those dreams; maybe I really did share her mind and the minds and lives of others.
If so, I must have learned how to suppress the ability. But the visions I had now felt too powerful for me to control, triggered by things that formed a physical link to Liza: the window seat where she had sat, the place on stage where she had liked to stand, pictures of her murder site, and now, the hammer. I couldn't prove it, but I knew beyond a shadow of a psychic's doubt, this hammer was the weapon that had killed my sister.
Chase Library kept short hours during the summer, so I went there directly from the theater, needing a college computer to access newspaper archives.
In every account I read, the facts were the same. The murder weapon was determined to be something heavy, a metal tool with a small blunt surface. The police believed it was a hammer, but the weapon had never been found. None of the news articles noted whether it was Liza's left or right wrist that bore the smashed watch.