Chapter Twenty Nine

The theatre's wings reminded Brodie of those hoarder shows featuring mentally ill losers who never threw anything away. The corridors had painted sets and racks of clothing stacked against the walls without a sense of rhyme or reason.

There was so much stuff he had to sidle in places to squeeze through the press. Props and accessories from a mish-mash of productions teetered like Jenga towers as he brushed past them and Brodie could imagine suffocating under the resulting collapse like a trapped animal.

How the hell was he going to find his gear in this mess? That Miller bitch likely stashed it in her office, wherever that was. He needed to swipe the evidence and get out of there before she strongarmed him into something truly stupid.

Public speaking, for instance. He hated that, much less acting—fat chance of him getting on stage.

“Hey Tammy, wait a sec.”

“Oh, um… hi Kira. What’s up?”

Brodie froze at the sound of female voices ahead. He couldn’t see them through all the disorder, but they were near enough for him to eavesdrop.

“It’s about the script. Well, about our roles, really. I wanna swap.” The one identified as Kira said.

“W-we haven’t been given our roles.” Stammered Tammy, the boyish ginger he’d met earlier. “Ms Miller–”

“Don’t pretend we don’t know how this will go. Megan clearly tailored the script with each of us in mind. Juliana plays the princess, I’m the leader of the Amazon Warband, Drew or maybe the new guy takes the male lead, and you get tossed a pity-fuck support role with a dozen lines, tops. I’m telling you I wanna swap.”

Her tone was no-nonsense. The pause that followed felt weighty with unspoken implications.

Tammy’s reply was cautious. “Why?”

“Does it matter? Maybe I don’t wanna be typecast as Xena Warrior Princess. Maybe I’m lazy and couldn’t be fucked putting in the effort. Or maybe I’ve seen how you love this theatre crap and decided to throw you a bone.” Kira drawled, “Don’t sweat about the small shit, girl. Here’s your golden ticket. Carpet dayum, seize the day.”

“But Ms Miller won’t–”

“That ol’ bag? What can she do about it? There are three female parts and three of us. No understudies or replacements. She’ll swallow her humble pie and ask us for a second helping. Please and thank you.”

“I’m not sure…”

“Do you want the larger role or not?”

Brodie listened with pricked ears, liking this Kira chick more and more with every exchange. She had serious spunk.

“I guess there’s no harm in asking.” Tammy conceded. “If you think she’ll agree...”

“Exactly! Let’s head to her office and tell–I mean, ask her now. This’ll be great, you’ll see.”

Ms Miller’s office?

Moving with catlike grace, Brodie followed the chatting coeds through the hazardous hallways, formulating a plan of action.

---

“WPD! Everybody remain calm and lower your weapons.” Drew pointed two finger pistols at the dressing room mirror.

His reflection pointed right back. A sallow youth poorly mimicking authority and manhood. He released a gusty sigh, arms dropping to his sides.

The free ride was over. His halcyon days when he merely attended class to be awarded top billing were finished. There was a new guy–this Brodie fella–lurking in the wings, ready to swoop in and steal his spot.

He didn’t look the theatre type, more akin to the layabouts who arranged the sets and smoked the devil’s lettuce in the loading bay. But Ms Miller had brought him in at the last minute, which meant she had plans for him, right?

Leafing through the script, Drew considered what those plans could be. The prize male role was the stoic Police Chief Stanley Ford. The singular other was Belphoebe’s consort, an aloof Drow captain named Phakos.

The former; a real historical hero who forestalled a violent incident when the veil was torn. The latter; a snivelling fictional construct inserted to drive the plot. A back-seat antagonist with hardly any lines and the main focus of audience derision.

Or in wrestling terms, a heel.

Drew’s mouth thinned to a frown.

No, he would not go gentle into that good night. Reaching into the tub of glittery gel on the dresser, he painted lines onto his cheeks—war paint for the coming battle.

It tingled and warmed the skin, making the young thespian grin with renewed confidence.

He would fight.

“WPD! Everybody remain calm and lower your weapons.” The second delivery held sterner conviction.

---

Dress rehearsals were an unmitigated disaster. Megan fumed inwardly.

Were they deliberately sabotaging her glorious return?

She’d barely finished dealing with Juliana’s horse apples when Kira and, by silent association, Tammy dropped another steaming turd in her bucket of problems.

Switching parts, what were those girls thinking?

They couldn’t comprehend her vision or the painstaking hours of toil a playwright endured, none of them. They fudged with her script at their convenience like a group of spoiled children.

It would drive a Vicar to cuss. Her temper boiled. Her normally placid reserves of patience depleted.

Tammy looked ridiculous in the brown vinyl harness of an Amazon warrior. Her stick-like figure lacked the form or musculature to capture the presence Kira would have lent to the provocative costume. It hung off the waifish ginger in a tangle of straps and empty cups. Blessedly, she wore a sports bra to cover her flat chest.

That would need serious stuffing come opening night.

The sporty rebel had reassigned herself to the minor role of Raven, Belphoebe's Winter Court advisor. She looked entirely out of place in a dark lace and chiffon pixie dress designed for her smaller co-conspirator. Her toned physique tested the outfit's limits and her curly black wig kept slipping because the knucklehead couldn’t comprehend what function hairpins served.

Drew was presently strutting about in a wild western sheriff’s costume (lord only knew where he’d found that eye-sore) replete with a tin badge and wide-brimmed hat, shouting his lines like the town crier. The damn fool resembled a prancing peacock, squawked loud as one too.

His face sweated golden sparkles under the warm stage lighting.

Lastly, Megan’s dubious “volunteer” stood off to the side, script forgotten in an indolent hand as Brodie watched the chaos unfold with a curious gaze. His lack of interest, enthusiasm or any attempt at costume rubbed her last nerve raw.

The ungrateful shit was just standing there in sweats and a daggy t-shirt.

“Stop. Stop! Everyone shut up for criminy’s sake!”

Action ceased, the cast and crew freezing under her harsh tone—hints of fear manifested in the more timid members. Something about those nervous expressions resonated within Megan. Perhaps students who couldn’t respect her authority and experience should be worried.

She was in charge, dammit.

“Ms Miller?” Juliana asked, seemingly unphased. The blonde prima donna stood proud in black leggings and a leather biker vest that hugged her perfectly svelte body like a catsuit.

“Do you clowns think this performance is a joke?” Megan snatched up a jar of her homebrewed body glitter before stomping up onto the stage. “The audience will think so if you can’t get it together! Look around yourselves. What part of this rehearsal screams ‘fateful reuniting of the planes?’”

The stagehands vanished into the background with the swiftness born of practice leaving the five cast members to face her wrath. She zeroed in on treacherous ginger first.

Finding herself in the crosshairs, Tammy stammered a feeble objection. “We’re tr-trying our best, Ms–”

“Director! From here out, you’ll call me Director. Don’t like it? There’s the door!” Megan loomed over the trembling twit, furiously unscrewing the lid. “Show me some iron, girl. You’re playing Asteria, leader of an Amazon warband. Be fierce. Be bold. Fake it like an orgasm if you have to and…” She slopped three fingers of gooey glitter onto Tammy’s forehead, “...sparkle like gosh-darned Fae while you’re at it.”

Her smallest student reeled as though slapped—the aloe mixture running down her nose. Megan’s hand tingled as she scooped out more and switched targets.

“This isn’t a dog and pony show, people. We’re dramatizing an important moment in history! You lot seem to think you can call the shots in MY production?” She prowled towards Kira, who defiantly crossed her arms, striking an absurd stance in her ill-fitting dress. “That ends today, missy. I’ve had a bellyful of your attitude. Pull your head in, or watch it roll. This is MY stage, understood?”

“You wouldn’t dare lay a finger on–URK!” The sporty brat spluttered when Megan smeared a gloopy palm across her smart mouth, ending the impending threat in a coughing fit.

That shut her up.

“And look who thinks they’re the cock of the walk.” The Director approached Drew next. The pins and needles in her hand were intense. “Last I checked, Police Chief Ford was human. So why in the H-E-double-hockey-sticks are you wearing fairy make-up? If you wanted the part of Drow whipping boy, simply ask. Don’t offend us by dressing like Buffalo Bill.”

Grimacing, the dolt summoned a speck of gumption.

“WPD! Everybody remain calm and lower your weapons.” He aimed twin finger guns at her in a **** last stand.

Pathetic.

“Well, I’m sold.” She sneered. “Ditch the stupid costume and learn your new lines as Phakos, the Drow captain. Brodie, you’re promoted to male lead.”

“I’m what?!” The delinquent yelped.

“As for you…” Megan squared up to Juliana, feeling her fury ebb as fast as it had risen. The imperious blonde met her stare without flinching. Mind spiraling on the tail of an adrenaline spike, she couldn’t find the words. “You–you’re doing fine, sweetie. Maybe work on your outfit and… and wear the body glitter, okay?”

“Yes, Director.” Her best performer radiated smug satisfaction, taking the jar and dabbing a twinkling spot on either side of her neck as though it were perfume. “Are you alright, ma’am?”

Megan wasn’t sure. She’s never lost her cool like that before. The stress and pressure had got the better of her with opening night only a week away. She’d practically assaulted three cast members!

The inexplicable surge of rage drained away. Shame coursed through her veins instead.

Then Juliana leaned in with a wicked grin to whisper, “Good job putting everyone in their places, Megan. Leave the rest to me.”

Nodding mutely, she stumbled offstage to hide in her office.

---

Brodie couldn’t believe his shit luck.

The crazy bitch who’d roped him into this fucking circus was cracked if she thought he would dance to her tune.

Still, he hadn’t located his missing gear, and events were taking a strange turn in the theatre company.

After the Director’s wild rantings, his fellow students began behaving weirdly as though a mania had infected them—a mad obsession with their stupid school play.

He sure hoped it wasn’t contagious.

They stayed after hours to read lines, pillage the wardrobe department and obsessively apply their glittery makeup. Brodie was preparing to cut his losses (steep though they were) when Juliana ambushed him exiting the men’s bathroom, pinning him against a wall.

“Hello, Officer Ford.” She crooned, pressing her superb breasts against his chest. They smooshed within a flimsy crop top that barely concealed the upper hemispheres of creamy perfection. “I’ve been waiting to get you alone.”

“You have?” He grunted as a silky leg slid around his.

“Of course, we need to rehearse our scenes.” Juliana trailed manicured nails across his shoulders, plucking at imaginary lint. Her flawless features glimmered with flecks of gold. “It’s a Pocahontas story, really. Nothing original. Girl meets boy. A forbidden romance blooms as their worlds collide. You’re basically my John Smith.”

They were tucked in a nook between a stack of folding tables and wooden shipping crates, out of sight. Brodie was fascinated by her plump lips, painted deep violet.

“I never saw the Disney movie.” He remarked, settling hands on her slim hips. She sported a short leather skirt today. Black and skimpy like everything she’d worn lately. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m more interested in discussing our collaboration.” She breathed, melting against him. “You’re never around for rehearsals. Have you finished reading the script?”

Brodie had thumbed through it. There was a lot of flowery speech that didn’t interest him, but if there were scenes with this firecracker–intimate scenes–he’d give it a thorough second reading.

He slid his palms lower to gauge her reaction. “I’ll make it my top priority.”

Juliana’s mouth twitched in a teasing smirk when he tickled the bottom of her skirt. Then she spun away with a dancer’s grace, long platinum tresses whipping his face.

Had she dyed her hair a few shades lighter?

“See that you do, cutie.” She purred. “Come along, Drew. You can carry my bag.”

Brodie blinked. He hadn’t noticed the other guy lurking in the hallway, watching them like a fucking creep.

Drew was also dressed in dark clothing. His complexion was more pallid than usual, almost gray under the sparkly lotion. He gave Brodie a cold glare before tailing the haughty beauty.

What the hell was wrong with these people?

---

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