Spark (19 page)

I point, making a piano appear in the middle of the stage. Cass and Dylan sit at the bench. Dylan starts with a few introductory chords; Cass hums. Slowly, the words to the songs we've learned for
Anything Goes
begin to swell.

And suddenly, the entire cast is involved in a medley, dancing and belting the lyrics to “It's De-Lovely” and “I Get a Kick Out of You.” Kiki's front and center now, hitting the arm of the red ball cap beside her, egging him on, pushing him forward.
Come on, come on, this is fantastic. Keep up. Keep going.

As they perform, the set begins to reinvent itself, to depict the Verona town square as it could still be. Lights return. The
Avery's windows are no longer cracked. Signs appear. The sounds of car engines and voices and laughter spill out from all directions.

The square in the center of the stage is vibrant. Bustling.

Of course it is. Anything you imagine is real here. That's truly the magic of the theater.

The cast falls quiet as Dylan's piano leads Cass into a solo performance of “You'd Be So Easy to Love.”

Cass and Dylan are both themselves and unlike themselves at that moment; on the stage, they're characters we've all seen or befriended in real life. Characters we've all been. At that moment, the members of the audience are right there, with Cass, falling in love for the first time all over again. Whatever separated them from that old love no longer exists. And for those who haven't fallen yet, whatever obstacle has ever stood in their way is gone. Just as Cass's birthmark is gone, as Dylan's stutter is gone. At that moment, first love is a present tense, with nothing in the way of a happy ending.

Star-crossed lovers uncrossed.

The aurora borealis colors begin to shift in the space above our heads. The previously stationary streaks of color are moving, like lines being drawn by an invisible pen, bouncing from one person to another. Bouncing between the audience and the players. Tying us together. Connecting us—like dots—to create a bigger picture. The past and the present, who we are and who we wish we were coming together on the stage. All
that's needed to witness the magic is just a spark of belief.

From somewhere deep in the background, a drumbeat begins to thump out a syncopated rhythm. But I know that's not a drum at all. The Avery's heart is beating. The Avery, that old woman, is alive. And young again. The Avery has risen from the dead.

We join together for one more rousing number—“Anything Goes.” And at that moment, it's true. Now that the town has seen it, the soul of the theater alive and well, anything can happen. As the play winds down, everyone inside the walls of the Avery knows that Verona is at the beginning of a new act of its own.

Once the final note stops echoing, the audience is on their feet. Applause erupts.

Curtain calls. Whistles. Bravos.

“Go,” Mom says. “Take your bows. You deserve them.”

I grab her hand and haul her—the new owner of the Avery—out with us.

She glances out into the auditorium, a young woman coming face-to-face with her old love again. And more—her eyes sparkle in the stage lights as she stands in the midst of sad, sour endings that now can be bumps in the road.

“See? You kept your promise,” I tell her as we all line up at the edge of the stage.

She bows with the rest of the class—all of us drenched in sweat, but ecstatic.

N
eedless to say, every one of us got an A on our senior project.

Ever since our night in the Avery, Advanced Drama has been treated as far more than just the plain old Grays and Navy Blues in the crayon box. We've become Electric Lime, Laser Lemon, Razzmatazz. Next year when Jenny's back, the drama class is going to have (as Mom puts it) a deuce of a time figuring out how to live up to the bar we've raised.

Finally—Advanced Drama has made its mark.

Most days the construction crew Mom hired is out in front of the Avery, beneath an ever-present rainbow that appeared the day after our show and has never faded, sticking to the sky through rain or shine. They scrub away graffiti, fix windows. Spruce up the marquee. Replace the bulbs in the neon sign.
Work themselves to nubs because everyone in town sees the possibility of what the old theater can be.

The square's getting new visitors—contractors and architects studying the old buildings for renovation. Two of them have sold. Rosarita's has a permanent sign.

Cass and Dylan still go to work after school, but most days they leave together. Walk across the square hand in hand. A couple of times I catch them in the alley behind the Avery, Cass with her arms around Dylan's neck, their faces pressed together. They remind me, at those times, of the cover I once saw on Emma's
Love Fiction Monthly
. A sight that puts a dip in my stomach—either makes me start fantasizing about my own future love story or inspires me, sends me racing to open a new file on my computer. Start typing away.

When Saturday weather cooperates, Cass and Dylan can even be found on the curb outside of Ferguson's, Dylan strumming his guitar while Cass sings musical standards—often drawing a small crowd from the increasing square traffic. But an audience never sends them scattering off. They're no longer the best musicians no one has ever heard perform.

As for me, I've already gotten the college acceptance letter I realized I really wanted—to a school here in state. Mom gave me Emma's college money. “It's like George knew you'd be part of it all,” Mom said. “A gift for you and a gift for me in his envelope. After that production, nobody deserves his money more than you do.” I figure George's scholarship fund
will go further if I'm not paying out-of-state tuition.

Besides, I don't want to be too far from Mom. And the Avery.

I suppose we all found love through the Avery—the theater brought Cass and Dylan together, but it also made them take their places center stage. Made them walk into the spotlight. And Mom—she didn't just inherit an old building. She got to revisit her past—renew old passions, dust off old dreams. It's never too late, after all.

I finally fessed up to my own dreams (as Mom also often phrases it). Nothing about my own story is a confused connect-the-dots pattern anymore. I know exactly who I am—where I fit in and what I want. After what happened in the Avery, there's no way I'll ever be shoving stories into old hatboxes. I'm not a closet scribbler anymore.

Now when I dream, I'm no longer in the audience, staring up at a screen. I'm still in the Avery—that hasn't changed—but I'm directing my own original play. Sometimes the play is my college thesis. Sometimes it's my hundredth play.

Always, though, applause is strong enough to make the walls tremble.

Because the space between what is and what could be—isn't that the most magical place of all?

As the credits roll on this project, I want to thank the crew at HarperCollins, with special thanks, yet again, to my editor, Karen Chaplin. I also want to thank my always-supportive agent, Deborah Warren. Warmest gratitude to Team Schindler (my sounding board, first reader, and loudest and most enthusiastic cheering section), and to my readers, especially those devoted book junkies and bloggers who have been with me since the beginning. I'm also grateful, this time, for my Midwestern roots, for small towns with old-fashioned squares much like the fictionalized square of Verona. For weekends spent watching vintage movies on the screens of antique theaters that became the inspiration for the Avery. . . .

Photo by John Schindler II

HOLLY SCHINDLER
is an award-winning author of books for all ages. For the latest news, sneak peeks, giveaways, and more, visit
www.hollyschindler.com
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Feral

Spark

“Opening with back-to-back scenes of exquisitely imagined yet very real horror, Schindler's third YA novel hearkens to the uncompromising demands of her debut,
A Blue So Dark
. This time, the focus is on women's voices and the consequences they suffer for speaking. This is a story about reclaiming and healing, a process that is scary, imperfect, and carries no guarantees.”

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“A heavily gloomy feel pervades this novel that shifts through phases of fantasy, mystery, psychological thriller, and thoughtful realistic fiction dealing with PTSD.”

—ALA
Booklist

“From the opening pages readers will be immediately immersed in this dark story, which has echoes of classic Hitchcock. Issues of cliques, peer pressure, bullying, self-esteem, post-traumatic stress syndrome, teacher-student relationships, and pet abandonment will provide substance for discussion.”

—
School Library Journal

“In the town of Peculiar, the cats aren't the only ones keeping secrets. . . . A dark and creepy psychological who-done-it that will keep you guessing until the very end.”

—Jody Casella, author of
Thin Space

“Wow! This book starts off with a bang—two of them, actually—and then it sinks its claws into you and never lets go.”

—April Henry,
New York Times
bestselling author

Cover art © 2016 by Eva Carollo Photography / Getty Images

Cover design by Sarah Hoy Pierson