Spark (5 page)

I
turn away from the Avery, my head a blender. I'm short of breath, and my legs are as sturdy as water.

None of what I've witnessed feels real—and somehow also more real than anything I've ever lived through. The colors were brighter. The music was clearer.
What just happened?

Mom's car is now parked outside of Potions. She's been home long enough that all the lights are on in our apartment. How did I not hear her car? See her pause on the sidewalk to open the door? I stumble inside. Up the stairs.

“I know what you're going to say,” she announces as I drag myself into the kitchen, my mouth dangling half open.

“You—you saw?”

“Oh, I saw. I know exactly what went on.”

“What—what is—”

“Pure anger. That's what. I know kids. Taught enough years to know exactly what the reaction was going to be. That
Jenny
teacher of yours was letting you take the easy way out. Recite soliloquies for your senior project, my foot,” she says, attacking a carrot with a knife. “People will always rise to the occasion. Expect nothing, get nothing.”

“What're you talking about?”

“Cass! Of course! Don't play innocent, Quin. I know she's upset. I saw the way she reacted in class when I made the announcement about the musical. That look on her face! But I was around during all those sleepovers you kids've been having since you were—what? Seven? All those nights with her right here in this apartment, singing to whatever music you two happened to be into at the time. There's no way I'd give her the costumes job. And don't tell me that's not what she wants. I know her well enough to know that, too. Costumes.” She shakes her head in disgust.

“But—the Avery—”

“Yes! The Avery is depending on us. It's about to see the wrecking ball. We're its last hope. We've got to do something. It's up to us.”

She hadn't seen it. Not the night sky, or the lights blazing on the marquee. She hadn't seen her old friend, either.
Mom, Bertie was just out there, on the street. I didn't recognize her at first. But she wasn't a dream. She couldn't have been. She was so
clear, and it was like looking into a mirror. She was just there, and she was talking about you.

But do I tell her? She's been filling me with the details of a tale of magic for years. Part of me wants to scream at her that it's here, it's happened. But the other part is shouting out warnings. Since when does magic hide? If the magic wanted Mom to see it, wouldn't it have shown its face to her? I mean, it seemed like what was happening on the square lasted a few seconds. A single moment. But judging by the smells of long-simmering pots, I'd say Mom's been here at least thirty minutes. Magic had plenty of time to get Mom's attention.

But it didn't. It got mine.

Is that what I'm really thinking? That it was the magic Bertie promised all those years ago? Of course not. That's nuts.

Only, it's not. And as much as I could try to play it cool about the whole thing, the truth is, my heart believes it. All of it. Believed from the moment the first spark flew from the front of the Avery. It's just taking my brain a while to catch up. But then again, brains are always slow, lagging behind the lightning speed of the heart. The thought finally forms, clearly in my head:
I believe.

“And you're upset, too,” Mom adds.

“I'm upset—”

“Because I made you director.”

“Daughter of the teacher is named director? You have to
know how that looks. Why aren't
you
the director? Isn't the teacher usually—”

“I'm the producer. I have to be. To get ads lined up—get some backing. Spread the word. Get the community riled up enough to buy tickets. This is going to require more than thirty sets of parents showing up, you know.”

“But there has to be someone better. I have no idea—”

“You're a writer—it's in you. You know about characters.”

I stare at her, my eyes feeling about as big as those velvet paintings of kids that Vanessa's got for sale in Duds.

“Oh, come on, Quin. You write. I wish you'd own up to it. You know how to develop characters. So explain their roles to the kids playing them. Tell them what their motivation is. You also understand the kids I've assigned a part to. Every bit as much as you understand the kids we're doing this for.”

“The kids we're doing this for?” I repeat slowly.

She sighs with complete exasperation. Like there's no way I can be this dense. “Emma. Nick.”

I shake my head. “What do they have to do with anything? That's just some story. A sad one. But a story. And one that happened decades ago.” I'm challenging her. Goading her. I need something, after what I just saw. And I'm not sure what. Some kind of affirmation. Some new tidbit she's never shared before.

“Just—” Mom drops her knife. “You, of all people, should know there's no such thing as just a story. ‘Just a story,' she
says!” She shakes her head at me. “Come here.”

I trail her through the apartment, toward my room, where the books have completely taken over. Mom's right—I'm a full-on story addict. She's always been my enabler, picking up paperbacks every single time she goes to the grocery store. And what kind of decent holiday season doesn't involve a good ten or so fat new novels?

I've never had the ability to throw a book away, either, once I've read it. So the ones I've already gobbled up have actually become my furniture; stacked hardbacks have become my nightstand, supporting an alarm clock and small boudoir lamp. Another tower of already-read books has become shelving for my winter sweaters.

Mom attacks my closet, pulling out old hatboxes. She's saved them, too—the old boxes from her mother's storeroom. She's stuck white labels to their sides, branding them with her perfect handwriting, and turned them into storage units. In her closet, the labels read “Taxes” or “Quin's Photos” or “Christmas.” In mine, the labels read “Fifth Grade” or “Summer Camp” or “Cass and Me.” The labels also read “Quin Stories,” “Quin Stories 2,” and “Quin Stories 3.” Ten of them in all. Everything I've ever scribbled: little sketches, fragments of poetry, full-on short stories. I write them, and Mom saves them from the trash. She's tucked them away, like she's always hoped that someday I would finally want to show them—to someone.

She pulls the boxes out feverishly, one after another, setting them aside. She doesn't slow down until she finds the one she's looking for, shoved all the way into the back—it's a really old box. Every bit as old as the story that it holds. But it's fancy, too—with a lovely, swirling “Lilly Daché” across the top. It's a box that had once held a woman's most special, once-in-a-lifetime hat. It's a box that now holds Dahlia's most special story. A box she gave to me once she started telling me the story of the Avery. The yellowed, handwritten label on its side reads “1947.”

Mom carries the box to my bed and gingerly shakes the lid free.

I've seen these contents before, but now they hold new meaning. Newspaper clippings stare up at me, as yellow and dry as decaying autumn leaves. As Mom watches, I remove them, one by one, laying them side by side across my bedspread like puzzle pieces forming one big picture. The clippings proclaim, in bold, black print, “Tragedy Unfolds at the Avery Theater” and “Accident Claims Two Young Lives.”

Mom picks up a black-and-white photo of musicians lined up in the orchestra pit of a theater, holding their instruments as if ready for the downbeat to finally strike. She points to the man seated on the piano bench—he's so skinny, he reminds me of a wire clothes hanger. “Nick,” Mom says, “is Dylan. They both have physical flaws that make them feel small.”

Mom picks up another black-and-white—this time a
school photo of a young girl in tight, chin-length curls and glasses. “Emma,” she says, “is Cass. Both girls with limitless potential. But they do not feel beautiful. Prefer to stay behind the curtain, so to say.”

Mom shows me another snapshot, this one of two young women standing in front of the theater. A girl in glasses and the other smiling at her from underneath a widow's peak. On the back, I find a handwritten label: “Emma and Alberta, 1947.”

I recognize that face beneath the widow's peak. I just saw that face. On the square.

Bertie's hugging a book to her chest; the cover is branded with some kind of cursive writing.

“The old story is now the new story,” Mom insists as she stands, hurrying back toward the kitchen and whatever it is on the stove that she doesn't want to burn. “It's all come full circle. ‘What's past is prologue,' as the Bard said.”

I squint at the book in Bertie's arms but can't quite make out what's written on the cover.

I walk over to my desk in the corner of the room. I'm no clotheshorse, not like Cass, so instead of stepping over T-shirts and legless jeans that have been tossed to the floor in a mad school-morning rush to put together a new outfit, I wind up stepping over sloppy piles of paperbacks that have yet to become the building blocks for another piece of furniture. Caster wheels squeak as I tug back the antique desk chair. As
always, the ancient thing sounds like it's squealing at the sight of my laptop—surprised to no longer find itself near candlestick phones and manual typewriters. I flip on my printer, scanning the photograph into my computer. I pull up the image on my laptop and zoom in on the book in her hands.

And nearly stop breathing.

In the photo, the book isn't branded “Alberta.” It says “Quin.”

She predicted it, all those years ago. All of it. Bertie always knew this would happen.

Now, my eyes can believe, too. Right along with my heart and my brain. Doubt is a past tense.

The magic is real. And it's for me.

My room is still uncomfortably hot, hours after the sun has called it a day. Mom never did care much for air conditioning, especially to sleep in. She grew up without it; it still feels unnatural and clammy to her.

Yeah, sure. Unnatural. As opposed to the completely natural way the Avery had magically renovated itself—for a minute, anyway—all on its own.

I throw back my sheet, grab my glasses, and sit on the edge of my bed. I stare out the window, through the screen, at the theater. From my second-story vantage point, the Avery looks forlorn in the darkness.

“Talk to me,” I mutter to the old theater. I wiggle my
fingers as if I'm trying to perform some spell. Bring the Avery back to life again. But I have no control over any of the magic that has bubbled up around me.

I do, however, have more curiosity than I know what to do with. And if Dylan got inside, couldn't I?

On impulse, I throw my feet into a pair of sneakers. Still wearing the baggy shorts and the cami I sleep in, I grab the emergency flashlight I keep on my book-nightstand and tiptoe past Mom's bedroom, down the stairs, and out the door of Potions.

The air's muggy. Like the entirety of Verona has just stepped out of a hot shower.

How many times have I heard about the side door of the Avery? The one hidden behind the now-overgrown bushes? Every single time Mom told the story about the awful night of the accident, that's how many. It's how she got in when she was called Trouble by her mother—and everyone else on the town square. Everyone but Bertie, anyway. It had also been the same door she'd burst from, shouting for someone to help Emma and Nick.

I edge toward it, the dead grass scratching at my ankles and the scraggly limbs of bushes clawing at my bare arms. But I persist, reaching through the needle-sharp, dry vines and branches to grab hold of the doorknob. When I twist, I find it completely rusted shut.

Undaunted, I head over toward the front step where Cass
sat, singing along with those odd piano chords. A padlocked chain greets me. I try humming a few random notes like Cass, tug on the chain. Nothing. I try humming the chorus of “Anything Goes.” On the last note, I tug harder on the chain. It refuses to give.

Above, the tattered remnants of the awning wave in the humid air and the Avery Theater sign frowns—broken and dark.

“Yeah, I get it,” I tell the theater. “I don't have the same kind of enchanting, powerful voice as Cass. Who does?”

Refusing to give up, I circle around to the back, scurry down the alley. Tentatively, I touch the back door.

It creaks open an inch.

I don't know whether to jump for joy or flinch in fear. I push the door again and it gives, swinging freely. It doesn't pop, like it's been stuck in place for more than half a century. It swings, like it's recently been open. Like someone, maybe Dylan, didn't completely shut it as he made a hasty getaway.

I'm sweating—and not because of the heat anymore. I take a deep breath, click on my flashlight, and step inside.

The thick, stale atmosphere hits me like I'm a tackling dummy. I cough against the humid, muggy stench as I aim my flashlight into corners and crannies.

I've dreamed of the theater—of sitting in its seats while watching my mother's bedtime story play out. But I've never actually been inside. I instantly start comparing the way I've
imagined it (plush and ornate and grand) to the way it is (dusty and sad, like something packed away and forgotten in an attic).

Thick, gray, filth-filled cobwebs hang like stalactites from the box seats and the once-shiny faces of the theater poised on either side of the stage. Clumps of dust remind me of the underwater pictures I've seen somewhere of the
Titanic
. The old, submerged ship seemed to have grown frail enough that merely touching the deck railings could cause them to disintegrate. Here, it also seems that if I dare touch anything—the curtains, the seats throughout the house—it's all grown so brittle, it'll crumble under my hand. I take a few steps anyway, trying to convince myself I can be brave as long as my flashlight doesn't give out.