Chapter Thirty-Three
Eliza
“And though she be but little, she is fierce.”
—William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
I almost turned around when I reached a red light at the corner of Maple and Main Streets across from the courthouse. It had only been a day since the inferno—to which I’d had a front-row seat—that swallowed my dream. My grandmother’s legacy.
Maybe it was too soon to go back?
Reed was still in the hospital. His nana called my mom to let me know he’d be released tomorrow or the following day.
I should’ve been elated at the fact that he was okay, that his family had called mine like it was the most normal thing in the world, and yet guilt hadn’t stopped churning through my stomach.
It should’ve been me in that hospital. If I had noticed that spotlight in the booth a few minutes sooner, I would’ve run into him outside of the theater.
Not in the hallway, surrounded by smoke.
Someone beeped their horn twice behind me. The light had changed to green. I reluctantly pulled forward and parked in the Methodist church lot. Yellow caution tape blocked the parking for the Lyric. Or what used to be the Lyric.
Lauryn waited for me in front of a line of trees that separated the church property from the theater and gave a half wave as I got out of the Jeep.
“Are you sure you’re okay to be here?” After hugging me tightly, she stared at the cut on my cheek, held together with two butterfly bandages. “Everyone would understand if you didn’t come to this right now.”
“I need to be here. It”—my voice caught in my throat—“it was my home too.”
My grandmother’s.
She nodded and took my hand. “Ready?”
No. “Yes.”
We walked through the trees and stopped short.
Oh, Grandma. Thank God you’re not here to see this.
It was much worse than I’d thought.
The fire department saved some of the building, but the town would have to tear down what was left and completely start over if there was ever a hope of having the theater up and running again.
Lauryn’s hand tensed in mine. “It’s…it’s like a-a—”
“Nightmare,” I said.
Hollowed-out windows, crumbling bricks, naked drywall frames. Piles upon piles of rubble covered in soot and ash. Singed fabric from a few remaining seats flapped in the wind like flags that had gone through a war. And lost.
I wanted to curl up into a ball right there on the sidewalk and wait for someone to kick me into a gutter.
Gone.
Everything…so much work and sweat and tears.
Gone.
All of my grandmother’s work. Her pride. Her joy.
Gone.
Several cast and crew members crept around the rubble, turning over pieces of stone and wood with their shoes as if they were looking for something, anything, that might have survived.
But my feet were glued to the sidewalk next to Lauryn.
I could pretend to be strong like my father, my mother, my brother. But my Crowley heart wasn’t a phoenix. It wouldn’t rise from these ashes. At least, not the heart I knew.
Ms. Sparrow passed us, squeezing my shoulder as she did, and stepped under the caution tape.
The cast stood still, and no one spoke as she moved among the piles of debris.
She bent down near what used to be the stage-right alcove that led to the dressing rooms and pulled something flat and speckled out of the rubble.
Her clipboard.
As bad as I felt, I couldn’t imagine what must’ve been going through her head right now. How could you even begin to calm the nerves of over thirty people who stared at you like you were their last hope?
“Let’s all step away from this mess. Maybe under those oaks.” She pointed to the cluster of trees that Lauryn and I had just walked through.
We sank down into the warm grass and dead leaves with the others and waited for Ms. Sparrow to speak again.
“First.” She tucked her dirty clipboard under her arm. “I wanted to say thank you for meeting me here. I wish it were under different circumstances—”
Jack, aka Mercutio, raised his hand. “Is the show canceled?”
Ms. Sparrow pushed her glasses farther up her nose. “We’ve lost all our sets, all our costumes and props. I don’t see how anyone could expect us to still have a show. I…I’m so sorry, everyone.”
Murmurs and cursing drifted over the crowd.
I wiped away tears as I looked back toward the rubble.
Some of those costumes were as old as my grandmother.
Some she made, and they had been preserved in a glass case near the old popcorn machine in the lobby.
Oklahoma, Guys and Dolls, Hamlet, and countless renditions of A Christmas Carol—their sets were repurposed each year to save money.
That theater and everything in it had survived for over eighty years only to be brought down by a drunken fool.
Cara rose to her knees. “So that’s it? There’s nothing we can do?”
“I’m afraid so.” Ms. Sparrow clutched her clipboard against her chest the way I used to hold Penny, my childhood teddy bear, when I was scared of thunderstorms. “It’s too late. We can’t put on a show when we don’t have a theater or a venue.”
I snapped the twig I held in my hands.
All of this was so unfair.
We had worked so hard to continue the treasured tradition of what would’ve been a phenomenal summer show, and now it was all for nothing. No matter what I had tried to do beforehand, in the end, nothing could’ve stopped that fire.
Or Ben stumbling about on the stage with a cigarette.
Or Reed being a stubborn hero and going back in the burning building for him after coming to help me.
I took the small piece of the remaining twig and sketched a stage in the dirt while reciting the order of the catwalk lights in my head to calm me down. R1, R2, R3, E1, E2, E3…chained together in groups of three…
What would Grandma do if she were here right now? How would she fight this?
She’d probably fundraise, but even as well-loved as she was, she’d never have raised enough money to rebuild an entire theater in time for a production just a couple of weeks away.
I rubbed my fingers over the looping text of my baseball tattoo and smiled.
So what else, Grandma? Other than literally putting out the flames yourself, because that was the kind of woman you were?
I dropped the twig next to the rough dirt outline of the stage and then moved a few small stones and acorns into arcs around it like an amphitheater.
Wait. Amphitheater!
Clairview!
My hand shot into the air. “What about Clairview?”
The cast quieted so quickly it was as if someone had pressed a mute button.
“What about it?” Cara asked.
“They have an amphitheater.” I stood, my mouth dry. “I was there a couple weeks ago. It needs a little love, but it’s still standing. It’s got a roof over the stage too.”
“No one’s used that stage in years.” Raul kept his eyes on his phone as he spoke. “It’s probably a walking death trap.”
“It’s not. I stood on that stage.” Danced on it. My heart squeezed. “We can use it.” I stepped around a few people to get closer to Ms. Sparrow. “It won’t be easy, and we may not have enough time to pull it off, but…maybe if we push our opening night back one week, we can do it.”
Ms. Sparrow smiled, and her eyes glistened.
“What about sets?” one of the techies asked.
“Um…” I picked at the end of my shirt. “Maybe we don’t need them. Shakespeare didn’t, right? If we really want height with scenes like the balcony, we can use a ladder and dress it up with some fake vines. I’ve seen that done before.”
“And with costumes,” Lauryn chimed in, “we go minimal too. Matching colors like we had planned, but simpler. I saw a ballet production of Romeo and Juliet once where the families wore matching leotards.”
Bradley, aka Mr. Capulet, sniggered. “Trust me. You do not want to see me in a leotard.”
The group giggled.
“Okay, so what about lighting?” Cara asked, an eyebrow arched up.
Oh. Good question.
Even minimal for that would be pricey.
“The sun doesn’t set until, what, eight thirty–ish now?
” I asked. “If we do a seven thirty curtain, we’ll have some natural light left.
But like I said, the stage has a roof over it, and there’s a ton of trees providing shadows, so we’d still need a couple of light trees, truss squares, a lamp bar, and at least one spot. ”
Everyone started speaking at once, and they sounded split down the middle. Some smiled and talked excitedly, but others kept frowning and throwing their hands up like they wanted to surrender and go home.
“Look, guys.” I walked toward the middle of the group and crouched down, remembering what Dad had said once: The best way to get your team to hear you is to get down to their level.
I drew the stage in Clairview in the dirt and small U shapes where the audience would sit. The cast and crew pressed in closer.
“There aren’t walls on this stage, so we’ll need some drapes or curtains to hide the cast,” I said.
“Or we can do it like some of the newer productions and have the cast on the stage the entire time, but watching and interacting with what goes on. I saw a great musical called Bright Star that did that and—”
“Hamilton does that too!” Lauryn squealed.
“Yes, they do.” I winked at her and then went back to my drawing. “The one thing I’m not sure about is sound. How could we mic people and run that—”
“I think I can take care of it.” Ms. Sparrow crouched down near us. “I have a friend at UNC who owes me a favor.”
And there you go.
Jack raised his hand. “Not to be a buzzkill, but how do we pay for the new lights and costumes?”
Right. Money.
Crud.
Hadn’t gotten that far.
“What about one of those GoFundMe things?” Cara asked. “We can promote the hell out of it on social media too.”
“Oh!” Katie’s head popped up out of the group. “I’ve got the best idea for a TikTok for it.”
I straightened up and did my best James Earl Jones impression: “ ‘People will come, Ray. People will definitely come.’ ”
But everyone blinked at me in silence.
Well, Reed would’ve gotten it. “What do you think, Ms. Sparrow? Can you run it by the Clairview Parks and Rec?”