Dramatic pause, p.1
Dramatic Pause, page 1
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
About the Author
To my love, WBC,
for putting up with my dramatic paws
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I tend to dislike acknowledgments that thank every single person the author has ever met. That said, I would like to start by thanking the Phoenicians for developing the alphabet.
Moving on, I’d like to thank the many friends who support and encourage me in ways both seen and unseen. Thank you (in order of appearance), Beth (Sofia and Ruby), Rebekah, Shari, Sara, Justin, Pam, Carley, Chris, Loins, Olivia, Kate, Lyn, Greta, and Meline. Thanks to my family, Judi and Matt, for much love and support.
Thanks to my middle-grade pals, Julia DeVillers and Barbara Dee for perspective and camaraderie. To my middle-grade-book BFF, Taylor Morris, thank you for your amazing feedback on this manuscript, limitless generosity, and endless capacity to listen to me complain.
To William, thank you for being a friend. You are golden.
Thanks to my wonderful agent, Alyssa Eisner Henkin, for her wisdom and winsome. Thanks to everyone at Simon & Schuster/Aladdin who worked on these books, including Jessica Sonkin Handelman, Carolyn Swerdloff, Lydia Finn, Annie Berger, Alyson Heller, and Liesa Abrams. Thanks to my editor, Fiona Simpson, for her enthusiastic and kind support from start to finish, and to Kate Angelella for getting things started.
I would never write an acknowledgement without thanking the most important person involved: YOU, the reader. Thanks for reading this book. If you’ve read this book, then you have finished the whole series and I appreciate that. I love to hear from readers, and I respond to every e-mail I get. Please visit me at www.TweenInk.com to find out about my next project, or send me an e-mail at pg@tweenink.com.
CHAPTER 1
“Nicole didn’t do it. I did it!”
I can feel the space vibrating from the intensity in my voice. I swallow hard, then take out the red-stained knife from the pocket of my blue gingham dress and hold it up for everyone to see. People gasp. I watch the light bounce off the shiny plastic tip before throwing it on the table.
“I killed Harriet Conners because she knew the secret,” I say as calmly as if I’m explaining that there’s a slight chance of rain tomorrow. Then it hits me. My eyes widen, and I stare at the knife on the table like it’s a cobra about to attack. I look at all the people around me and scream, “I killed Harriet Conners because she knew what happened. She knew what happened on the seesaw!”
I fall onto my knees. First I’m quietly weeping, then I am sobbing, and then I become fully hysterical and collapse flat on the floor. I can hear gasps of horror all around me now that everyone knows the truth. Tears pour out of my eyes, and my body writhes on the floor like a piece of bacon in a blazing hot frying pan. I pound my fists and kick my feet before coming back up to my knees and screaming at the top of my lungs, “I did it. I KILLED HARRIET CONNERS!”
For a few seconds there is complete silence. An undeniable tension saturates everyone and everything.
Then I hear a familiar creaking from above me. Without even looking up, I know the heavy red velvet curtain is beginning to fall. I don’t stop crying until the gold fringe has hit the floor of the stage, and even then I give it one last good sob. As if on cue, I begin to hear the most beautiful sound in the world. Applause. The thick curtain muffles the thunder, but I can still tell the audience is going wild.
The lights flip from the warm, carefully constructed pools of illumination intended to highlight the drama onstage to the workday fluorescent lights that help the actors move around backstage. Intermission is only fifteen minutes long, and the entire set needs to change from classroom to courtroom. I quickly get out of the way so the stage crew can get to work.
I wipe the stage tears from my eyes, and as soon as I do I notice real tears are at the ready just behind them. I can’t believe this is my final performance.
I’ve been playing the role of Kimberly Ann Fortunato, the girl who lies, cheats, and schemes to cover up the murder of her best-friend-turned-middle-school-rival, Harriet Conners, in the off-Broadway production of Seesaw for One for the past three months. We were originally scheduled to run only for the month of July, but great reviews allowed us to extend our run through the end of August to Labor Day. My performance was often singled out. One theater critic wrote, “Isabel Marak Flores delivers a powerful and truthful performance that is not to be missed.” I printed that review out and put it in my scrapbook. A review like that is something an actress dreams of.
Of course, the theater is a group effort. Everyone from the wardrobe mistress to the director has a part in creating the onstage magic, so no one artist can ever take credit for the success of a production. It’s a team sport, and sometimes that’s the part I like best—a whole group of artists pulling together to create something beautiful and meaningful for an audience. Still, it was wonderful to be noticed for my work. I was especially satisfied that the critic called my work “truthful.” For an actor, that is the ultimate compliment. Acting isn’t just pretending and playing dress-up. You must be the character. It takes discipline, dedication, and seriousness to do it well. My dream is to make it as a serious actress on Broadway one day, and each role brings me one step closer to that goal.
I only have a short amount of time between the curtain going down on act one and going up on act two, and I not only have to change, but I also have to do my vocal exercises and my meditation. While act one ends with my confession, act two is really where I put my dramatic skills to the test, so I need to be prepared.
“Isabel, that was amazing. Your best performance yet,” Timothy Jackson says to me as I make my way backstage toward my dressing room, which is on the upstairs balcony. Mr. Jackson is the director, and he cast me in the role of Kimberly. He is the recipient of two Tony nominations and debuted his one-man show at Lincoln Center to standing ovations a few years ago. I respect him very much, and I’m grateful he believes in me.
“Thank you, Mr. Jackson,” I tell him. “I’ve learned so much from you as a director.”
“Well, I hope you’ll continue to learn,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask as we keep walking toward the upstairs dressing rooms.
Before he can answer, Hilda, the woman who coordinates the costumes, hair, and makeup, interrupts us. “Sorry, Mr. Jackson, I need to put her hair in a bun for the courtroom scene.” There is not enough time during intermission to sit in a proper hair-and-makeup chair and be done up. Hilda grabs an actor where she can and does what she needs to do. Backstage is always chaos, but it is an organized chaos that I love.
“Oh, of course, go right ahead, Hilda,” Mr. Jackson says. We both stop at the foot of the stairs that lead to the dressing rooms. “I probably shouldn’t tell you anything until after tonight’s performance anyway. Closing-night nerves, I guess.”
Hilda steps behind me and starts brushing my hair, but I can’t help wondering what Mr. Jackson means.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Oh heavens, no. Everything is fine. You haven’t done anything wrong at all. In fact, you’ve been doing everything right. Quite right indeed.”
Hilda takes one last sweep with her brush, then twists my hair into one long piece and wraps it into a tight bun, which she fastens with a few bobby pins before lightly spraying the back of my head with some hair spray. Mr. Jackson quietly watches the transformation.
“You’re all set, Isabel. Knock ’em dead.” She pauses and adds, “Oh, wait. You already did that.” She laughs at her own joke, then rushes off to get another actor ready for act two.
Mr. Jackson and I quickly climb the stairs to my dressing room. Once we are at the top, I look down at the stage and see that the army of a stage crew is in the middle of its orchestrated set change. A few men attach ropes to the walls of the classroom, and with a quick signal the walls suddenly float straight up past the balcony area where the dressing rooms are and into the theater’s rafters. The walls of the courtroom pass the classroom walls like ships on a lake as they slowly descend from their perch above the stage. The crew hold their arms up for the arrival of the new scenery, prepared to safely secure it into place. Sometimes I think we should keep the curtain up during intermission so the audience could see how much work goes into the set change. In my opinion, it’s as precise and challenging as everyth ing else that happens onstage and, as my parents always remind me, “Where there is beauty, there is art.”
“Isabel,” Mr. Jackson says, “I wanted to tell you something rather important.”
“Let me get the necklace for act two out of my dressing room,” I say. My character chews the chain of her necklace while she’s on trial. It’s a little character quirk I developed after a few weeks of intense rehearsal.
I swing open the door to my dressing room, saying, “C’mon in Mr. Jack—” But as soon as I see what’s inside, I freeze. How in the world did . . . ? I don’t even finish my thought. I quickly pull the door shut, hoping Mr. Jackson didn’t see what I just saw.
“Is everything all right?” he asks.
“Oh, fine,” I say, quickly thinking of some excuse to keep him out of my dressing room. “I just remembered that old superstition. Never let your director in your dressing room on closing night. It’s bad luck.”
He tilts his head to the side and looks at me strangely for a second. “I thought I knew every theatrical superstition that exists, but I must admit, that’s a new one.”
I laugh nervously, hoping he won’t ask to come in anyway.
“At any rate, I should let you prepare,” Mr. Jackson says. “Normally I wouldn’t distract you with this, but I want to make sure you have time afterward to meet someone very important. Do make sure you see me before you leave for the cast party. Won’t you?”
Before I can ask who it is he wants me to meet, Sean, the stage manager, who I think was born with a walkie-talkie headset attached to his head, walks past us and without missing a step says, “We’re at ten minutes until the opening of act two, Miss Isabel.”
“Ten minutes, thank you,” I say. It’s protocol in the theater to acknowledge any time cue from the stage manager.
“I had better get back to my seat,” Mr. Jackson says. “Break a leg. I know you’ll be brilliant.” He runs off down the stairs, and for a second I think about chasing after him to find out who this VIP is, but then I realize I have narrowly escaped exposing the secret in my dressing room. I have less than ten minutes to deal with the situation, do my meditation and vocal exercises, and get back onstage for the opening of act two.
CHAPTER 2
I open the door of my dressing room just wide enough so I can enter without anyone seeing what’s inside, then shut the door tightly.
“Chernique!” I say, loud enough so she knows I’m alarmed but not so loud that anyone else backstage can hear. “What are you doing here?”
“Is that how you greet your best friend?”
“You know you’re not supposed to be backstage.”
“I’ve been backstage plenty of times. What’s the big deal?” she says, waving her hand at me as she looks at herself in my makeup mirror. She’s casually taking my lipstick out and testing it on the back of her hand.
“After the show, Chernique. After! I told you how Lorraine got in trouble for having her boyfriend backstage during intermission. What if one of the producers saw you? What if Mr. Jackson saw you?”
I’m not overreacting. No one is allowed backstage during the performance. Sure, I’ve seen some of the adults break the rule, but when you’re a kid working with adults, it means you have to follow the rules or else they treat you like a kid. I don’t want to be treated like a kid, so I follow the rules. However, my best friend, Chernique, has never met a rule she didn’t like to bend.
“How did you get past the stage door?” I ask. I’d never have the nerve to even try.
“Have you seen how adorable I am? Who is going to say no to an adorable little girl from Trinidad with chubby cheeks like these?” Chernique smiles in a way that perfectly shows off her pretty, round face. If I weren’t so concerned about someone finding out she’s in my dressing room, I’d laugh. “How could I stay in the audience when this could be one of the most important days of your entire life?”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say, grabbing the necklace out of the navy-blue velvet box I keep it in.
“Look, I know no one can play cool and calm better than you, but you must be freaking out. The letters were due out yesterday! I couldn’t wait until after the show to find out what’s going on. You’ve been dreaming about this since . . .” Chernique struggles to find the right word and then gives up. “Well, I don’t know, but since we were six, this is the only thing you’ve really wanted.”
She’s right. I’ve wanted to be a student at the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts since the moment I learned it existed. The students at the academy take all the same classes regular students take, like algebra and English, but they also spend part of their day in classes dedicated to acting, movement, voice, and other theatrical subjects. Almost all the very best actors in the world started their careers there. Oscar winners, Tony winners, Seggerman winners—all attended the academy, and they all credit the rigorous training they received there as the foundation of their artistic success. Once I achieve my goal of making it on Broadway, I plan to become the youngest person ever to win all three prestigious awards, and the only way I can really hope to have any chance of doing that is to get into the academy. I prepared for weeks for my audition before finally having my parents record it and send it in. I’ve spent the summer waiting for the acceptance letter to arrive in the mail. The letters were supposed to arrive yesterday.
The only problem is, mine didn’t.
“You know how slow the mail is in on the Lower East Side,” I say.
“I think making you wait this long is cruel and unusual punishment.” She takes the eyeliner I use onstage and puts some under her eyes, purposely smudging the line so her deep-brown eyes have a smoky look. “You are protected by the Constitution of the United States. I have half a mind to go up to where that fancy Mr. Tipton is sitting and tell him a thing or two.”
As soon as I hear the name “Mr. Tipton,” my eyes widen in shock.
“Back up. He’s here? Mr. Tipton? The dean of the academy?” I ask. He’s the man who single-handedly makes the decisions about who is accepted each year.
“Yeah. He’s the guy on that TV show who asks actors all those weird questions like, ‘If you were a breakfast food, what would you say to your glass of orange juice?’” Chernique deepens her voice and uses a stuffy accent for her imitation of Mr. Tipton.
“Yes. That’s him.”
“Well, he’s sitting in the fifth row. You want me to accidentally hit him in the head with my program?”
“No,” I say, and push Chernique out of my dressing room. “I want you to go back to your seat and be on your best behavior. I have to get ready.” Even best behavior for Chernique is pretty wild. She sneaks out of my dressing room, and I take a seat in front of my mirror to put on my necklace.
Mr. Jackson said someone very important was here to see me after the show. Could he mean Mr. Tipton? Could he be giving me one last chance to get accepted to the academy? Is tonight’s performance my last opportunity?
“We are at five until the opening of act two, Miss Isabel,” Sean says as he raps his knuckles on my dressing room door.
“Five minutes, thank you,” I say, loud enough so he can hear me on the other side of the door, and fasten the clasp of the necklace.
I shake the possibilities of who Mr. Jackson wants me to meet out of my head. I need to quickly change costumes and then do my meditation exercise and short vocal warm-up. If Mr. Tipton is in the audience, that means my performance has to be flawless. Until the final curtain falls, I’m not Isabel Marak Flores. I’m Kimberly Ann Fortunato, and I’m about to go on trial for murder.
CHAPTER 3
There are a few moments in act two when I look right at the audience as if they are the members of the jury. “It was an accident,” I scream. “An accident.” During that moment of hysteria onstage I could squint slightly to reduce the glare of the stage lights and sneak a direct glance at the audience to see if Mr. Tipton is in the fifth row. But I don’t. Even if he is in the audience and I did see him, he would see me seeing him, and that wouldn’t be good at all.
I maintain my focus until the final curtain falls. When it rises again for the curtain call and the houselights shine on the audience, I can’t help but scan the people applauding to see if Mr. Tipton is there. Each member of the cast takes their bow, and as I am about to take mine, I see a thick gray beard out of the corner of my eye. I bend from my waist until my back is perpendicular to the floor, and on my way up I take a closer look at the fifth row and see that the gray beard is indeed attached to Mr. Tipton, who just happens to be applauding wildly. Behind him I see my parents and Chernique, who are also applauding wildly. Chernique has her fingers pressed between her teeth and is doing her trademark siren whistle to show her enthusiastic approval. Even though I often beg her not to do that because it draws so much attention, I secretly love it for the same reason.
