The Backstagers and the Ghost Light Read online

  “Who—who are you? How did you get in here?” Hunter asked, trying to hide the quaver in his voice.

  The figures stood silently. Then one of them opened its robe slightly and extended its arm, pointing a bullhorn at Hunter as if it were a pistol. The figure pulled the trigger, and a blast of visible sound, just like the streams flying overhead, came whizzing straight at Hunter. It hit him in the chest, and while his earplugs muffled the intense blast of sound—something like a freight engine’s whistle combined with a lion’s roar—the force of it knocked him to the floor. The dark figures started slowly approaching.

  Hunter scrambled to his feet. The taller, armed figure raised its bullhorn again for a second blast. Sound waves raced toward Hunter, but this time, thinking fast, Hunter pulled up on one of the handles at his feet, and a rack of wires blocked the shot, dissipating the sound waves into the cavernous space.

  As the shelving unit sank back into the floor, Hunter’s gaze darted around, searching. There!

  He spotted the handle he was looking for and bounded toward it, ducking left and right along the way, narrowly avoiding blast after blast of roaring green sound waves. He reached the handle and pulled up the attached rack just enough to retrieve the thing he needed.

  He looked up toward the figures—and he was right in their sights, nowhere to hide.

  Up came the bullhorn once more. The figure pulled the trigger and the roar surged out. Hunter flipped a switch on the handheld mic he had pulled from the floor, and just as the blast reached him, he batted it away with a concentrated beam of sound pouring out of the handle of the mic in a solid blue line like the beamed sword of a hero in a space epic. It made a kind of schwiiiiing sound when he swung it. He looked and felt very, very cool. But now was not the time to feel very, very cool.

  Sound sword in hand, Hunter lunged toward his mysterious foes. The taller creature fired repeated, rhythmic blasts in Hunter’s path, but he swatted them left and right with his sword, not slowing his pace. He reached the creatures and with a deft flick of his blade, he knocked the bullhorn out of their reach. He raised the sound blade to strike.

  “SUCCESS!” shouted the disarmed, hooded creature in a suspiciously teenage voice. Hunter stopped in his tracks.

  “Duuuuuuude!” hollered the other, shorter creature in a warm, jubilant rumble. “You nailed it! And you looked so action hero doing it! I wish I’d gotten a video!”

  The creatures took down their hoods, revealing two high school seniors. The taller had long blond hair, angular facial features, and a warm smile. The shorter and rounder had long, thick dark hair. He was just seventeen but had a beard that made all of the male teachers jealous. They were Timothy and Jamie, respectively—the stage managers of St. Genesius. Hunter sighed with relief as he lowered his sword.

  “Guys, you scared the crap out of me,” he said, panting as the adrenaline wore off and the exhaustion set in.

  “I know!” Jamie bellowed. “It was HILARIOUS! Timothy, I told you the hoods would be scarier than the Bigfoot costumes.”

  “Sorry we had to scare you like that, Hunter,” Timothy said. “But it was the only way to really put your skills to the test. And you, my clever friend, have passed! Now the real test can begin.”

  “Test?” Hunter asked, winded but intrigued.

  CHAPTER 3

  “He diiiiiiiid it, he diiiiiiiiiid it!”

  Sasha was running around, singing a little victory song he was improvising on the spot for a blushing but very content Hunter.

  The Lease cast party was in full swing. As the actors shared tearful farewell hugs, shamelessly flirtatious compliments about one another’s performances, and spirited tales of productions long since closed, the Backstagers huddled in a shadowy corner, a safe distance from the terrifyingly chipper actors, warm in the glow of their own private revelry.

  The St. Genesius cast parties were always held on the auditorium stage after the sets had been struck and the props and costumes put away into storage. Beckett had thrown together a quick party light cue of colorful pools of light here and there and a few strings of Christmas lights slung around to disguise the less-than-magical atmosphere of a bare stage. A single lightbulb on a metal pole was wheeled out to the lip of the stage so no one stumbled into the orchestra pit. Someone set up a little wireless speaker and streamed Showtune Radio, inviting the actors to sing along to the tragic, belty ballads and dance along to the up-tempo showstoppers. A few tables would soon hold the one magical item that could bring together actors and Backstagers alike—piping hot pizzas.

  “He was BRILLIANT.” Timothy grinned. “A sound-beam sword. Total genius.”

  “Total stage manager material!” Jamie added as he mussed Hunter’s towering pompadour. (It sprang back into perfect shape as if by magic.)

  “I can’t believe you fell for it,” Beckett said. “As if I’d let an actor go onstage without a fully charged mic.”

  “Especially Bailey Brentwood,” Aziz quipped, smirking mischievously. Beckett’s red cheeks played against his neon-green hair like an ugly holiday sweater. Jamie gave Aziz a private nudge in the ribs and Aziz promptly changed the subject.

  “Where’s Jory?”

  Jory was glued to the bathroom mirror, trying to make his hair look like a person’s hair and not a weird sculpture that a grad school artist would make out of toilet paper rolls. He had just moved to the area a few months ago and had yet to find a barber who could pull off his signature fade. It was little things like this that reminded him that he was still the New Kid, since every other aspect of his life at Genesius had fallen so magically into place. He knew Hunter would think he was cute no matter how bizarre his haircut looked, but still, it wasn’t every day you get to give your new boyfriend a triumphant hug after a show well done and a trial well passed, and Jory wanted to show up for that moment looking fresh.

  As expected, despite the questionable fade job, Hunter lit up when Jory returned to the group.

  “Hey, champ,” Jory said. “Sorry we tricked you SO expertly.”

  “Yeah, you really got me,” Hunter said, wrapping him up in a bear hug.

  “Lucky me,” Jory said, sentimental.

  Aziz and Beckett shot each other a squeamish look, but they chose to let the cheesy line fly. It was a cast party, after all.

  “Waaaaaait,” Sasha cooed, unaware of the Level: Expert flirting going on just feet away from him. “I thought Beckett was training me in lights because he was going to be the next stage manager. Did I blow it for him?!”

  “Trials are for upperclassmen only,” Timothy said. “Beckett will be assistant stage manager and will have his shot at full status next year.”

  “And when they are stage managers, can we still hang out, or do I have to call them sir and stuff?” Sasha asked.

  “You don’t call us sir, and we hang out all the time,” Jamie pointed out.

  “This was the qualifying round,” Timothy explained. “But the real trial is still ahead. Becoming the next stage manager after we graduate will take everything Hunter has in him. Stage managers have to know every department inside and out.”

  “And navigate the backstage expertly,” Jamie added.

  “And know what to do in case anything . . . unexpected goes down.”

  The Backstagers shuddered. When Lease was in rehearsal, Jory, Hunter, Beckett, Aziz, and Sasha had gotten trapped in the backstage while a creature called Polaroid tried to erase the walls that separate the backstage from the mundane world. The boys went missing for those two months while they were trapped, resulting in the firing of their faculty advisor, Mr. Rample, and the disbanding of the student Backstagers.

  However, one of Genesius’s star actors, Kevin McQueen, got roped into the trouble when he wandered backstage, and after the guys rescued him, reuniting him with his twin brother, Blake, and saving the run of Lease and possibly the world, the McQueens reinstated the student crew and all was well. All except that Mr. Rample couldn’t get his job back. He was the sage of
their stage, like a wizard headmaster but with theater magic instead of the regular kind, and he always knew what to do when things got out of hand. Without him, they had decided that it was best to secure the backstage and only go there when absolutely necessary.

  Timothy and Jamie were doing their best to lead the group as the stage managers, but even though they were seniors, they were still just teenagers, and there was a lot they didn’t know about the backstage. Without Rample, they were as scared as anyone else to go too far back there.

  “But for noooooow . . . HE DIIIIIIID IT, HE DIIIIIIIID IT!” Sasha was really feeling his new song, and as he spun and strutted around the circle of Backstagers, he nearly crashed right into Bailey Brentwood, the Coolest Girl in the World.

  “Did what?” she asked, catching Sasha by the shoulders just as he was about to topple over from his own excitement. Her long sleek hair was pulled up into a casual ponytail, and even though she was wearing the same Lease T-shirt as all the other actors, she had that special Bailey Brentwood glow about her that made it seem like she was always in a spotlight, onstage or off.

  “Saved your big number!” Beckett exclaimed, jumping up to meet her. “Yeah, there was a glitch with the mic battery. I checked it before the show, of COURSE, but something funky must have happened, and of course I would have fixed it MYSELF, but I had that big light sequence, so Hunter picked up the slack and got the new battery in time for your song. But I could have done it. Of course—”

  “Great work tonight, Bailey,” Timothy said, snatching the can of Diet Coke from the over-caffeinated Beckett. “We can’t wait to see you again after holiday break for the winter show.”

  “Thanks, Timothy, but I’m not getting my hopes up. I got the lead in Lease and Les Terribles.”

  “AND every other Genesius show for the last three years,” Beckett added, a bit too quickly. “You’re a shoo-in!”

  “Well, I’ll do my best,” she said, her big squinty smile illuminating the room. She and Beckett were just sort of suspended in their smiling for a moment. Music would have played if they were in a musical and not at a cast party. Jamie, sensing an opportunity, broke the silence.

  “Heeeey, the pizzas I ordered should be here any minute. Why don’t you two go wait for them out in the lobby?”

  “Sure,” Bailey said. “I’ve been wanting some catch-up time with Beckett. You guys seemed SO busy during rehearsals, I felt like you all just disappeared!”

  The Backstagers all looked like they just simultaneously farted in an elevator.

  “We should go!” Beckett exclaimed, letting them all off the hook. “We don’t want that pizza to get cold!”

  The Backstagers watched Beckett and Bailey stroll out of the doors of the auditorium like the two leads at the end of an ’80s movie.

  “I think that’s our cue to head out,” Timothy said. “We have SAT prep in the morning, and if we stay for pizza, we’ll never make it. You boys lock up when everyone is finished, all right?”

  “And somebody please talk to Beckett about his game,” Jamie said, looking off at Beckett, who had somehow tripped on his way up the aisle but was trying to play it cool in front of Bailey, even though he had obviously skinned his knee.

  “He’s a sophomore,” Timothy replied pityingly. “Give him time.”

  Jamie laughed and gave Timothy an affectionate kiss on the forehead as they started off. Jory and Hunter shared a beanbag chair, and Jory’s wiry frame fit perfectly where Hunter’s was bulky. Beckett and Bailey laughed and glowed all the way out to the lobby.

  Aziz scanned all of this and couldn’t help but feel a little lonesome. Cast parties were ideal places for flirting, and since the only girl who had ever paid any attention to him ever (a ridiculously lovely Penitent Backstager named Adrienne) was busy with her own strike and her own cast party at her own school, he didn’t get to enjoy that particular part of the party.

  He looked over to Sasha to see if he was feeling similarly envious, but Sasha was busy trying to lick his own elbow. He thought about middle school, when everyone thought that dating was gross and your friends were just your friends. He hoped that his group pairing off and drifting apart was not an inevitable part of growing up. They were Backstagers, after all, and that was a bond no boyfriend or girlfriend could break. Wasn’t it?

  Suddenly, there was a shout from the other side of the auditorium.

  “NO! No, absolutely not!” Kevin McQueen was in his customary hysterics.

  “We cannot invite such energies into this, our temple of the THEATER!” his brother, Blake, agreed.

  The McQueen brothers were, without question, the kings of the St. Genesius Drama Club. Their parents provided the funding for the productions (more than respectable by professional standards and absolutely lavish by high school standards) and thus were in charge of choosing, casting, and directing the shows Genesius presented.

  However, the elder McQueens were also incredibly busy with business dealings overseas and could not spare the many hours required to produce four full theatrical productions a year. This duty then fell to their twin sons, who just happened to also be perfect for the lead roles in each and every show since they were freshmen. They were actually pretty good onstage, and they definitely cared deeply for the quality of the work, so no one complained too much when they inevitably topped every cast list posted on the auditorium doors.

  Once you spent enough time around them, you learned that Kevin had the slightly redder hair, his curls pushed forward, and Blake was blonder with curls tied back, but really they were easiest to tell apart when in costume, playing characters more distinguishable than they could ever hope to be in real life. They were also rarely apart, so usually it was just fine to address them as one singular entity.

  Tonight, for instance, they were identically upset over a box that Kevin was holding at arm’s length as if he were carrying a trapped mouse by the tail out to the street.

  “It’s just a game, guys,” one of the actors complained.

  “Yeah, it’ll be fun!” chimed another.

  “The ghosts of the THEATER are no game,” Blake (or was it Kevin? The lights were dim) replied. The actors crowded around the mysterious box, opening it to reveal an even more mysterious game board.

  “Spirit Board. Huh. Where did this even come from?”

  “It was under the table there—someone must have brought it.”

  “Who knows how to use it?”

  “I do! You lay the board down, and we all put our hands on this plastic thing.”

  “It’s called a planchette . . .”

  “Well, aren’t we soooo international?”

  “Shut up!”

  “Guys, focus! We put our hands on the planchette, and the ghost guides it to different letters, spelling out a message.”

  The actors laid out a piece of cardboard with all of the letters of the alphabet, as well as “hello,” “goodbye,” “yes,” and “no,” printed on it in a ghostly, old time-y font. They formed a circle around the board, placing their hands on the planchette, awaiting any signs of paranormal correspondence.

  “It’s not a ghost, it’s just us moving it.”

  “It’s a GHOST. You’ll see.”

  “What should we ask it?”

  “Ummmmm, if there is a ghost in this theater, did you like the show tonight?”

  The actors waited, a rare moment of silence from them.

  “Whoa!”

  “It’s moving!”

  “You’re moving it.”

  “No, I am NOT!”

  “Well, SOMEONE is moving it.”

  “It’s the GHOST, I’m telling you.”

  “Everybody shut up—we’re getting a message!”

  “It’s drifting to YES!”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “YES! He liked it!”

  “Why are we assuming it’s a he?”

  “It’s a boys’ school. Why would a lady ghost haunt a boys’ school?”

  “What should we ask n
ext?”

  The Backstagers shared an eye roll from their corner. The actors were so adorably excitable, but frankly, if you had the attention of a ghost, wouldn’t you have more important things to ask it than whether or not it approved of your musical? That’s an actor for you.

  “What about, are you a good ghost or an evil ghost?”

  “Ooooo, that’s good.”

  “No, that’s creepy!”

  “YOU said it was just a game—are you scared now?”

  “Wait, it’s moving again!”

  “This was a bad idea.”

  “Shush!”

  “E . . .”

  “No! Ah!”

  “V . . .”

  The McQueens stormed off, tired of the silly game but also thoroughly freaked out.

  “I . . .”

  “I swear I’m not moving it, are you?”

  “L!”

  Suddenly, the single lightbulb at the foot of the stage popped dark and everyone, including the Backstagers, screamed at the timing, then fell into roars of laughter.

  “It’s all right, everyone,” Hunter said, wrenching himself from the cuddly beanbag. “Just a blown lightbulb. We’ll take care of it.”

  He turned to the Backstagers.

  “There are more bulbs in the Club Room. It’s Beckett’s department, but we gotta give him his moment with Bailey. Not it!”

  “Not it,” said Aziz, still looking like he was mulling something over.

  “IT!” Sasha exclaimed. The Backstagers looked to him quizzically. “I’m trained in lights, remember? That makes me the second in command!”

  “Very true, Sash,” Hunter said. “You up to the mission?”

  “Sir, yes, SIR!” Sasha shouted, darting clumsily off into the wings.

  Sasha reached the Club Room and was hit with the same pang of nostalgia that Hunter felt for the place. He wasn’t allowed to have video game consoles at home, but the Club Room had a Gamestation 5, and he and Aziz had poured many frenzied hours into Call of Honor together. Gosh, how he missed the battlefield.