The Show Must Go On! Read online

  (RACHEL RUSHES TO CARRIE’S BEDROOM. CARRIE IS PACING, OBVIOUSLY UPSET.)

  RACHEL: All right, Carrie. Spill it! What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait?

  CARRIE: Remember when I told you that I thought someone was following me?

  RACHEL: Uh, yeah. It was just yesterday.

  CARRIE: Right. Well, it happened again. Only now, it’s happening everywhere.

  RACHEL: What do you mean, EVERYWHERE?

  CARRIE: Every time I walk down the hallways, I can feel someone following me. On every walk home from school, I’m certain I can hear footsteps behind me but no one is there. Even when I go from one room in my house to another, I feel it.

  RACHEL: Hold on. Hold on. You “feel” someone following you. I’m not sure I know what that means. Have you actually seen anyone?

  CARRIE: I hear footsteps all the time, and when I turn around, no one is there. But I know it, Rachel. I just know it! And what’s worse—

  RACHEL: There’s a worse part?

  CARRIE: I’m positive that whoever is following me means to do me harm!

  Walking toward the front of the stage, still fully in character, Bree heard a snapping sound from above. She really didn’t want to break out of her character, but something told her to look up, even though it wasn’t in the script.

  Glancing toward the track of stage lights above her, Bree saw that one of the lights had broken off and was plunging right toward her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Bree flung herself out of the way. She landed hard on her shoulder, just as the light crashed to the stage floor.

  “Bree, are you all right?” Melissa screamed, dashing to her friend’s side.

  Ms. Hollows and the entire cast rushed onto the stage.

  “Gabrielle, are you all right?” Ms. Hollows asked calmly.

  Adrenaline shot through Bree’s body. She felt numb. The shock of what had just happened, and what had almost happened made her feel as if time was standing still. She could see the stage light snap, then fall through the air in superslow motion. The moment, stretched out over several seconds, replayed over and over in her mind. She saw the light hit the stage and explode into a million shards of glass. The slow-motion scene stopped, and time accelerated back to normal.

  “I’m okay,” Bree said, pushing herself up into a sitting position. Her mind began to clear as the shock wore off. Her shoulder was a bit sore, but as she got to her feet she realized that she had not been seriously injured. She hadn’t even been hit by any glass.

  “How could that have happened?” Melissa asked Ms. Hollows in an almost accusatory tone. She peered up into the darkness of the catwalks and metal pipes that ran above the stage, but saw nothing and no one. By now the set decorators were running around, checking all the props. Everyone else was chattering about what had just happened and where they were when the light fell. Ms. Hollows stood in the middle of all this chaos, eerily calm.

  “What was that noise? I heard a—” Tiffany said as she walked out onto the stage from the wings and spotted the smashed-up light and the crowd surrounding Bree. “What happened?”

  Bree stared at Tiffany and wondered where she had just been. Why hadn’t she rushed onstage with everyone else? What had she been doing? Then Bree caught herself.

  What am I thinking? Even she wouldn’t try to hurt me . . . would she?

  “I’m fine,” Bree replied. “It was just an accident. Let’s try that scene again. This time without the falling light.”

  Bree’s little joke broke the tension onstage. “Fantastic, Gabrielle,” Ms. Hollows said. “The show must go on!”

  A few minutes later the janitor had cleaned up the broken light and the rehearsal resumed. This time the scene between Carrie and Rachel went off without a hitch.

  When rehearsal ended, Bree and Melissa walked from the auditorium, heading toward the front door of the school.

  “So, Lis, I wasn’t going to tell you about this, but after what happened today . . .” Bree’s words trailed off.

  “Go on,” Melissa encouraged her friend.

  “Last night I had a terrifying dream,” Bree began. “I was sitting in the audience of a theater when I realized that it was actually our auditorium. Then a play began, and it turned out to be The Last Sleepover.”

  “So you were dreaming about us doing the show,” Melissa said, sounding a bit relieved to learn that her friend’s big news was only about a dream.

  “But that’s just it, Lis,” Bree continued. “It wasn’t us doing the show. In the dream everybody was wearing out-of-date clothes, like from the eighties or something. Then the girl playing Carrie came out onto the stage to start the show, and she was wearing those same kind of clothes. I think I was watching the original performance—the one that Tiffany told us about.”

  “Just because of the clothes?” Melissa asked. “I mean, dreams can be pretty weird. Your brain takes stuff from a bunch of different places and mushes it all up together.”

  “Not just the clothes, Lis,” Bree said, taking a deep breath. “I saw the accident Tiffany described. I was sitting in the audience, watching the light fall onto the girl who was playing Carrie. It was just like Tiffany had described it. And it was exactly like what almost happened to me.”

  “So what are you saying, Bree?” Melissa asked. “That there’s some evil spirit connected to the play? Or that someone is out to get you? I think Tiffany made up that story, and it’s getting to you. I mean, if a girl died right here on this stage, then everyone would know about it, right?”

  Bree nodded.

  “And the light falling today?” Melissa added. “Well, that was just a coincidence. Accidents happen. Even coincidental ones.”

  Bree kept nodding. It was easier this way. Melissa made some good points, but that didn’t explain away her uneasiness.

  “Listen, I gotta go,” Melissa continued. “My mom is picking me up. Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want a ride home?”

  “Nah, I’m going to stick around here for a bit,” Bree said. She stood in the hallway and watched Melissa hurry from the school. Maybe Melissa was right. The whole thing—Tiffany’s story, her dream, the accident at rehearsal—might be just a combination made-up story and wild coincidence, but somehow she didn’t believe that. She was still very shaken up.

  Bree knew that because this was a Thursday, Mr. Harris, the school librarian, stayed late to help students with their research projects. She turned toward the school library and marched down the hall, striding purposefully. She would get to the bottom of all this. And she would do it now, before another rehearsal took place.

  Bree opened the library’s large oak door and walked inside. Every time she came here she realized just how lucky she was. She had seen a few other school libraries while visiting friends, but the library at Thomas Jefferson Middle School was clearly a cut above.

  She had almost forgotten how busy the place got on Thursdays after school. It had been a while since she’d had to come here for a research project.

  Almost at the moment she entered the room, a short man with a thick shock of snow-white hair appeared from between two tall bookshelves and shuffled toward Bree.

  “Bree Hart. How are you?” the man said.

  “Hi, Mr. Harris,” Bree said. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Seeing Mr. Harris always made Bree smile. He had been at the school for more than twenty years. He loved his job, and though he’d long been eligible for retirement, he saw no reason to stop. This library, its books, computers, and vast archives, was the focus of his life. And he loved nothing more than helping students.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” Mr. Harris said. “Now what can I help you with today?”

  “I need to look into a bit of Thomas Jefferson Middle School history,” she replied.

  “Ah, one of my favorite topics, since I’ve been here for most of it!” Mr. Harris joked. “What are you looking for in particular?”

  “Well, Mr. Harris, I’m in the school play,” Br
ee began.

  “Yes, I know,” the librarian said. “Playing the lead, if I’m not mistaken. I’m very much looking forward to seeing it.”

  “Yes,” Bree continued, feeling a bit self-conscious. Until this moment she had been so focused on her work in the play that the thought of people she knew coming to see her perform hadn’t crossed her mind in a while. “I’m actually here to research the history of the play itself. I believe it was performed at the school once before and only for one night.”

  “I see,” Mr. Harris said, his curiosity clearly piqued. “That was a little before my time, and now that you mention it, I do recall hearing about some incident related to a play. Do you know why the play was performed only once?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m here to find out,” Bree explained. “I heard a story about what happened back then, but I wanted to find out whether or not it was really true.”

  “To quote a cliché, ‘You’ve come to the right place,’” Mr. Harris said.

  Bree could almost see an actual twinkle in his eye. He loved his work, and a new project, digging around, doing what he liked to call “informational archeology,” always made his face light up.

  “I have every issue ever published of the Jeffersonian, dating from the beginning of the school’s opening,” Mr. Harris explained. “Follow me, Bree.”

  Bree trailed a few steps behind him as he wended his way through the stacks. She always marveled at how he seemed to know exactly where every single thing in this vast library could be found. And she had to walk at a fairly brisk pace to keep up with Mr. Harris, who was well into his sixties. Once he was on the trail of information needed to solve a problem or answer a question, he wasted no time.

  “Here we are,” he said, practically hopping onto a small stepladder at the base of a tall bookcase. “When did you say the play was performed?”

  “I don’t have an exact year, Mr. Harris, but I think it was about thirty years ago, so the early 1980s? The play is called The Last Sleepover.”

  Mr. Harris ran his finger along the wide spines of row after row of plastic magazine holders. Each container held a year’s worth of the monthly school newspaper. “Let’s begin with 1979,” he said, handing a container down to Bree. She placed it onto the desk beside the shelf. “Here’s 1980, 1981, and 1982.”

  He stepped down from the ladder. Much to Bree’s surprise, he took a seat beside her at the desk.

  “I can do this myself if you have other students to help,” she said, flattered by the special attention but a bit confused.

  “Oh, anyone who needs help can find me,” Mr. Harris replied, his eyes sparkling. “I’m a bit of a theater buff myself. And you know how much I love school history. Why don’t you start with 1979, and I’ll take 1980.” Bree took the container labeled THE JEFFERSONIAN—1979 and pulled out the yellowed issues. She was immediately struck by the fashion and hairstyles of the students in the photos. Everyone looked as if they had stepped out of her dream.

  Bree went issue by issue, carefully flipping through the delicate pages, scanning the paper for any mention of The Last Sleepover.

  “It’s not 1979,” she said, when she had gone through the December issue.

  “Nor is it 1980,” Mr. Harris added. He handed 1981 to Bree and took 1982 for himself.

  Bree repeated the searching process with the issues from 1981. When she reached March, her eyes opened wide. “Mr. Harris, here it is!” she cried, then looked around to see if she had disturbed anyone in the library.

  Mr. Harris pulled his chair up close to Bree’s. She pointed to the page, then read the headline aloud: “‘This Year’s School Play Announced.’” She continued reading: “‘The drama department has decided that this year’s show will be a brand-new play called The Last Sleepover. The play was written by and will be directed by Thomas Jefferson drama teacher Mildred P. Wormhouse.’”

  Bree paused. “Mildred!” she muttered to herself. “Millie is short for Mildred!” Mildred P. Wormhouse, the playwright, must have named the ghost after herself. Was she a girl who never got invited to a sleepover?

  “Excuse me?” Mr. Harris said.

  “Huh, oh, I’m sorry, never mind, that name just made me think of something,” Bree replied. She continued reading: “‘The first meeting of all students interested in being involved with the play will be held on March eighth in the auditorium.’”

  Bree set March aside and pulled out the April issue. She unfolded the paper and there, running across the front page, was a headline twice as big as any she had seen so far: LEAD ACTRESS DIES OPENING NIGHT!

  CHAPTER 8

  “So it’s true!” Bree cried. “The story Tiffany told me is true!”

  “Tiffany O’Brian?” Mr. Harris asked.

  “Yes,” Bree replied, trying to regain her composure. “She’s in the play with me. She told me that the girl playing the lead back then died in an accident on opening night.”

  “Hmm,” Mr. Harris said, thinking aloud. “I remember some hushed whispers about a girl who had died at the school, but I never got the full story. None of the older teachers ever wanted to talk about it, and they’re all retired now. This happened ten years before I arrived at Thomas Jefferson. What does the article say?”

  Bree started reading: “‘Tragedy struck on opening night of the school play when a stage light fell and killed eighth grader Gabrielle Ashford, who was playing the lead role in the play The Last Sleepover.’”

  Bree stopped reading. Gabrielle! The girl who died was named Gabrielle.

  “Bree?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Harris, I got lost in thought for a moment.”

  Bree continued reading: “‘Playwright, director, and Thomas Jefferson drama teacher Mildred P. Wormhouse was quoted as saying, “The entire cast and crew are devastated. Working on this play, we became a family, and I could not have imagined anyone bringing the character I wrote to life any better than Gabrielle did. Our hearts go out to her friends and family.”’”

  Bree fell back into her seat.

  “Are you all right?” Mr. Harris asked.

  “I’m—I’m okay, Mr. Harris, thanks,” Bree assured him. “This is all just so freaky. The play hasn’t been performed since then. Until now. And I’m playing the lead, just like Gabrielle Ashford. And my name is Gabrielle.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone at this school call you by your real first name,” Mr. Harris said.

  “No, and there’s only one person who does. Thank you so much, Mr. Harris. I really appreciate your help. I have to head home now.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Bree. And come back anytime. It’s always nice to see you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Bree hurried from the library, her mind racing.

  Mildred is Millie the ghost. Gabrielle is me. I mean, Gabrielle played the lead and died. Tiffany’s story was true. She also said the play was cursed and that I would die. Is that true too?

  “I’ve got to talk to Ms. Hollows,” Bree murmured to herself, heading to the auditorium.

  She shoved open the big auditorium door and stepped inside. She saw no one.

  “Ms. Hollows!” she called out. “I need to talk with you.” Her voice echoed around the empty, cavernous room. “Ms. Hollows!” she yelled again, heading down the center aisle toward the stage. Again she got no answer.

  Bree bounded up the stairs leading onto the stage and scooted backstage. It too was empty. She was completely alone in the auditorium. Or was she?

  She got the strong feeling that someone was watching her. “Hello?” she called. “Is anybody here?”

  Stop making yourself nuts, Bree, she thought as she marched back up the aisle toward the door. Go home. Get some rest. You are imagining—

  She spun around on her heels, certain that she would see someone behind her. The feeling of being watched was overwhelming. But she was alone.

  Leaving the auditorium, she strode quickly along the long hallway. She headed for the front door of the school
, her footsteps echoing down the empty corridor. As Bree listened to the sound of her own footsteps, she could swear that she heard a second set of footsteps mingling with her own. She stopped.

  Silence.

  Resuming her walking, she heard the second set of steps again. This time she stopped and spun around. She saw no one.

  Reaching the front door of the school, Bree glanced back over her shoulder one more time as she grabbed the door handle. This time she caught a glimpse of a shadow disappearing around a corner. She threw open the door, burst from the school, and ran home as fast as she could.

  As she ran, above the sound of her own hard breathing, Bree heard footsteps following her the whole way home.

  CHAPTER 9

  CARRIE: Someone is following me.

  RACHEL: What do you mean?

  CARRIE: I heard footsteps behind me as I was walking home.

  RACHEL: Did you see anyone at all?

  CARRIE: No, that’s what I’m saying. I didn’t see anyone. But I did have the strong feeling that someone was following me, AND I clearly heard footsteps behind me. When I took a step, whoever was following me took a step. When I stopped, the second set of footsteps stopped.

  RACHEL: Sometimes having a good imagination can be a problem, you know.

  CARRIE: It’s not my imagination. Something strange is happening.

  “Cut! Very good scene, everyone,” Ms. Hollows shouted. “Let’s take a ten-minute break.”

  Bree and Melissa were up onstage on Monday after school, rehearsing the play. Bree was struggling with her lines today—she hadn’t slept again last night and was finding the lack of sleep starting to really affect her. She also found it a bit weird that they were rehearsing the scene in which Carrie thinks someone is following her home from school, so shortly after Bree had experienced the same thing. The play seemed determined to mirror her life—or was it the other way around?