Beginners to the stage! ... And cue the Lights.
The stage manager's voice rang out through the auditorium, calling the show rehearsal.
Oy, lampy! Get up there and adjust those troupers for me, will ya? The glare on stage is still blinding the ballerinas.
I jumped at the Gaffer's voice resounding inside my headset and scampered up the stage ladder. Rolling my eyes, I resisted the temptation to flick the switch on my belt pack to mute.
The Gaffer, a.k.a. Mr. Green from my English class, was a decent guy - a forty-something-year-old teacher who loved his job. His passion, however, lay in theatre production, more specifically lighting design. I had immense respect for him, so I answered whatever pretentious industry names he threw at me while on set. He answered only to the stage manager, Mrs. Watson, the Head of Drama. For Mr. Green, the annual dramatic performance was a highlight in the school calendar. It meant the start of a new season of artistic collaboration, and it was a chance to blood new lighting techs from his after-school Theatre Club.
This year the school production saw a break with tradition. Instead of a musical, the Drama Department was staging an abridged deconstructed version of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. It promised to be special, such was the blossoming of dance talent within its ranks.
I could have chosen any extracurricular clubs. Theatre production would not normally have been a contender. Unlike Mr. Green, the draw of the theatre was not my raison d'etre. Yet, here I was, slightly acrophobic, on a bridge suspended twenty feet above the stage, edging my way tentatively toward the offending lights, while the true object of my affection, performed a pirouette beneath me...
Cassie made the perfect Odette; feminine, graceful, and elegant. As the Swan Queen, her character was alluring and beautiful; her story, sad and tragic - no wonder Prince Siegfried was spellbound. Her appearance on centre stage was breathtaking. Her smile - beguiling - could disarm even the most hardened of boys. To the world, she exuded joy... but all I saw was an upturned band aid masquerading as a smile. I wondered if she ever had the inclination to rip it off. Perhaps, I considered, she was waiting, like me... patiently... for someone to come along and help her to peel it back more gently.
What captivated me most were her eyes. They were always searching. They swept the audience constantly. They hid behind a veil of sadness that my 8th-grade brain had not yet learned to navigate, but my heart wanted to understand. The truth is... I did not exist for her. Even if she was vaguely aware of my presence up on the gantries, she never let on. She was part of the in crowd at school... a clique I tended to avoid. But something still drew me in... She was after all...
Outta your league, mate!
Tim gave me a friendly dig in the side with his elbow as he brushed past, yanking me out of my reverie.
Jer... your little infatuation is gonna get you kicked off lighting if you don't watch out! The gaffer asked you to adjust the beams ten minutes ago and you're still standing here... watching... her.
Tim adjusted the lights and chuckled, shaking his head as he made his way back down to the stage. He was right though - I needed to watch my step if I wanted to stick around.
Which I did.
Cassie's presence on stage was commanding. With perfect poise and balance she would explode into action. Strength and grace would see her float through the air as she performed, launching from one movement into the next. When she had auditioned for Odette, nobody else had come close.
When she was not performing, she held back, seemingly aloof. Expressionless, she guarded her emotions. She did not speak much. It was almost impossible to break through the invisible walls of the fortress that she had built up around her. The only flickers of joy came when she danced.
Losing her father could not have been easy. I could relate. I had lost my mother in that same accident two years before, so I understood her pain. But Cassie's father would return one day after time served. On the other hand, I had watched my mother's casket being lowered to the ground. There was a certain finality in that.
Cassie's father had been rushing to make Opening Night after a brief stint abroad. Coming straight from the airport, a momentary lapse of concentration had occurred. He had turned left at the school crossing when he should have turned right. He drove straight into oncoming traffic. His 4x4 made short work of my mother's little two-seater. He was lucky to have survived himself.
Still, vehicular manslaughter carries a five-year sentence in our State, and he was serving two to three, with the balance suspended. I had no quarrel with him and I felt no anger toward Cassie for still having her father. It was simply a tragic accident. I had hoped that we could find solace in our shared grief but she had rebuffed all efforts to seek conciliation. She chose instead to hide within a citadel of pain - masking her vulnerability behind the last bastion of self-preservation.
For as long as I could recall, Gerald Roberts always sat in seat F17 front and centre... Never missed a performance... but he had now missed two years in a row. He was exceptionally proud of his daughter. In his absence, before and after every rehearsal and performance, Cassie would sit in seat F17 for a short while.
Watching her sitting there that afternoon, I knew I had to find a way to help us both to heal.
Mr. Green...erm gaffer... if Tim covers for me, would you mind if I missed the rehearsal this afternoon? There's something I need to do. It's kinda personal.
Mr. Green was busy - preoccupied - he simply waved me away.
If you must! But be back for tomorrow's rehearsal, I need you on top of things by Opening night!
I did not stick around or give him a chance to change his mind. But I did not leave either. Instead, I made my way down to the stalls; to seat F17 which Cassie had since vacated to take her place on stage. I sat down, lined up my phone's lens, and hit record. Ninety minutes later, a bunch of footage secured, I was gathering up my belongings when Cassie confronted me.
What are you doing here?
Oh, hi Cassie, I was just watching the rehearsal.
Aren't you supposed to be up there? On Lights?
then she motioned towards the seat...
Is this some cruel joke, Jeremy?
I looked at her wide-eyed.
Um, no of course not...
I paused, swallowing hard.
I was just... I can explain, Cassandra...
She would not let me. The veil was firmly in place. She simply scowled. It was clear she wanted to say a lot more, but she held back. I watched uneasily as her bottom lip quivered. Her toughened exterior, the fortress she had so painstakingly built, was threatening to crumble. I could see it in the narrowing of her glistening eyes.
I tried again to explain myself and caught the slight shake in her hand as she raised it to her face, pretending to shift some hair from her eyes. Then she brushed past me, knocking my phone from my hands and into the aisle. I watched her walk away, bent over, hugging her book bag. I was convinced that she hated me.
I left the theatre and headed out to my rendezvous with Mr. Roberts. The Prisons Board had confirmed visiting hours earlier when I called. I asked them to pass on a message that I needed to see him.
That afternoon, I made peace with the man responsible for my mother's death, and Gerald Roberts got to watch his daughter shine on the small screen... of my mobile phone.
The next day, with rehearsals in full swing, I took a moment to drop by row F on my way to lighting. I hoped that Cassie would stick to her daily routine and continue to visit seat 17.
We were shutting down the lights after another successful rehearsal when a familiar voice called out from below. I gazed down from the bridge. I could just see Cassie's shape close to the stage, peering up toward the gantry. She must have heard me shuffling about. I shifted the soft beam of the small spotlight onto her form.
She blinked, shielding her eyes.
Hello! Is anyone up there?
er, yes... I'm still here. I'm just packing up.
Is that you, Jeremy?
Her voice softened.
I hesitated.
Can we... perhaps talk?
She was tentative, her voice was inquiring.
Um...sure. Of course! Give me a moment and I'll be right down.
I fumbled with the power, shifting the beam's focus away from her, and walked down to the stage. As I made my way toward her, I noticed the open letter in her hands.
Before I had left the prison the day before, her father had hurriedly scribbled a short note and popped it into an envelope. He had sealed it before handing it to me and asked me to pass it on to Cassie. I had promised I would get it to her.
Her eyes were fixed on me as I approached. I could sense her turrets starting to crumble, the once-drawn arrows now tucked away. She rocked slowly back and forth, hugging her knees, the tear-stained letter, clenched in the palm of her hands.
Thank you for this, Jeremy. He saw me. My dad watched me dance, from seat F17. All because of what you did.
The band aid was gone. She was glowing.
You made that happen. I'm so grateful.
I returned her smile.
She patted the seat next to her.
Will you sit with me for a while?
The drawbridge was released. I slid in next to her and held out my hand, which she took slowly in her own.
I had finally made it onto her dance card. I felt a weight lift as I was handed the keys to the castle, and I was determined not to screw it up!
Resources:
This is my entry for the Ink Well Monthly Fiction Prompt: Fortress
Header image created in Midjourney AI by @dreemsteem using word prompts - used with permission.
Glossary of Technical Theatre Terms – Lighting (beginners)
Theatre Lighting; Design and Understanding
The title is taken from the song The Drifters - Save the last dance
Dreemport banner used with permission of @dreemsteem and @dreemport and designed by @jimramones
