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alydiarackham · 5 years ago

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(Cover by me)

The Last Scene: A Novel by Alydia Rackham

Prologue

I’ve seen it ever since I was ten years old. While I’m lying in my bed, right between sleeping and waking—in the middle of that drowsy half-dream state, you know? Where your thoughts are more lucid than dreams and you can remember them, but the images are much brighter and clearer and more emotional than regular thoughts.

So when I’m lying there, all snuggled in and surrounded by my pillows, relaxed and letting my mind wander—it hits me.

A crystal-clear image of a little red velvet box, with a diamond ring in it. The diamond is all surrounded by gold leaves so it looks like a rose, with the diamond in the center. Someone, a man, is holding that ring box up to me. There’s nothing but blackness off to my left—and blinding white light to my right. The light is sparkling and twinkling all through the diamond, and I can see all different colors inside it. It just looks like a chip of magic.

Then, just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone. It doesn’t fade off and meld into other thoughts. It’s just gone.

That’s how I know it’s one of my Pictures.

That’s what I call them. To myself. Because I’ve never told anyone about them. Ever. For a few reasons. One, because I never wanted to worry my parents—because they would worry. Two, because…Well, I never actually trusted anyone else to handle them correctly. I will see something—vivid, obscuring my vision, absolutely clear—and then, usually later that day, it happens.

Most of the time, it’s something little. I’ll see a Picture of the coffee pot overflowing, and when I come out to breakfast, it’ll happen. Or I’ll see my dad tripping over a pair of tennis shoes, and an hour later, it’ll happen. I’ll see my hand turning the key in the ignition of my car, a sunset, a cat walking across the street, a pair of people walking and laughing, me stubbing my toe on the end of my bed, the dog chasing a rabbit, things like that. Sometimes, I go days and days without seeing a Picture. Sometimes, I see two or three in one day.

Now, with the one about my dad tripping over the shoes, or me stubbing my toe, you would think that I’d be able to prevent that kind of thing, right? Once I caught on to the fact that I was somehow seeing into the future? Sure, I thought so, too. When I was eleven, I saw a Picture of my mom slipping on a wet patch of cement outside and falling down. So, that morning, I made sure to take all the hoses and stretch them out across the yard so that no water could leak out of them onto the patio.

Lo and behold, when I wasn’t looking, Mom just pulled one hose back to where it was and started watering the tree. I let the dog outside, Mom turned to see and stepped sideways into a puddle—

And fell down. Just like I’d seen her do in my Picture.

After that, I’d try to move shoes so they wouldn’t be tripped over—only to watch them be replaced by other shoes and still be tripped over. I’d try to fix coffee makers or scare rabbits away, yet they’d still overflow or get chased. I have never yet been able to prevent one of my Pictures.

But what I have been able to do is become aware that something is about to happen. I see, for example, that my dad is going to trip over the shoes. So I don’t stray too far that day, I keep an eye out…

And when he inevitably trips, I jump up to help catch him.

It’s opened my eyes, made me far more awake to the world than most people are, I think. And yes, sometimes that’s scary. Very scary.

Especially after my dog Jenny died.

I saw a Picture of my family and I all standing around in our backyard, shoveling dirt back into a large hole. We were quiet, and my parents and sisters were crying.

That disturbed me. I began waiting and watching that day for something to happen…

But nothing did. I relaxed a little. Another day went by. Everything was fine. I relaxed more. Two weeks went by. I took a day to drive into the city and do some job searching.

And when I got home, Mom told me that she’d taken Jenny into the vet because she was throwing up—and the vet said she had kidney failure.

The next day, we put Jenny to sleep. And there we were, in the back yard, burying her. My parents and sisters crying.

That’s the first time that the idea of these Pictures really and truly scared me.

All right, so, I take it back: I have talked to someone about this. I’ve talked to God about it. Quite a bit. Usually when I am scared or really worried about something I’ve seen. And because of that process, a sort of back and forth between Him and me, I’ve come to believe that this is some sort of secret gift I’ve been given. Just little fragments of insight, because I’m supposed to know them. I’m supposed to know them so that I don’t necessarily stop the bad ones from happening—but so that I’m there when they do.

Except this one with the ring.

Crystal clear, yet never in front of me in reality.

I’m twenty-six years old now. I have a wonderful boyfriend named Jim Tucker, who I’ve known since high school. I’ve had a couple other boyfriends, too. None of them have even talked about that kind of ring. I mean, I love the style of it, but it isn’t something any of them would pick out. And the setting of that Picture seems funny. It’s indoors, I know that. If Jim ever proposes to me, I’m almost positive he’ll do it outside, on some high hill in the summer countryside, with the sunset as a background.

So maybe that ring means something else.

It’s been strange, growing up and living with this sort of thing—because I do remember what it was like before. I know normal people don’t experience this. But I’ve done my best to be watchful and yet not too paranoid all through school. I went to college, came home during the summers and worked at the library in our little town in upstate New York…

And I’ve tried to look out for everyone all around me. All the time. Secretly watching over them, listening and calculating what the best response will be to whatever happens. Giving words of caution when I know they’ll be listened to and accepted. Words that won’t stop the fall, but might help someone catch themselves, or at least recover a little better. Because the pain I feel from a broken toe or a broken heart—my own, or someone else’s—is bad enough when experienced once.

But I have to live it twice.

Chapter One

Friday, April 5th, 1985

“Hi, Anne!”

“Hi, Dad,” I croakily answered the bright voice on the other end of the phone, frowning as I rubbed my eyes. “What time is it?”

“It’s six-thirty, sorry,” he answered. “I was just excited about this and wanted to call you right away.”

“What’s going on?” I asked, turning over in my bed and stretching the phone cord, eyeing the minimal light leaking through my drapes.

“How did that interview go yesterday?” Dad said instead.

“Um…Fine,” I sighed, adjusting my pillow and trying to make myself think straight. “Well…sort of not fine. I mean, I interviewed okay, they just told me they needed someone with more experience.”

“More experience?” my dad protested. “Isn’t a degree in speech therapy enough experience? I mean, what did I pay for, anyway?”

“I know, right?” I sighed again. “I’m not sure how you’re supposed to get any experience if nobody will hire you in the first place…” I wound the cord around my fingers, shooting a dark look at the window again. The roar of the Manhattan traffic reached me even up here—a constant dull growl, occasionally punctuated by angry car horns. “I’m probably going to have to move out as soon as this month’s lease is up. I’ll come home and see if I can get my job back at the library.”

“Well, let’s hold off on that for a second,” my dad said. I sat up a little and frowned.

“What? What do you mean?”

“You remember Aaron Highgate, my friend from college?”

“Yeah…?” I said, fully awake now. “Doesn’t he live here?”

“Yeah, he does, and he’s a playwright,” Dad said. “A pretty good one. He’s written at least ten plays that have debuted on and off Broadway, and all of them got good reviews. They’ve been relatively small, but yeah, people liked them.”

“Okay…?” I waited.

“Well, he’s premiering another little play at the Quadrant Theatre, and I think you should audition.”

I stared at the wall. My mouth fell open. I didn’t say anything.

“Honey?” Dad called. “You still there?”

“Um, yeah,” I managed. “Audition? For a Broadway play?”

“It’s not Broadway,” Dad corrected. “What I mean is, it’s small. You did plays and musicals in high school and college!”

“Those weren’t…I mean, yeah, but—this is New York!” I cried.

“You’d be great for the part, though!” Dad answered. “Aaron gave me a copy of the script to read for fun, and the female lead practically just screamed ‘Annie!’ at me from the page.”

“Oh, Dad, you’re biased!” I moaned.

“No, I’m not,” he insisted. “You won, what, three awards for playing different parts in school?”

“Yes,” I muttered.

“And besides,” he went on. “When I talked to Aaron about it, telling him how brilliant the story was, he was just beside himself with frustration. Said that they’ve cast his nephew in the male lead, but they’ve been having a dickens of a time casting a female lead because nobody who tried out got along with his nephew, or seemed to fit, or whatever.”

“What’s wrong with his nephew?” My eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know, I think he’s just particular about getting it right,” Dad said. “I think he helped with a lot of the ideas for the script, or even wrote large parts of it, and he has a particular type in mind.”

“And you think that type is me?” I raised my eyebrows.

“It actually sounds like it,” Dad told me. “From what Aaron described, anyway.” He paused. “What do you think? Can I send you my copy of the script?”

I sighed and put my hand over my face—fighting back a strange, jumpy sensation in my stomach.

“Sure, okay,” I conceded. “Can’t hurt anything, right?”

“That’s my girl.” I could hear my dad’s grin. “I’ll overnight it so you’ll have it tomorrow morning. And after you read it, you can call me and tell me what you think, and if you like it, I’ll tell you when and where the auditions are.”

“Okay,” I tried to smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

After we hung up, I lay there in bed for a while, turning that thought over in my mind. The air in my apartment was chilly—even though it was April, the weather still hadn’t really warmed up much after one of the coldest winters in the history of the universe. I pulled the blankets up over myself, almost covering my face, hoping I could get a little more sleep…

Flash.

Right in front of my eyes. A mostly-empty stage, painted black, with red curtains open. I was sitting on the stage, facing stage left. And through the back rooms, a dancing, crowing laugh resounded up and down.

I blinked.

It vanished.

I sat up straight, flinging off my covers, my heart pounding.

A Picture.

Of a stage. With red curtains.

And a laugh that still echoed through my mind.

The next morning, I climbed out of bed, stretched, and pushed open the curtains to look down on the streets. Since it was Saturday, the traffic wasn’t as thick as during the week, and the noise had calmed. Though, in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, it was never as hectic as other places on the island.

Dad had initially come with me to pick out an apartment to start, and insisted on paying for it until I got a steady job that was good enough that I could pay for it myself. Neither of my parents wanted me living anywhere dangerous or seedy—and I hadn’t argued. I didn’t want to live anywhere dangerous or seedy, either.

After three days of searching, we’d come across an apartment building on 88th street, made of red brick, its front covered in tall, narrow windows and fire escapes. We’d investigated, and found an available apartment on the fourth floor. Dad said the rent was reasonable—for New York.

The apartment was little, compared to my childhood home out in the country, of course. There was a short hallway connecting the bedroom and the sitting room, and in that hall they’d crammed the kitchen, which is just a stove and microwave with a tiny bit of counter space and some cupboards. My bedroom was a nice size, but I couldn’t bring my dark-wood dresser—I had to bring the white one from when I was little, because the big one wouldn’t fit. The bathroom was right next to the kitchen. I had a table in the sitting room, and a couch and a chair, and a TV set.

I like light, floral print things, though not as garish as the style is these days. I’m partial to lace, so that’s my curtains. Roses on my comforter and pillows. Blue couch, rose pillows. I had a rug on my floor in the bedroom and the living room because this wood floor was freezing in the winter.

I sighed, folding my arms and looking around at everything in my bedroom, feeling my heart sink.

I’d just gotten used to it here.

Forcing myself to stop thinking about it, I pulled off my pajamas and got dressed in jeans, boots, and a plaid tuck-in shirt. In the bathroom, I brushed out my straight, dark-brown hair and put half of it up in a ponytail, to keep it out of my face. I had long bangs, and decided I didn’t want to mess with curling them today.

I’m a slender person, average height, not very curvy. I have bright green eyes, and people say I look like my mom. She’s very pretty, with dark eyelashes and eyebrows, so I suppose I have a little of that beauty, too. At the time, I didn’t like wearing makeup—just a little lip color and mascara, so I put that on.

Tap, tap, tap.

I quickly screwed on the lid to my mascara, put it away, and hurried out through my bedroom, into the hall, across the sitting room to the front door. My cat Milo—a striped orange kitty—meowed loudly at me as I whooshed past him.

“I’ll feed you in a minute, just wait!” I called back at him. I threw the three locks on the door and pulled it open.

“Hi!” I said, finding a FedEx man standing there, smiling back at me.

“I’ve got a package here for Anne Maple,” he said, checking the thick envelope.

“That’s me,” I said.

“Okay, can you just sign here?” he asked, holding out a clipboard. I took the pen and signed my name on the line, then gave it back. He passed off the package to me. I could feel a thick stack of papers inside—and when I looked at the envelope, it confirmed what I’d suspected it was.

“Thank you!” I told the delivery man.

“Have a good day,” he answered, and left. I shut the door after him, and automatically flipped the deadbolt again. Grinning crookedly, I turned the envelope over, tore it open…

And pulled out a typed script, spiral-bound. On the front page, it read:

The Ripple Experiment

A Play in Two Acts

Aaron Highgate and Peter Wren

“Raaawr!” my cat complained as he came and stood on my feet. I laughed out loud.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “We’ll both get breakfast, and then I’ll make some tea and cuddle with you on the couch while I read this.”

“Hey, Dad!”

“Hey, sweetie!” Dad answered at the other end of the phone. “Did you get the script?”

“I did, thanks,” I answered. “Just finished reading it.”

I sat on my blue couch with my legs tucked under me, a patchwork quilt over my lap—and a purring cat keeping me warm. My cup of tea on the coffee table however, had gone cold. And the last page of the script lay open in front of me.

“Well, what did you think of it?” Dad asked.

“It’s really interesting!” I admitted. “The premise is kind of funny—a man from a hundred years in the future trying to fix the problems there by changing things that happen in the past, and that the problems the entire future world is facing actually all stem out from one house and one woman’s life!”

“Haha, yeah, you wouldn’t want to see the statistics on that, probably,” Dad chuckled.

“But the story convinces me,” I said, gesturing as I talked. “At least, it does if I understand half of Dr. Ripple’s techno-babble—the stuff that isn’t made-up, anyway.”

Dad laughed out loud now.

“I know, isn’t that great? I’d love to know how they came up with all of those technical-sounding nonsense words.”

“Me too,” I said, scratching Milo on the back so his purring thundered. “This show could do well if it’s still running when that movie Back to the Future comes out this summer. And I like Wendy James. She’s sensible and down to earth and a scientist too, but she’s still fun, and pretty brave, and she can at least halfway keep up with Dr. Ripple when he’s trying all those ridiculous things.”

“Mhm, I agree. A pretty nifty gal,” Dad said pointedly. I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile.

“But, this um…” I flicked the edge of the last page, making a face. “This last part…”

“What?” Dad asked.

“The last scene!” I cried. “I mean, am I reading this right? It just says ‘Act Two, Scene 10: actors will improvise to achieve a conclusion.’ What is that about?”

“Well, I suppose it means the ending will be different every night, depending upon what the actors feel like,” Dad guessed. “But you’ll have to ask them more about it at the audition.”

“I’ve never done any improvisation before!” I protested. “I hate that! Like when somebody forgets a line and just stares at me, expecting me to save them from themselves and get the scene rolling again—that’s terrifying!”

“It’s exciting,” Dad offered.

“Oh, how would you know?” I shot back.

“Athletes do it all the time,” he said lightly. “They practice a certain set of skills, and then whoever they play throws different scenarios at them that they have to deal with, based on the set of skills they’ve already learned.”

I groaned.

“Look, just ask them more about it at the audition,” Dad suggested. “I’ve set it up for two o’clock tomorrow at the Quadrant Theatre.”

“Wait—you set it up?” I sat up so fast that Milo tumbled off my lap. “I thought it was an open audition!”

“No, they started with those, but couldn’t find anybody,” Dad said. “I called Aaron and arranged this for you so you can meet with him and the director, and with Aaron’s nephew, if he’s around.”

“Oh, Dad…” I whispered, my heart hammering.

“This is far better than a cattle call, honey,” Dad insisted. “They’ll get to hear you, and you’ll get to find out everything you want to know about the play, and the people in it, and whether or not it’s something you want to do. If it doesn’t work out, then sure, you can come home when your lease is up and work at the library. That’s fine. But don’t you want to just give this a shot and see what happens?”

I hesitated, winding the phone cord around my forefinger again. I heaved a sigh.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”

“Sounds good!” he said. “Be sure to call me after the audition—and Mom wants to hear about it, too!”

Chapter Two

Sunday, April 7th

I shut the door to the phonebooth behind me with a clatter, shoved the clanking money into the pay phone, picked up the receiver and dialed. I waited, tapping my feet while it rang, watching the traffic whizz by on the street outside the grimy glass.

“James Tucker speaking, how can I help you?” came a brisk, male voice at the other end.

“Hi, Jim!” I instantly broke into a smile at the sound of my boyfriend’s answer.

“Hi, Anne!” he answered cheerfully. “How are you, what’s going on?”

“Is it okay to talk for a second?” I asked.

“Sure, I was just taking a break in the middle of typing this editorial. What are you doing?”

“Oh, I’m…I’m standing about a block away from the theatre and decided to call you,” I said, folding my free arm around myself and shifting my weight.

“The theatre where you have that audition?”

“Yeah, for the play I told you about yesterday,” I answered. “The one about the time-traveler.”

“What time is the audition?” he asked. I looked down at my watch and winced.

“In about five minutes.”

“Won’t you be late?”

I heaved a sigh.

“That’s why I wanted to call you,” I confessed. “I’m getting cold feet.”

“Well…I can understand that,” he said.

I blinked.

“You can?”

“Sure,” he said. “You’re afraid that if you do this, it might be a waste of your time, but you will have tied yourself down. And you might miss a really great opportunity to work in your field.”

My heart sank.

“Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

“You’re such a brilliant therapist, Anne,” he said gently. “I’ve seen you work. Are you sure there are no schools around there that need a speech councilor?”

“Only scary ones,” I muttered.

“Well, you can always come across to Jersey where I am,” he coaxed. “I’ve been keeping my eyes open for something for you. And the rent is a little cheaper here. Or, you could move home with your folks and save money till you land the kind of job you want.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “Dad and I talked about that second option.”

His sigh came as a hiss of static in my ear.

“I know your Dad’s excited about this play and everything…I just don’t want you to miss something, Anne. I have this really strong feeling that, really soon, you’ll have a serious chance to truly help somebody who desperately needs it. I mean, you could get a call back tomorrow from any number of the schools where you’ve applied—but if you commit to this play, you won’t be able to accept any of them. And how long could this show last, anyway?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t,” I shook my head. “Depends on if it’s successful.”

“Or if it even gets off the ground,” Jim added. “And besides—”

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said.

Right in the middle of his sentence, that Picture came. Again.

The same one from the other morning: me, on a black stage, open curtains—and that laugh.

It overpowered me, blanking out all my vision. And the tenor of that disembodied laugh shot a thrill down my spine.

And then it disappeared.

“Sorry, Jim, I have to go,” I muttered absently, my eyes fixed on the glass in front of me. “Dad set this up and it’d look really bad for him if I don’t show up.” And without waiting for a reply, I hung up the phone, pushed out of the booth…

Cold wind hit my face.

I sucked in a breath and shook myself, almost feeling like I’d just woken up.

I stood on a dirty sidewalk, grey clouds looming over the skyscrapers. The traffic howled all around, people passed me, their shoes clattering on the pavement. I lifted my eyes and looked at the small brick theatre just ahead of me, its blank marquee sticking out over the sidewalk. Above that, a neon sign, unlit, read: The Quadrant Theatre.

My heart hammered again.

This morning, I’d put on black dress slacks, heels, a red silk blouse and black jacket over that, and tied my hair up in a ponytail. I desperately hoped I looked professional, but not too uptight.

And I hoped I could get this over with as quickly as possible.

Setting my teeth and taking a deep breath, I headed for the theatre door.

I pushed through the one front door of the theatre that I found open, made my way through the silent, red-carpeted lobby, and leaned cautiously through the open door to the hall.

It wasn’t large—could maybe hold three-hundred people on the lower floor, and a small balcony hung above. It smelled dusty, and the house lights were dimmed low. On past the rows of seats, down a gentle slope, the stage itself stood in lights, with red curtains pushed off to either side.

I swallowed.

Two men sat on chairs center stage, and an empty, funky-patterned couch stood near them, stage left. One man was thin with faded red hair, wearing black dress pants and a white collared shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a serious, angular face and a penetrating look. He had a booklet on his knee, and gestured delicately with a pencil between his fingers as he talked to the other man. I recognized him—and suddenly remembered the calm, regulated lilt of his upper-class English accent.

The other man was fat, with a round face, and his chortling laughter echoed out into the hall toward me. He had greying, combed hair and little eyes, and wore a grey suit and vest, with no tie.

Bracing myself, I started down the aisle, my feet silent on the thin carpet. Then, all of a sudden, they saw me.

“Miss Maple?” the fat one called, his voice booming out. He sat forward and shielded his eyes from the lights. “Is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” I called back. “How do I get up there?”

“See, there’s a door off to the side, there, house left,” he pointed. “Take the set of stairs up and turn right, you’ll come out on the stage.”

“Okay, thanks,” I managed, waving. I headed to my left, pushed through the curtains—tried not to fall down in the dark—and turned toward the bright light coming from between the hanging stage curtains. Finally, I emerged out there with them, the lights flashing in my right eye.

They both turned to smile at me, and the thin man stood up and nodded.

“How do you do, Miss Maple?” he asked. “Do you remember me?”

“I do!” I said, taking his proffered hand. “You’re my dad’s friend, Aaron Highgate—I think we met at a football game once.”

He smiled broadly, now, and it did wonders for his appearance.

“Yes, I remember that,” he said, then waved to the other man. “This is my friend, and The Ripple Experiment’s director, Mr. Sam Everhart.”

“Forgive me for not standing up,” Mr. Everhart chuckled, extending his hand. “I just had knee surgery.”

“Oh, then don’t get up,” I said quickly, leaning in to shake his hand.

“Will you please sit down?” Aaron asked, indicating the empty couch.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, maneuvering around and then easing down on the couch in front of them, clutching my purse in my lap and trying to keep my hands from shaking. Both men rested their gazes on me, and I could practically feel them thinking.

“I seem to remember you participated in theatre in high school and college?” Aaron prompted, crossing his legs and gracefully letting his hands rest on the note pad.

“Yes,” I answered quickly. “In high school I played Alice Sycamore in You Can’t Take it With You, um…I was Laurey in Oklahoma!, and Titania in Midsummer Night’s Dream. In college we did a lot of Shakespeare, which I loved—so I played Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, Cordelia in King Lear, and Lady MacBeth in Mac—” I instantly stopped myself with a nervous giggle. “I mean, The Scottish Play.”

This made the men across from me laugh, and something in my chest loosened a little.

“And you won a few awards?” Mr. Everhart asked.

“Yes, for playing Alice, Laurey and Lady MacBeth.”

“And that success made you want to pursue acting?” Aaron wondered.

“Um…Well, no,” I confessed, feeling my face get hot. “I actually got my degree in speech therapy. I want to help people with speech and reading impediments like stammering, lisping, dyslexia, things like that.”

“A noble cause,” Aaron mused. He raised his eyebrows. “But you’ve had no luck so far getting a job in that field?”

“No, not yet,” I sighed, trying to smile. “It’s tough, in the city!”

“Yes, it is,” Mr. Everhart agreed, exchanging a look with Aaron. “But you’re willing to try this, instead?”

“Well, yes—if it’s agreeable to everyone. Including me,” I said, feeling my face get hotter, but saying it anyway. “I’d want to make sure it would be worthwhile, and that the people involved are good to work with.”

“That sounds wise,” Aaron said, suppressing a smile. “Have you had a chance to read the script?”

“Yes, I read it yesterday,” I replied quickly.

“What did you think of it?” Mr. Everhart asked. “Can you summarize it for us, give us your impressions?”

“Well…” My brow furrowed and my fingers curled on the top of my purse. “It’s about a sort of a mad, but endearing, scientist who comes back in time a hundred years on an experiment. About half of earth’s population in the future where he comes from is robots, and the other half lives in a very sterile, dark environment. And he thinks that’s wrong, and something’s gone wrong. He’s trying to figure out if something can be changed in the past that will change the future—he’s narrowed it down to this particular house at this exact time. He does various science and social experiments while he’s living in the present—some of which are pretty funny—in an effort to impact the future the way he wants. And, um…” I shifted in my seat. “The last scene is always completely improvised.”

“Do you know why it’s improvised?” Aaron asked, watching me carefully.

“Well…I’ve been considering that,” I admitted. “I think…I think it leaves the entire play up to different interpretations, and a chance for it to evolve and take on a life of its own.”

“All right, keep going,” Mr. Everhart urged, leaning forward. I shifted again.

“Well…” I said again. “The scientist’s focus is all on global—or at least national—events, but almost accidentally, he does things to change the life of the woman living in this house, and that could ultimately be what makes a difference in the future. Small things, like fixing a leak or throwing away a faulty toaster, to saving her from a bus, discouraging a bad relationship, protecting her from a creepy neighbor. And it could be any of those things. It’s why it’s called The Ripple Experiment. One, it’s his name; two, he is causing a ‘ripple’ effect; and three, those ripples impact everything else that comes after them. Because, in the scene before the last, he goes into his time machine again, and the last scene is the result of whatever discovery he decides to make about the future. Nothing changed, something changed, or everything changed—he can literally pull from any scene in the show.”

The two men smiled at each other.

“Yes, the people playing Dr. Ripple and Wendy would pull it from any scene in the show,” Aaron reminded me.

“That’s…actually what scares me,” I said, feeling my cheeks burning, now. They both frowned at me.

“Scares you?” Mr. Everhart repeated.

“Mhm,” I said, gripping my purse. “I never did any improv. Everything was very memorized, very blocked out. And I mean—well, a lot of it was Shakespeare! You don’t improvise Shakespeare!”

“No, you don’t,” Mr. Everhart chuckled.

“And…you don’t think you can do that part of it?” Aaron pressed.

“I honestly don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t.”

“Do you think you might try?” Mr. Everhart peered at me. I bit my lip.

“She should!”

I nearly hit the ceiling when a bright, young male voice shot through the silence behind me.

The next second, someone leaped over the back of the couch and landed sitting right next to me. My breath caught and I gaped at him.

He looked about my age, maybe a couple years older. He wore a short sleeved maroon polo shirt with the top buttons undone, baggy khaki slacks, and yellow socks. No shoes.

He had a bright, clever face, with a smattering of freckles across his nose; dark, expressive eyebrows and long lashes, and an impish smile. His features might be oddly handsome if he allowed a cloud of seriousness to pass over them. Actually, he probably could be dashing at the right angle. But right now, his vivid blue eyes—like lightning—lit his whole being with an almost wild brilliance. He had brown, reckless curls that caught the stage lights, and, as if in complement, the lights illuminated them in a flame-red halo. In a ridiculous instant of memory—though the next instant, it didn’t seem so ridiculous—I remembered Shakespeare’s description of Puck in Midsummer Night’s Dream: the “shrewd and knavish sprite,” “that merry wanderer of the night.”

“Um—hi!” I giggled breathlessly.

“Hi, don’t mind me, I just dropped in,” the stranger beamed, sticking out his right hand. Cautiously, I took it—and he suddenly brought mine up and kissed it.

“Enchanté!” he said crisply.

“Ha!” I laughed, shocked.

“Miss Maple, this is my nephew, Peter Wren. He’s playing Dr. Edward Ripple.” Mr. Everhart motioned to him. “Peter, this is—”

“Anne Maple, yes, I know, I’ve been listening the whole time,” he said, turning toward me eagerly, fixing me with those sky-bright eyes. “Are you going to do the show?”

I suddenly sensed Aaron and Mr. Everhart go completely still.

“Well, I’d…I’d like to,” I stammered—surprising myself. “I was just telling them about how I don’t know how to improv.”

“Oh, shoot, it isn’t that hard,” Peter waved it off. “You’re improv-ing right now, aren’t you?”

“Ha, well…” I rolled my eyes. “I guess so?”

“You can walk, talk and chew gum at the same time?” he pressed narrowly.

“Um—well, sure—”

“You’re not deaf, blind, have a third eye somewhere?”

I burst out laughing.

Peter’s eyes suddenly twinkled with an almost fiendish light.

“Yep,” he said. “I like her.” And with that, he leaned over, kissed my cheek—

Shot up, headed around the couch toward stage left, ramming his hands in his pockets and whistling “Everything’s Up to Date in Kansas City.”

Baffled, I twisted in my seat to watch him stride toward backstage like he was strolling through the park. The shadows of the curtains swallowed him.

“I hope this means you have your part memorized, Peter,” Aaron called after him, arcing an eyebrow.

And Peter laughed.

That ringing, thrilling, innocently-delighted sound straight from my Picture.

My lips parted, and I couldn’t speak.

“Well, Miss Maple, if we could,” Mr. Everhart called me back—and I had to struggle to turn around and face him.

“Could we hear you read a little bit?” Mr. Everhart finished. “Aaron can read Dr. Ripple for you.”

“Oh! Okay, sure,” I nodded, taking the script they handed me.

“Why don’t we start with act two, scene two?” Aaron asked, pulling reading glasses out of his breast pocket and slipping them on.

“Okay,” I said again, flipping to that page.

We started the read, and I did my very best. The written dialogue was lively and natural, and of course I’d read it already, so it wasn’t all that difficult once my fingers stopped trembling.

But all the while, though I never turned to look, I kept wondering if Peter Wren was watching us from the wings.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, April 10th

I bounced up and out of the subway and emerged in front of the dark, solemn, jagged edifice of Trinity Church. I immediately opened my umbrella, humming to myself, hardly noticing the rain pounding on the top of the canvas.

The crowds all around me ducked and hurried through the downpour, and the hundreds of noisy cars and cabs splashed through the puddles in the street.

I dashed across Broadway, hopping over the flowing puddles in the gutter, and headed into the narrow canyon of Broad Street. The traffic roar echoed here, and the shadows of the buildings made it even dimmer. I whistled to myself, forcibly calming my urge to start skipping.

I came to where the Stock Exchange and Federal Hall stood cattycorner to each other, and grinned up at the serene, noble statue of George Washington towering atop the stairs of Federal Hall, his head and broad shoulders shining with water.

“Hullo, sir!” I said to him. “Sorry I don’t have an extra umbrella!” I giggled at myself, and turned right down Wall Street.

I followed Wall Street, down three long blocks, smiling at the historic buildings, until I spotted my favorite place to eat in the whole world: Fraunces Tavern.

It’s the place George Washington said goodbye to his troops at the end of the Revolutionary War, so you can imagine what it looks like: Georgian architecture, only three-and-a-half stories, light-red brick with decorative stonework around all the edges. On its front face, it has exactly fourteen tall, small-paned windows bordered in white. It has a street-side chimney, and an inset door with pillars right in the front, and another door and a lot more windows on that side. There are also cute windows to the attic room, and a wooden railing all around the top of the square roof. It is one of several Revolutionary-era buildings in this block that have been preserved for their historical significance, and the skyscrapers loom around them like giants. The little buildings are so utterly out of place—and yet, they seem to be part of the very ground itself. Impervious to the ever-changing tumult of the city all around them. As if to say, in the most dignified and unruffled tone: “We were here first; you uppity youngsters maintain your distance.” So whenever I walk up to Fraunces, at any time of year, I feel like I’m stepping back in time.

I hopped up the stairs, folded my umbrella and shook it out, then pushed through the front door. I was instantly surrounded by old wood walls and floors, and the clatter and clamor of the pub through the door to my left. I turned right and ducked through another door into a tiny front hallway, at the far end of which waited a narrow white staircase that lead up to the George Washington-themed museum above. I smiled at the waitress who stood behind the podium.

“I think my dad and boyfriend are already here.”

“All right, go on ahead, then!” the dark-haired girl said in a lovely Irish accent, and motioned me through. I passed through a wider door, down a couple steps, and into the long dining room.

Broad wood floors, and a row of large street-facing windows in the far wall, with lamps standing in the sills. Long, tavern-style tables and high backed benches marched down the length of the space, all filled with New Yorkers eating and drinking and talking. At the far left stood a fireplace, with an antique map hanging above the hearth. In the far corner of the room stood a round table, and I spotted my dad and Jim sitting there. They sat up and waved at me—I grinned and waved back, and headed across to them.

My dad is about six feet tall, enjoys wearing tweed suits and driving caps, and always has a smile ready for me. He’s clean-shaven, mostly bald, but he had dark hair when he was younger. He has dark, mischievous eyes—he’s very creative. A good artist, and also has an eye for classic cars. He loves driving a rumbling 1930’s roadster down the country lanes around our house. He’s one of the co-owners of an oil company my grandpa started.

Jim Tucker looks exactly the opposite of my dad. He’s six-three, muscular, blond hair, likes wearing stylish business suits—and somehow makes them look comfortable. He’s extremely handsome, I think. Brown eyes, dimples, a great laugh. His smile makes me go weak. He has long lashes and a boyish aspect that can change to solemn and rugged if he just lets his beard grow a few days.

As soon as I came up to the table, Jim stood up and pulled out my chair for me.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, and kissed my cheek.

“Hi, everybody!” I said breathlessly, taking off my coat as I sat down, and draping it over the back of my chair.

“Hi, honey!” Dad greeted me. “Did you get wet?”

“Oh, only a little. Not bad,” I said, setting my umbrella under my chair. “It’s really pouring!”

“Yes, it is—the grass in Central Park will be happy to get it,” Jim noted as he sat back down.

“We ordered you a hot tea,” Dad told me.

“Oh, thank you,” I said, shaking out my hands. “I need that today. My fingers are frozen!”

“Okay, so—what did you want to tell us?” Jim asked, pinning me with his dark gaze and folding his hands on the table. “I’m too curious to wait any more. Your dad is too!”

I couldn’t suppress my smile any more.

“Welllll…” I said, canting my head and sliding my napkin.

“Hey, I knew it,” Jim said, a delighted grin spreading across his face. “You got a call back from one of the private schools. They want to hire you?”

My eyes flashed up to his, and I suddenly frowned. My smiled failed me.

“I…Well, no.”

My dad raised his eyebrows, and gave me an entirely different—playful—look.

“You got the part.”

I let out a nervous laugh, turning to him—but his eyes sparkled at me.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Yeah…I got the part!”

“That’s amazing, sweetheart!” he cried, grabbing my wrist and shaking it back and forth. “Congratulations!”

I relaxed into another laugh, and it felt better this time.

“Really?” Jim said, his smile gone now. “They picked you? Even though you’ve never had any professional experience?”

“Well, I…” I looked at him for a second, then tried to gather my thoughts. “I went in and sat with Aaron and the director, Mr. Everhart, and we talked about the show, and its themes, and its potential to evolve and grow over several performances…and then Aaron’s nephew, Peter Wren, just sort of…popped in from nowhere.” I chuckled remembering it. “He just hopped over the couch and plopped down right next to me! He’s playing the scientist,” I said to Jim.

“Yeah, Frank told me,” Jim nodded to my dad.

“What was he like?” Dad asked, watching me.

“Well, he…” I frowned, then laughed. “He’s hard to describe! Kind of…wild or something. Really enthusiastic, silly, just jumping in and out when he feels like it. He asked me a bunch of ridiculous questions and then just left!”

“Mhm,” Dad murmured, glancing down at his folded hands. My attention sharpened.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

“Well,” he took a deep breath. “Aaron’s talked about him before to me. He had to raise him after Peter’s mother left, and Aaron had some trouble with him. But,” Dad looked at me. “He also said Peter’s a heck of an actor. A genius of both dramatic and comedic timing. And I’m sure this show will sink or swim because of whatever Peter decides to do with it.” Dad chuckled. “I think you’re in for a ride!”

“So—this guy is kind of unpredictable?” Jim asked him. “Or…unreliable?”

“Aaron didn’t go into much detail,” Dad shook his head. “He did tell me that he’s classically trained. So he must have finished college.”

“How long has one of Aaron Highgate’s shows ever run?” Jim pressed.

“Hmm, well, one of his ran for three years,” Dad replied. “But that was a few years ago. His most recent show only lasted six months. But he wrote the others on his own,” he held up a finger. “This is the first one that Peter has helped with.”

“Six months, though, that’s not too long,” Jim said, brightening up. “That’s what, about here to the end of the summer?” He looked at me. “So while you’re doing this play, you can keep applying to schools and then step into a job around September!”

“Yeah,” I made myself smile, suddenly off balance. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

“Well, I hope it runs for a while longer,” Dad countered. “Since I’m sure all of you will be putting a great deal of time and effort into it. When do you start rehearsal?”

“Oh, tomorrow,” I answered, shaking myself. “We’ll rehearse all the rest of this month and then open Friday, May tenth.” I pointed at him and Jim with narrow eyes. “Everyone is coming to opening night.”

“Yes, Mom and Grandma and Lily and Janie will all be there, I guarantee it. I’ll call Aaron and have him reserve us some good seats,” Dad assured me.

“And I’ll bring my mom and sister,” Jim smiled, reaching around to take my hand. “This could be fun. You’ll be great.”

Warmth spread through me at his touch, and that sinking feeling dissipated. But before I could say anything more, the waitress came, and I was forced to decide between at least a dozen delicious hot teas.

Chapter Four

Thursday, April 11th

Thursday morning, I saw a Picture of a man’s hand grabbing mine, and pulling me forward. From the look of it, it belonged to a young man, wearing long, fitted red sleeves. I lay there in bed for a long time after I saw it, turning it over and over in my mind. Then, finally, I got up, showered, got dressed in a white blouse and tweed jacket with a broomstick skirt and high boots, fed Milo, snatched up the copy of the script my dad had sent me, and headed out the door.

As soon as I hit the street, I took a deep breath of the cool air. The morning was crisp and bright, and I could tell that the sun’s position in the sky had shifted. Its light glinted differently against the windows, and filled the canyons between the buildings at a changed angle. It wasn’t winter anymore.

As I rode the subway, the metallic whizzing of the train’s speed surrounding me as it gently rocked side to side, I sat near the rail by the door and read over the script for the fourth time since getting it in the mail. I tried to imagine the blocking, the arrangement of the set, and how I ought to say each one of my lines. But every time the realization hit me that I was actually doing this, a weird wave of excited nausea passed through my whole body.

At last, the subway lurched to a stop, and I gathered up my things and bustled out with ten thousand of my closest friends, the roar of the trains and the foot-traffic of hundreds of people ricocheting off the cement walls. Ducking my head and concentrating on where to put my feet, I worked my way up the stairs and into the daylight again.

I emerged just a couple of short blocks from the theatre, so I walked briskly, maneuvering through the crowds of people, the noise of the traffic and car horns sending a never-ending echo up and down the walls of looming buildings.

New York has a particular smell—a mix of stinky scents like exhaust and garbage; and good scents like cooking food, and gusts of sea air. The city hums with activity, never letting your mind rest whilst you’re walking, lest you run into a light pole, a stack of garbage bags, or a person.

Finally, I spotted the sign for the Quadrant Theatre, smiled weakly, fought back the shivers, and pushed through the front door. It squeaked.

I maneuvered through the silent lobby, as I had before, and entered the theatre. House lights were up this time, and the stage was fully lit. Chairs sat in a circle on the stage, all occupied except for two. I immediately spotted Aaron and Mr. Everhart sitting next to each other, scripts and pencils in their laps. Aaron wore a white dress shirt and black slacks and shoes, with the top buttons of his shirt undone. Mr. Everhart wore a black suit and red tie. Then, as I cautiously and silently made my way forward, I studied the other three in the circle.

Next to Mr. Everhart sat a middle-aged woman with beautifully quaffed, rather large blonde hair, wearing a flowing white blouse and vibrant blue skirt, and white high heels. She had large eyes, a pretty, distinguished face, and she smiled as she talked to the director. She had a script in her lap, too. Beside her sat a thin, slightly-balding middle-aged man with big, watery eyes and a weak chin, wearing a grey suit and blue tie.

Next to him sat a tall, extremely good-looking young man with neatly-combed black hair, wearing a collared shirt with a blue sweater over it, jeans and sturdy boots. He instantly struck me as looking very like Christopher Reeve’s Superman. The five people talked quietly and easily to each other. All of them calm, confident. As if they belonged there.

I slowed to a halt, feeling my blood turn cold. I took half a step back.

“She’s here!”

A shout like a rooster crowing. It shot through the theatre, jerking my attention house right—

Where Peter Wren had appeared on stage as if by magic. He stood in those baggy khakis again, with a long-sleeved, fitted red shirt, and white tennis shoes. I could see the vibrancy of his eyes even from where I stood, and his hair looked windblown, like he’d just come in to land.

He trotted across the stage and then leaped off, hitting the carpet like a cat and then bounding up the aisle and right up to me. Funny—I suddenly realized that he could only be an inch or two taller than me. I almost looked directly into his eyes.

“Hi, how are you?” he asked, beaming at me.

“I’m good, how are you?” I managed to answer.

“Fantastic, now that you’re here,” he said. “We were sure your subway had crashed or something like that.”

I laughed and shook my head.

“Nope, everything’s okay. I…” I stopped. “Wait, am I late?”

“No, not at all, Anne,” Aaron interjected from up on stage.

“Yes you are, I was here at seven this morning,” Peter countered.

My mouth fell open.

“I—Was I supposed to be here at seven?”

“Hey, don’t worry about it, hon,” Peter winked at me. “That’s just me—I couldn’t sleep, I was too excited.” Then, he reached out and grabbed my left hand, and tugged on me.

Gasping—having an instant flashback to my Picture—I managed to keep myself from tripping as I followed his eager pace toward the stage. As if in reflex, he interlaced our fingers and squeezed, and pulled me through the curtains at the stage door. We swerved, hopped up the stairs, and burst out onto the stage as if we were coming out for an encore.

“Everybody, this is Anne Maple, playing Wendy James,” Peter announced, waving to me with his free hand.

“Hi!” they all said, their expressions open and agreeable.

“Uncle Aaron and Mr. Everhart you know already,” Peter said. “This stunning and vivacious beauty is Nancy Bennet, playing Janet James, your mother.”

“Hi, sweetheart!” Nancy, the lovely blonde woman, waved at me.

“Hello!” I gestured back at her with my script. Peter swung my hand back and forth once, then pointed to the man next to Nancy.

“This diamond in the rough is Walter Emmet, playing your neighbor, Allen.”

“Howdy,” Walter grinned at me, and gave me a lazy salute, then shifted back and forth in his seat as if pleased with himself. I tried not to laugh, and nodded to him.

“Good morning.”

“And this handsome and dashing young man,” Peter said grandly. “Is Stephen Tell, playing your truly-fickle true love, Eric Schultz.”

“Haha, how do you do?” Stephen chuckled, standing up and sticking his hand out to me. Peter let go of me so I could shift my script to my left hand and shake Stephen’s. As Stephen took my hand and gave me a warm smile, I saw the flash of a wedding ring on his left hand.

“You’re married, Stephen?” I asked him as he sat back down.

“Yes, two little girls, too,” he chuckled. “They’re a handful!”

“Here,” Peter said, drawing a chair into place for me.

“Thank you,” I smiled at him, and sat down. He sat down immediately on my left, set his right ankle on his left knee, and folded his hands. He didn’t have a script.

“All right!” Aaron said in a bright—but still measured—tone, looking round at all of us. “Welcome to the premiere production of The Ripple Experiment. Of course, this is a small cast, so I anticipate that we and the crew will become rather like family as the show goes on. Mr. Everhart wanted to conduct a quick read-through of the first act today, and discuss any thoughts on character and so forth. So, sir, take it away.”

Mr. Everhart cleared his throat.

“Good morning, everyone! I should also make you aware that our producer, Mr. Gregory Flintheiman, is up in the balcony today, just listening.”

I couldn’t stop myself—I instantly looked up to my right to search…

Through the nearly-opaque glare of the stage lights, I glimpsed a large, shadowy figure sitting in the center of the balcony, all alone.

I froze. Chills crawled down my spine.

That moment, I felt a light nudge on my arm, and turned to the left to see Peter give me a quiet smile, another wink, and then shake his head. My chills dissipated.

“So, erm…Let’s start with the first scene, then,” Mr. Everhart cut into my thoughts, and I mentally came back to the stage. I flipped open my script, hearing everyone but Peter do the same.

“So, we’ve just got Wendy center stage, in front of the curtain, in the main spotlight,” Mr. Everhart went on. “Take it away, Anne.”

That sickly-nervous sensation swept through my whole body again. It gripped my gut, sending a freakish pain into my chest. My throat locked, and my heart bashed against my ribs. I glanced up. Everyone was looking down at his or her script…

Except I could sense Peter watching me. And his gaze felt warm against my side, like summer sunshine.

I took a deep breath, clutched my hands together in my lap, stared down at the page, and read out loud.

“‘I lead a little life,’” I began. “‘I’m alone in a big, Victorian house that I restored myself; I work, I cook, I garden, I study for my master’s degree in plant biology. I keep to routine. I’m friendly enough with my neighbors, but I keep mostly to myself. Which isn’t particularly unique, I’m sure lots of people lead similar if not identical lives to my own. And I’m content with that. I’ve never had any desire to have my name splashed across newspapers or written in flashing in lights. And yet, sometimes late at night, when I can’t sleep, I wonder…Do the small, everyday actions and decisions of any of us make a difference to the future? Will our small town election for mayor affect the face of our city a hundred years from now? Will what we drive, what we eat, what we plant, how we treat people, prove to be any more important than a billboard you pass on the highway? Don’t we all think to ourselves: will my life, even if it is little, pass by without making any sort of splash? Will I always just live within routine, touching many people, but none of them deeply? Will anyone remember me after I’m gone? And in the end, long after I’ve vanished from the earth…will it even matter that once, Wendy James lived?’”

“Very good. Moving on,” Mr. Everhart said—and I accidentally let out a shaking sigh. I caught Peter shooting me a brief, twinkling look. My face got hot, and I tried not to smile.

“Now, we’re in Wendy’s front sitting room,” Everhart said over the noise of pages flipping. “And it’s she and her mother having tea or coffee or whatever while her mother is visiting.”

“Ahem,” Nancy sat up and adjusted the way she held her script. “‘I love what you’ve done with the wallpaper, darling.’”

“‘Thanks, Mom,’” I read, keeping up with her. “‘It’s almost exactly like the original pattern from 1910. It took me ages to find it.’”

“‘This house has really been an investment for you!’” Nancy kept going, sounding supremely natural. “‘It doesn’t look anything like it did when we first bought it. It was really a fixer-upper.’”

“‘Yes, it’s taken what, five years?’” I continued. “‘And now I’ve finally got it the way I want it.’”

“‘And so now you’re ready to sell it?’”

I felt Nancy glance up at me. Mustering my own confidence, I met her blue eyes and gave her an indignant look before going on with my next line.

“‘Sell it? Mom, I just spent all that time and money making it exactly the way I always dreamed—why would I turn around and sell it now?’”

“‘Because that’s what I thought the plan was, honey!’” Nancy replied, her voice and expression inviting me to engage, to ramp up the emotion beyond a simple read-through.

I took the bait.

“‘What plan?’”

“‘When Dad and I bought it for you and you paid us back—you said you were going to fix it up—’”

“‘I think you might be confusing what I said with what Eric said,’” I skillfully interrupted—not cutting off her line, but leaving no space between. “‘He said it might be a good idea to flip the house, to make some money—’”

“‘—so that the two of you would have money to get married,’” Nancy interrupted me this time, just as deftly.

“‘Well, there’s no need to worry about money now that he’s gotten his own practice,’” I went on, swiftly turning the page. “‘But you’re getting ahead of yourself.’”

“‘In what way?’” Nancy demanded.

“‘Well,’” I said, adding in my own frustrated noise. “‘For one thing, Eric hasn’t even proposed to me! First he was eyeball-deep in his residency and I hardly ever saw him, and now he’s only just bought this practice and gotten it going. We haven’t had time to talk about anything like that.’”

“‘You have time now,’” Nancy insisted. “‘And wouldn’t you much rather get married and live in his house? It’s in a much nicer part of town, there’s a pool, a back garden, it’s right by the country club. It’s just divine.’”

“‘Well, I think this house is divine,’” I answered, with purposeful quietness. “‘I’m sorry you don’t like it.’”

“‘Now, honey, I didn’t say that,’” Nancy said, masterfully gentling her voice so that she almost sounded like my real mother.

“Very good,” Mr. Everhart concluded, and I lifted my head to attend to him.

“Any questions about their relationship?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, halfway lifting my hand. “How long has Wendy’s father been dead?”

“Five years,” Peter suddenly answered. I swung around to look at him…

To see him smiling simply—but with a ghostly sadness in his eyes that vanished faster than I could be sure of it.

“Yes, he died of cancer,” Aaron added with a sigh. “Lung cancer, if you need to know. Smoked all his life.”

“Okay, thank you,” I said quietly.

“I assume Janet James has been accustomed all her married life to being comfortable?” Nancy asked, gesturing. “Money-wise, I mean.”

“Yes, she was actually wealthy growing up, and she and her husband had quite a bit of money,” Mr. Everhart explained. “She enjoys luxury and a fast pace.”

“Which sets her and her daughter at odds,” Nancy noted. “Because Wendy likes simple, quiet, old-fashioned, maybe rather eccentric things.”

“Uh, oh, I think I was typecast,” I muttered, though loud enough for everyone to hear. They all chuckled—and Peter laughed aloud.

“She also might be worried that her own life has stopped right in its prime,” Nancy added. “Which is why she’s trying to live vicariously through Wendy—pushing her to marry the handsome doctor, move up in the world, give Janet grandkids so she’ll feel like she has a purpose again.”

“That makes sense,” I agreed. Nancy smiled at me.

“Okay, let’s have Stephen come in as the boyfriend, Eric,” Mr. Everhart said, sticking his pencil behind his ear.

“Okay, sure,” Stephen said, clearing his throat and moving his script. “Looks like you start me off, Anne, after the doorbell sound.”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, then started reading again. “‘I’ll get the door…Hi, Eric!’”

“‘Hello, sweetie, how are you?’” Stephen answered, his deep voice inviting and engaging. “‘Is your mom here too? I think I saw her car.’”

“‘Yes, she and I were just having a drink in the living room. Come in and sit down!’” I read.

“‘Hello, Mrs. James.’”

“‘Hello, Eric dear. How was work today?’”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter start bouncing his knee, and glance off. I tried to stay focused.

“‘Just fine, just fine. Very exciting, taking a lot of new patients.’”

Absently, I scanned down the page, realizing my character didn’t say much for another page—it was just small talk between Eric and Mrs. James. I managed to relax a bit. But Peter’s leg bounced more rapidly.

Finally, Stephen said my cue line.

Peter’s knee went still.

“‘I know it keeps Annie happy, but I’d go stir-crazy in this old house. The TV doesn’t even work!’”

“‘You know I have more than a thousand books here, Eric,’” I cut in. “‘And a garden, and a sewing room, and a radio, and a record player. I’m not bored.’”

“‘Oh, I know you’re not, honey—that’s one of the things I like about you,’” Stephen read. “‘Because it means that you’d never be bored anywhere. You can adapt to anyplace, and find something you like about it.’”

“‘Maybe,’” I said—playing that line with considerable doubt.

“Doorbell noise,” Mr. Everhart announced.

“‘I’ll get it,’” I said again. “‘Oh! Hi! Can I help you?’”

“Oops, that’s me, let me turn the page real fast,” Walter sat up straight, then nervously flipped the page of his script. “Sorry. Okay. Erm…‘Hi, I’m Allen. Next door.’”

“‘Next door?’” I read. “‘Which next door?’”

“‘Um. There,’” Walter said, changing his tone to a nasal, tremulous, unnervingly-not-okay tenor. “‘Red house, blue trim. South.’”

“‘Oh! Mrs. Nelson’s old house?’”

“‘Don’t remember,’” Walter read, twitching his shoulders. “‘Mine now. Thought I’d come say hi.’” And he suddenly looked up and gave me a gawkishly-inappropriate, toothy grin with widened eyes—and I burst out laughing.

The rest of the cast loudly echoed it, especially Peter. Trying to stifle myself, I kept reading.

“‘Well, it’s nice to meet you.’”

“‘Can I come in?’” Walter’s nasally voice sounded more like a rat this time.

“‘Um, I have company over…’”

“‘Pretty carpet. Looks like tofu.’”

We read on through some awkwardly-humorous lines involving all of us except Peter, and I kept giggling because Walter did read his lines so well that I knew—after we’d gotten over our fits of laughter—he could really play this part in a downright-creepy way, so that the audience would instantly feel unsettled. Peter—no help at all to my composure—kept muttering commentary under his breath. I had to fight not to listen, or I would have hyperventilated and stopped functioning.

Finally, Walter’s character Allen departed.

“‘I don’t know if I’m okay with this,’” I read, swiping tears out of my eyes and calming back down so I could act again.

“‘Okay with what?’” Nancy as Janet asked.

“‘With him as my neighbor!’” I waved in the air. “‘I don’t like that vibe—he’s not all right in the head.’”

“‘Anne—aren’t you being a little judgmental?’” Stephen as Eric accused. “‘He’s just shy and a little socially awkward. Just because someone isn’t eloquent doesn’t mean they’re inferior.’”

“‘I didn’t say he was inferior, I meant that he makes me nervous!’”

“‘Implying he’s some sort of psychopath, then?’” Nancy asked.

“‘I don’t know, Mom, you saw him, too!’”

“‘Well, I didn’t see that,’” Nancy said coolly. “‘I thought it was nice of him to come over and introduce himself. And don’t you trust Eric’s professional judgment?’”

“‘I, well…Yeah. Yes, I do,’” I read the line with increasing firmness.

“‘But of course, if you do decide you don’t like the neighborhood anymore, there are always alternatives…’” Nancy read her line with obvious pointedness.

My character then performed all the niceties of getting her suddenly-unwanted guests to leave the house, so she could finally sit down and do some reading for her master’s program. All throughout that dry but necessary dialogue, Peter’s knee started bouncing again, and he twiddled his thumbs.

“All right, and now there are some stage directions,” Mr. Everhart put on some reading glasses, held up his script, and read them. “Wendy seats herself in her favorite chair by the front window. Everything goes quiet for a few moments as she immerses herself in her studies. Then, a low rumble, like thunder, passes through the house, and she notices it. Suddenly, with a flash of lights and a burst of smoke, Dr. Edward Ripple’s time machine appears stage left, dials and buttons blinking, the whole apparatus spitting and hissing.’”

“And then the fun starts!” Peter declared, suddenly hopping to his feet. “Mr. Everhart, can we please do this standing up? You can move us all over, wherever you want, I don’t care. C’mon, Anne, I need you.” And he grabbed my hand again and pulled me to my feet.

“Sure, Peter. I think the machine will be over there almost where the stage left curtain is,” Mr. Everhart twisted and pointed. “We can…Well, we can all turn our chairs so our backs are to the house, and get out of your way.”

“Mr. Everhart is a brilliant director,” Peter told me swiftly and quietly as he hustled me upstage. “He never makes actors move just for the sake of moving, you know?”

“Yes, I’ve had directors like that,” I said, my mind spinning. “I mean—ones that made you move just to avoid stagnation on stage.”

“Right, exactly—that’s pointless,” Peter nodded adamantly. “And it’s irritating—you keep thinking to yourself, what the heck am I doing walking over here? What’s over here? Why am I turning my back on the person I’m talking to? He never does that. Every movement he assigns has motivation.”

“Good, I look forward to that,” I smiled at him. And he beamed back at me.

“Okay, sit, stay,” he instructed, holding up a finger. “Right in your invisible chair.”

I stifled another giggle whilst he left me and dashed off toward the stage left curtain. As he got set, the other actors, along with Mr. Everhart and Aaron, got up and moved their chairs downstage, facing us. I felt a nervous flash again.

We now had an audience.

“Anne, your chair will be about where you’re standing,” Mr. Everhart pointed. “So obviously, you’ll be reacting to the appearance of this ridiculous contraption in your living room.”

“Obviously, yes,” I laughed.

“Okay, so, go ahead,” he said.

Biting back my nervousness, I took a deep breath, let out a yelp, feigned leaping off a chair, gaped with wide eyes, and took several steps backward.

Peter, putting on a deep, critical frown, pantomimed pushing open the heavy door of his time machine, and carefully stepping out onto the floor as if it might be quicksand. His movements were so realistic, as if he were actually touching something I simply couldn’t see. Fixated, I watched him without breathing.

“‘Computer, begin recording. Day one, year 1985. I comprehended just two seconds ago that I should have brought an updated Hydro-polyspringer,’” Peter growled…

And, in one earth-tipping moment, I realized he had all his lines memorized.

He lifted his face, and sniffed the air, then took something invisible from his belt and stared at it, twisting invisible knobs. “‘No sign of ethelnanriol toxaride in the air. Interesting. So what is that smell?’” He stepped around his “time machine,” as if eyeing it up and down, then bent down and twisted the air with his forefinger and thumb. “‘Mhm. Just wore out the Petazap Couplet.’”

Suddenly, I realized that was my cue.

“Um!’” I yelped, flipping the page. “Um, sorry! Okay, okay, found my place. Ahem. ‘Who are you?’”

“‘Thankfully, the yocto-perigram was set correctly,’” Peter went on, as if I hadn’t spoken at all. “‘And the replacement sub-temporary zeptometer seems to have worked just fine.’” Peter rolled his eyes. “‘Which is good because Xaron charged me three times what it’s worth. Filthy cheat.’”

“‘Hey!’” I shouted, starting toward him. “‘Who are you, where did you come from, and what are you doing in my house?’”

He stood up, spun around, and pinned me with a lightning-flash of a gaze.

I stopped in my tracks.

“‘I’m the one who should be asking who you are,’” he snapped. “‘Since every calamity that has befallen the world is the fault of your generation.’”

“‘Excuse me?’” I took another step toward him. “‘What are you talking about? What is that thing?’”

“‘This thing,’” he spat, with violent indignance. “‘Is a Third Generation Xenon Parathormax Time Traveler—a Yottazarathor Model. A far more sophisticated device than you could ever comprehend. And I—’” he slapped a hand to his chest. “‘—am the Head Scientist of the First Society. And I am commandeering this house—or whatever it is—for use in my scientific studies.’”

And with that, he slammed the invisible door to his invisible time-machine with such vehemence that I actually jumped. Then, he stormed across the stage, right past me, and exited stage left.

As I gawked after him, he spun around in the shadows—

Transformed his scowl into a grin, and shouted:

“I assume the stairs will be this direction?”

“You went a bit too far, Peter,” Mr. Everhart called back. “Next curtain downstage!”

“Aha, okee-doke,” Peter called back, hopping over ten feet and playfully sweeping a dividing curtain out of the way. I put a hand over my mouth to hide. Mr. Everhart put on his glasses again, and squinted down at the script.

“All right,” he declared. “On to the next scene—on Wendy’s roof!”

Chapter Five

“Okay, Peter, come out here for a second,” Mr. Everhart called.

“Yes, sir,” Peter said instantly, striding out of the shadows and clasping his hands in front of him. He stopped center stage, his back to me, and stood still, facing the director.

“Since we’re apparently all right with doing some blocking right now, you can note that you’ll be entering stage right for this scene,” Mr. Everhart said.

“Yessir,” Peter nodded.

“Anne,” Everhart beckoned to me. I mentally caught myself and leaped forward, stopping next to Peter.

“You will have followed him offstage—after standing for a moment in shock,” Mr. Everhart chuckled. “Up the stairs, through the attic stairway, and then you’ll both stoop through a window on the roof.”

“Okay, sure,” I said.

“All right, Peter, go ahead and come on first.”

“Sir!” he said, turned on his heel, and dashed past me. Spinning around, I hurried after him.

“Keep up, keep up, girl!” Peter teased, motioning to me as he ducked past the curtains offstage.

“Haha, I’m trying!” I muttered back.

“Coming on now,” Peter called out to the others, then bent down, pushed on an invisible window, swung it open, and stepped out. I waited, watching him stride out onto the “roof,” scanning around, and fiddling with the unseen device he’d initially pulled from his belt. He stopped center stage.

Following his lead, but trying not to drop my script, I also bent down just as far as he had, stepped forward as I eyed him—and made a show of tripping over the window ledge. Nancy and Stephen laughed.

All right, mental note to keep that, I thought.

“‘This site should be sufficient,’” Peter began, still talking into his “recording device.” “‘There’s enough attobugisite that I can set the radial thermozetta here…’” He began deftly stepping out measurements across the stage, pointing to certain places, tilting his head and squinting. “‘The radioactive femtobot can clamp to this edge, and leaving a teramacro between it and the zengatera should ensure absolute safety.’”

“‘What on earth are you doing?’” I shouted, storming downstage. He spun to face me, giving me an ugly look.

“‘Why did you follow me?’” he snapped, before sweeping past me in his continuation of taking measurements. I let my mouth fall open, gestured helplessly, then followed him.

“‘This is my house—I’m the one who should be asking you the questions!’”

“‘As I said, this is no longer your house,’” he replied, squatting down and eyeing something unseen with extreme intensity. I glanced down at my script, wishing with all my might I could just throw it offstage and go without it, like him…

“‘Of course it’s my house,’” I retorted. “‘I paid for it, remodeled it, and put this new roof on it! All my mail comes here, I have the deed, for heaven’s sake. This is my house!”

“‘Stop screaming, you ridiculous woman,’” he made a haughty face, and almost put on a British accent. “‘This is not a difficult concept, even for you.’”

“‘Well, breaking and entering isn’t a difficult concept, either,’” I shot back. “‘I’m going downstairs to call the police.’” And I started back toward the invisible window.

“‘Then—I’ll be forced to activate the Megafabricon,’” Peter said, ice-cold, slowly rising to his feet.

I stopped dead, and made myself turn around very slowly, and pin him with a sideways look.

“‘What is a Megafabricon?’” I asked, my voice low and tight.

Unseen by the others, Peter’s glance suddenly sparkled, and—for some reason—his composure flickered. Then, he lifted his chin and took a deep breath.

“‘It is a super-heated, invisible barrier that will launch from this spot right here—’” he pointed to a spot on the stage and then ferociously shot his hand up into the air.

I cowered backward.

“‘—and cover this building entirely,’” he waved wildly, deepening his voice to booming. “Penetrating through the earth and all the way beneath the basement, encapsulating it in an unbreakable, uncrackable, unshakable forcefield that nothing invented in this century could even put a dent in.’” He leaned toward me. “‘Not even an atomic bomb.’”

I just stared at him, as per the script—but also captivated by his fiery animation and the radiation in his gaze. I felt like, any second, flames might shoot from his fingers.

“‘You’re insane,’” I said shakily, thankful that I already knew that line and didn’t have to break eye contact.

Suddenly, he shrugged and looked away as if we weren’t talking about anything of importance at all.

“‘Say what you like, it makes very little difference,’” he said lightly. “‘I’m establishing my laboratories here for the duration of my experiments, and you may either remain here and keep to yourself as much as possible, or you can leave.” He put his hands in his pockets and strolled across the front of the stage, as if looking down over the edge of the roof. “‘Of course, I would prefer that you left, but I won’t force you out. I might need someone to cook.’”

“‘Wha—!’” I gasped, speechless with horror, and made myself stammer for a minute whilst he dutifully ignored me. Then, I stomped my foot, grabbed a fistful of my hair…

Then spun around, marched toward the invisible window, threw another forceful glare back at him, pushed through the window—

And tripped again.

Everybody laughed—and I heard Peter break character and snort.

And then…

The cast started clapping. I felt my cheeks get hot, pushed my hair out of my face, and turned back around, biting my lip and smiling. Peter took a bow, and then frantically waved me forward. I laughed and came up to join him.

“Wow, that was great!” Walter cried, clapping widely.

“Good grief, did you two practice this beforehand?” Mr. Everhart asked.

“No, they didn’t,” Aaron sat back and folded his arms, giving us a sly smile. “They’re just reading each other very well.”

“Well, let’s keep going then!” Mr. Everhart suggested, clearing his throat and turning the page. “The next bit takes place on a split set. Stage right will be Wendy’s room, where she’ll be pacing and deciding whether or not to call anyone. Then there’s a wall with a door in it to an adjoining guest bedroom. That’s where Peter will end up. Got it?”

“Yup,” Peter went up on his toes. “Go ahead?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Everhart chuckled, waving us off.

Peter dashed off stage left, and I maneuvered into what I thought was the right place.

“Downstage a bit, Anne,” Aaron motioned to me.

“Okay, makes sense,” I said, obeying. “So, I’ve got a bed here, nightstand, stuff like that?”

“Right, a full-size bed, nightstand, wardrobe over there,” Everhart pointed. “The dividing wall’s at center stage. Got it?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“Okay, go.”

I re-oriented myself, outlined the bed and the walls in my mind, and started pacing back and forth, glancing down at my script as I did.

“‘Sure. Okay. There’s a man on my roof, setting up…Tarabetazips or…Plasmafalazoids or…What did he say? The Megafabricon? What is that?’” I stopped in the center of the room and threw my hand in the air. “‘Is that even real? Well, the mess down in the living room is definitely real! Ugh, he probably would do something ridiculous if I called the police. And what exactly is that thing down there, a bomb? It’s obviously not a time machine, whatever he says—he’s clearly crazy…’” I sighed helplessly. “‘But…if I try to explain this to Mom or Eric they’ll think I’m crazy.’” I put my hand to my forehead and kept reading, very aggrieved. “‘What am I going to do?’”

“Clank, crash, boom, general irritating noises,” Peter said in loud monotone. I covered my face with my hand so I wouldn’t giggle.

“Want me to go in the other bedroom now?” I muttered through my fingers.

“Yes, the door’s just upstage of you,” Everhart answered.

“’Kay,” I said, turned and mimed flinging open an adjoining door.

Peter was in the next “room,” pretending to set something up with studious precision. For a second, I gaped at the invisible array of technology that filled the room, which was supposed to have appeared basically out of nowhere.

“‘What are you doing now?’” I demanded, furious.

“‘I noticed you weren’t in this room, and since you live alone, I assumed this was the guest room,’” Peter replied absently. “‘I’ll be staying here for the duration, until I’ve discovered or altered whatever is necessary.’”

I looked down at my script, burning the words into my mind, then pushed it down, lifted my head, and poured boiling venom into my voice.

“‘How. Dare. You.’”

Peter stopped. He frowned over his shoulder at me.

“‘What?’”

“‘I don’t care who you are or what you are—How dare you just…Just come charging into a lady’s home, without asking permission, without smiling, saying hello, explaining yourself?’” I advanced on him like an army.

He faced me, and his eyes flashed.

“‘And now you’re just moving in to my guest room, as if you own it, completely disregarding what I might want or need,’” I continued. “‘Clearly you have extremely advanced technology, and you’re very smart—but you are absolutely disrespectful, uncivilized and unkind. And whatever it is you came here to find out, it’s irrelevant.’”

“‘Irrelevant?’” he repeated, as if baffled.

“‘Yes,’” I bit out. “‘You can’t put any knowledge to good use if you don’t have wisdom and compassion to go along with it. Didn’t your parents teach you that?’”

“‘I didn’t have any parents.’”

I stopped. Looked down at the script.

That wasn’t in there.

I brought my head up, suddenly searching Peter’s face.

He’d changed completely.

The hardness had melted from his features, his eyebrows drawn together. His blue eyes, catching the stage lights, seemed incandescent. And he carefully clasped his hands in front of him.

“‘My parents died in a chemical explosion when I was six months old,’” he went on, his voice quiet and careful. He shifted his weight. “‘I grew up with scientists and professors, surrounded by lab coats and computers. But…even they told me that I suffered from an acute lack of empathy.’”

I said nothing. I couldn’t say anything—he’d gone off script. So I waited.

“‘Whatever the cause of it, it must be true,’” he shrugged. “‘I hear it often enough. I don’t like people, and I don’t want their company. But I…I still feel keenly the waste, the missed opportunity that I see every day in the world around me. I just feel it in my bones—that something has gone wrong.’” He looked at me with an odd urgency, and pressed his fingertips to his chest.

I glance down. What he’d just said somewhat resembled a written line—so I took it.

“‘What exactly is wrong?’”

“‘Everything,’” he said—and I could feel the pain in his voice.

Without meaning to, I let the angry tension in my brow change to concern. And I watched every move on his face.

“‘Half the world’s been destroyed by nuclear holocaust, the people who survived live in a sterile environment—no trees, no grass, no animals. Everything is synthesized, everyone is monitored. Half the population has to live encased in machinery to keep them alive. Nobody risks natural pregnancy for fear of genetic mutation, so children are engineered and then implanted into women who have been specifically chosen for the task.’” He took a deep breath, the pain overwhelming him now. And he took me right with him.

“‘We live to live,’” he said softly. “‘To survive. To keep going. And yet…We’ve lost everything that makes us want to.’”

I swallowed, my heart churning inside me. I reluctantly glanced down at my script, then returned my eyes to Peter as quickly as I could.

“‘How did that happen?’” I asked.

“‘I don’t know,’” he said helplessly. “‘That’s what I came to find out.’”

I allowed a pause to linger between us. And I carefully took two steps toward him.

“‘How do I know you’re from the future?’” I ventured.

He held out his invisible device. I eyed it for a long moment, then reached out and took it, very carefully.

“‘What is this?’”

“‘Almost anything you want it to be,’” he answered. “‘A communicator, a camera, a recording device, a map, a scanner, an X-ray, an infrared detector, a computer, an encyclopedia…Go ahead, ask it something.’”

“‘Ask it something?’” I raised my eyebrows. “‘This looks like a TV remote with a screen!’”

Peter chuckled, then buried it.

“‘It could do that, too. Probably. Go on, ask it something.’”

I stared doubtfully down at the invisible device, then lifted it up toward my face, and spoke.

“‘What is the capital of the United States?’”

“‘The capital of the United States of America was Washington, District of Columbia,’” Aaron read out, as the voice of the computer, in his most precise and lofty British accent.

My character would obviously be astonished at this, so I let my mouth fall open and I held up the device, staring at Peter and then at it. He just stood there, a self-satisfied smile on his face. Finally, I hesitated, frowning at it, before I risked another question.

“‘What is the circumference of the earth?’”

“‘Twenty-four thousand, nine hundred one miles,’” Aaron answered.

“‘What is the distance from the earth to the sun?’”

“‘Ninety-two point nine-six million miles.’”

“‘Okay,’” I said, putting challenge in my tone. “‘How tall am I?’”

“‘You are a human female, aged twenty-six, standing five feet, six inches tall.’”

I widened my eyes at Peter.

“‘That’s…’” I stammered. “‘That’s not possible.’”

Peter just lifted his eyebrows a little, implying I ought to go on. I narrowed my eyes, and said my next line very pointedly.

“‘All right. Okay, fine. What is the population of the earth?’”

“‘Two million, seven hundred fifty thousand, one hundred three.’”

I stopped. I looked up at Peter again.

He gazed back at me, sorrow all over his face. I swallowed. And, without taking my eyes from Peter, I asked again.

“‘What year is it?’”

“‘The year is two-thousand, eighty-five years after the birth of Christ,’” Aaron answered, without a hint of emotion.

“‘Wow,’” I gasped, looking earnestly at Peter. “‘This…This is true, then? You’re actually…from the future. And it’s actually…Like that.’”

“‘I’m afraid so.’” He closed one eye in a tired wince.

“‘And you’ve come here to what…get away from that?’” I ventured, holding out the device to him.

“‘Oh, no,’” he shook his head, taking it from me. “‘I’m a scientist, and I never run away from anything. I want to learn—to find out what went wrong, and prevent it.’”

“‘You’re trying to change the future?’” I cried.

“‘Yes, exactly!’” he stepped toward me now, getting more animated with his gestures. “‘If I can discover what events led to the domino effect that created the world I now live in—then it won’t turn out that way! Don’t you see? If I can get to the bottom of this, I could prevent nuclear genocide, test-tube babies, synthesized food, people living in cubicles and never seeing the sky or trees or animals again.’”

I looked at him for a long time as he gazed earnestly at me.

“‘And for some reason…’” I said slowly. “‘You think that whatever went wrong…happened at my house?’”

“‘Well, maybe not your house precisely,’” he shrugged. “‘According to my calculations, it happened somewhere within a ten-mile radius of here, and your house is at the center of it.’”

“‘That sounds pretty precise to me,’” I offered a weak laugh. His smile brightened a little.

“‘Don’t you see how important this is?’” he asked. “‘Not just for my generation, but all the generations that come after?’”

I canted my head, frowning.

“‘But,’” I said slowly. “‘Theoretically…If you change something in the past…couldn’t you erase your own existence? Make it so you were never born?’”

“‘Time travel is still in a very experimental stage,’” he replied. “‘And no theory has been tested to its full extent yet. So, technically…’” He took a deep breath. “‘Yes. Yes, I could.’”

“‘And you’re still willing to do it?’” I studied him hard.

“‘Absolutely,’” he said. “‘And you…’” he stopped.

I raised my eyebrows, waiting. He glanced down, bit his lip, then risked another step toward me.

“‘And you may help me. If you’re willing.’”

I didn’t say my next line. For some reason, a line—any line—felt wrong.

So instead, I held out my right hand.

Peter’s eyes flashed to mine. He looked at my hand, then at me again.

And that incandescent sparkle danced across his gaze for just an instant.

He reached out, very carefully, and took my hand.

But he didn’t shake it. Instead, he gently took my fingers and curled them inside his, leaving our thumbs to rest on top. He tapped my thumb with his, and ducked his head.

“‘I…’” He hesitated. “‘I don’t believe I caught your name.’”

Finally, I let myself smile at him—which I’d been wanting to do the whole time.

“‘I’m Wendy James.’”

He looked up, and squeezed my fingers.

“‘I’m Dr. Edward Ripple.’”

And he smiled back at me.

“Very good!” Mr. Everhart declared, and the rest of the cast clapped—and Walter whistled.

Unable to contain myself any longer, I gripped Peter’s hand and leaned in close to him.

“Peter—you are fantastic!” I told him. “That was incredible!”

“Oh, shoot—no it wasn’t,” he dipped his head away, then sneaked a glance up at me. “You think so?”

“Absolutely!” I cried, keeping hold of him. “I’ve never seen anything like that!”

“Oh, I hardly knew what I was doing, I was so busy watching you,” he answered, laughing.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed, shaking my head. “You’re amazing.”

He couldn’t repress his grin anymore, and turned away to hide it—but I felt him tighten his grip on me, and I saw his cheeks color.

“I am impressed,” Aaron declared. “That was wonderful to watch.”

I dipped my head, and Peter swung our hands back and forth.

“Why don’t we take a ten minute break?” Mr. Everhart suggested. “Get a drink of water, stretch out a bit, and come back for the next scene.”

Chapter Six

The rest of the morning, we ran the entire show.

After watching Peter and I trip over windows and slam doors and talk to invisible hand-held devices, the rest of the cast wasn’t content anymore to just sit and read through the script. Knowing what I did about actors, I’m sure they were eager to prove that they could mime and pretend just as heartily as anybody else. So, holding their scripts in one hand and gesturing with the other, Nancy, Stephen and Walter threw themselves into the scenes.

Mr. Everhart, too, got out of his chair several times—in spite of his painful knee—and maneuvered carefully around the stage, pointing with enthusiasm to the places where tables, chairs, couches, fireplaces, doors and futuristic equipment would be, and where we ought to stand in relation to the furniture and each other. Only Aaron remained seated, pencil in hand, silently watching us and making marks in his script.

I noticed right away that the other actors had studied the script even more diligently than I had, and seriously thought about their character voices and even some mannerisms—especially Walter. Both Nancy and Stephen readily made eye contact with me and each other as we rehearsed, turning the lines into actual conversations.

Stephen wasn’t afraid to come close to me when the scene called for it, put an arm around me, or give me a quick peck on the head, just as an actual gentlemanly boyfriend would. He had a deep voice and an easy manner that, as Eric Schultz, also carried a confidence and a little sharpness that I thought was perfect for the part. He had an incredibly handsome smile that he used skillfully to soften what otherwise might be unkind-sounding lines. And when he looked at me, I really enjoyed looking back at him, because he had radiant green eyes and a piercing gaze that pulled me into the moment of the story.

Nancy exuded class and a sweet sort of arrogance, using her beauty to make Janet James’ whole aura charming instead of irritating. Twice during a conversation, she reached out and grasped my hand, so I decided that was the gesture we’d use as a family signal—and so later, when my character wanted to make a point with hers, I reached out and grasped her hand in turn. When I did, she returned the pressure and gave me all of her attention.

Walter, when he wasn’t in character, reminded me of a cat I had at home upstate: sweet, a little shy but likes everyone, and fond of sitting dopily around and blinking. But when Walter became Allen, his watery eyes took on a cunning coldness, like a lean, starving wolf, and he’d tilt his head in an absolutely unnerving fashion that caused me to break into uncomfortable giggles more than once.

One time, as Mr. Everhart was talking to Stephen and Nancy, and Peter was discussing something with Aaron, I found myself standing next to Walter. He shifted uncomfortably, keeping his eyes on his script—except when he’d glance repeatedly over at me. Finally, I turned to him.

“Do you have family here in New York, Walter?”

“Um…Yeah, actually,” he said, his head coming up in surprise. “I…I live with my sister. She works on Wall Street.”

“Wow!” I exclaimed. “That’s high-pressure work.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “She and I are constantly having competitions about who has the most to worry about. She says she worries about watching a million dollars go down the tubes, I say I worry about tripping and falling on my face in front of a thousand people.”

“Oh, you’re not going to fall on your face,” I assured him. “You’re doing a really wonderful job.”

“Thank you,” he smiled and shrugged one shoulder. “I haven’t gotten a part in such a long time, I feel pretty rusty. But I’ve worked with Mr. Highgate before, in one of his first plays, and he called me up and asked if I’d be interested in this one.”

“Hey, that’s wonderful!”

“Yeah, he’s a great guy. Really sensible and down to earth,” Walter nodded, then lowered his voice. “Unlike most writers in New York.”

I chuckled at that, and then Mr. Everhart called us back to the scene.

As we progressed, the scenes I had with Stephen and Nancy were measured, flowing, natural, and felt astonishingly-good and solid. I’d worked with excellent college performers before, but never professionals—and it suddenly felt like stepping from a rickety stool onto a marble tabletop. I could tell that I could rely on them to come in every time, to remember their lines, and to bring life and flavor to every scene.

Peter, on the other hand…

He felt like a hurricane.

A delightful, energetic, flashing storm of a presence, spitting out those nonsensical futuristic words as if he spoke fluent technobabble; expertly working the dials and knobs of the invisible computers that slowly crowded every room; flying into thunderous, self-righteous rages only to wilt in defeat and confusion. When he and I had scenes together, I felt like I was grabbing onto the tailcoats of a whirling dervish and fighting to hold on.

Yet, every time I felt like I was just about to get shaken loose, he’d stop. He’d slow down, change his tone, come over to me, and pierce me with such keen and unwavering attention that I had just enough time to gather myself, take a breath, and continue with my line.

He never touched me whilst playing Dr. Ripple, and portrayed the eccentric scientist with a haughty, Sherlockian aloofness. But when we broke character to listen to Mr. Everhart, he often nudged me, gave me sly looks, or made faces when the director wasn’t looking to try to make me giggle.

We all burst through the length of the script, laughing in between times, often excitedly talking over each other about character points.

And then, suddenly, we came to the last scene.

“All right, that’s good enough,” Aaron said, holding up a hand.

I twitched, surprised. I’d almost forgotten he was there.

“Yes, Mr. Highgate is right,” Mr. Everhart grunted, sitting down in his chair again. “We’ll rehearse this scene separately, since there’s obviously no script for it, and an entirely different technique will be used. And, of course, it’ll only involve Peter and Anne.’”

“And I think you may need to rest, my friend,” Aaron gave him a careful smile.

“Oh, nothing a couple aspirin can’t fix,” Mr. Everhart waved him off.

“No point in pushing yourself,” Aaron countered. “We’ve come a lot further today than we thought we would.”

“Wow, is it already two in the afternoon?” Nancy realized, looking down at her watch. “I completely lost track of time!”

“Easy to do,” Peter laughed.

“No wonder I was starting to feel wobbly on my legs,” Walter remarked. “I’m starved!”

“Well, there are several good restaurants around here,” Aaron said. “There’s a pizzeria around the corner that’s particularly good. I suggest everyone go eat, study your scripts, rest, and we’ll see you back here tomorrow at nine a.m.”

“I’ll be here at seven,” Peter nodded, giving a grin to his uncle, then to me.

“Bye, everybody!” Nancy waved. “See you tomorrow!”

“Goodbye, Mother!” I called teasingly after her.

“Go get good rest, darling,” she answered as she headed toward the stairs, putting on her Mrs. James affect. “Don’t neglect your beauty sleep!”

The others waved and said goodbye, and I shut my script and went to pick up my purse from beside where I’d been sitting.

“I thought that went really well,” Peter said to Aaron in a calm, low—but not secretive—voice.

“Yes, I thought so, too,” Aaron agreed, standing up and closing his own script. I glanced over to see Peter put his hands in his pockets.

“Nancy’s really natural, and Walter’s just great,” Peter noted. “He’s seriously creeping me out.”

“Yes, and I’m glad I got Stephen,” Aaron said. “Snatched him out of the jaws of some big musical that’s opening two weeks from now. A revival of Cinderella, I think.”

“Yeah, he looks like the football type,” Peter said, in a sports announcer voice. I stifled another smile and started toward the steps, hearing the men continue talking behind me. I pushed through the curtain and headed down the stairs and out into the house.

Then, I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see Peter walking up the aisle, his hands still in his pockets, his head bent in thought.

“I’m so impressed you have all your lines memorized,” I said, stopping to wait for him. He blinked and lifted his head, then gave a friendly shrug.

“Ha. Easy when you write half of them,” he said.

“You wrote half of them?” I cried, falling into step beside him.

“Yeah, I basically invented the character,” he said. “Uncle Aaron wrote all the mentally stable ones, like you.”

I chuckled, and he answered it. We stepped out into the lobby, and I turned to face him.

“Well, would you like to come to lunch with me?” I asked. “I thought I’d go to the pizzeria Aaron mentioned, since it’s close by—I’d love to hear about what it’s like to write a script.”

“Hey, I’d like to, but I have a date,” he said.

“Oh!” I blinked. “A date? Okay—some other time, then.”

“Sure,” he smiled brightly. “And we won’t go to any run-of-the-mill pizza place. I know this Indian spot around the corner that’s fabulous—you won’t be able to feel your tongue afterward, but you’ll die happy.”

“Haha, okay,” I agreed. “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye!” he waved at me, and headed toward the back of the lobby, where there was probably a side door I didn’t know about.

Unable to turn away quite yet, I watched him go, feeling an odd shift inside me—like I’d just been swept through the tail of a comet.

“Hi, Mom!”

“Hi, Annie! How was rehearsal?”

“Ugh, I’m exhausted,” I groaned stretching out on the couch, Milo purring on my stomach. I adjusted the telephone wire. “It’s only four in the afternoon and I’m ready for bed. I’ve already had a bath and I’m in my pajamas and everything. I can’t even summon the energy to get up and put a movie in the VCR.”

“Goodness, why are you so tired?”

I heaved another sigh.

“We ended up running almost the whole show today,” I answered. “It was just supposed to be a read-through, but then Peter Wren wanted to get up and actually go through the motions—which is a lot easier for him, since he’s got it all memorized.”

“Peter is Aaron Highgate’s nephew, right?”

“Yeah,” I smiled. “Wow, Mom—he’s incredible. What a fantastic actor. And he just seems to have endless energy. Like a puppy or something. He’s going to run us all ragged.”

“Yes, Aaron’s told me a little about him,” Mom said.

“Really?” I adjusted the throw pillow behind my head. “What did he say?”

“He hasn’t talked to me about him in a long time,” Mom said. “It was when Peter was in high school, and Aaron was really worried about him.”

“Worried? Why?”

“I can’t remember exactly—mixing with the wrong crowd, I think. Getting involved in things that caused him to miss classes and start failing. I think he was even arrested.”

“Arrested!” I cried.

“I might be wrong—but he got in quite a bit of trouble.”

“Hm,” I murmured, rubbing my forehead. “Well, maybe, since Aaron hasn’t talked about it for a while, he’s straightened out now.”

“Quite possible! And it’s probably good that he’s working so closely with his uncle,” Mom noted. “Probably helps keep him on the right track.”

“Hopefully,” I said quietly. “Because—the rest of the cast is really good, and I’m going to love working with them…but,” I took a deep breath, realizing what I was about to say was true, even as I formed the words. “He’s Edward Ripple. And I honestly don’t think this show could even work without him.”

Chapter Seven

Friday, April 12th

My heart pounded, and I stared up at the dim ceiling of my bedroom. The memory of the Picture that had just flashed in front of my eyes made me frown so hard my head hurt.

In it, I was on the stage at the Quadrant Theatre, staring out at the empty house. Except it wasn’t quite empty.

A man sat there, six rows from the stage, right in the center, staring back at me.

He wore a black suit and dark blue tie, and had white hair and neatly-trimmed beard. He wore businesslike glasses, and had a red handkerchief in his breast pocket.

And his gaze pinned me—shafted right through me, froze me to the spot, so that I couldn’t move or think.

I shivered as I lay there in bed, wanting to duck back underneath the covers and stay there all day.

RING-RING!

The jangle of the phone nearly made me fall out of bed.

I whipped into a sitting position, snatched up the handset and pushed it to my ear.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Hello, Miss Maple, this is your 7:30 wake-up call.”

I slapped a hand to my head.

“Hello? Who is this?”

“It’s Peter Wren,” he said brightly. “Did I do a good job—are you awake?”

I chuckled, sounding like a 100-year-old woman.

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Come on, girl, you should be up already—eating Wheaties, building up your strength, running laps around the block—”

I really started laughing now, and I could feel him smiling on the other end.

Read this book: https://www.amazon.com/Last-Scene-Alydia-Rackham-ebook/dp/B07JHSJ1JC/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=the+last+scene+alydia+rackham&qid=1572889808&sr=8-1

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lazyaris · 6 years ago

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[MadaTobiWeek] Fourth Day: Youkai

Title: Amor Aeternus

Pairing: Madara x Tobirama

Theme: Youkai

Summary: If you love someone, then spoiles them, gives them everything they ever wanted, and then... destroy their wings forever. Until then that they truly become yours, until then that they will stay by your side forever and ever...

@madatobiweek

Read here or click Read more

Amor Aeternus

“You haven’t been hanging out with us lately, Madara”

“Yea! Did something happen?”

Hearing those words from his friends – or at least that’s the only term he can think of, they are just people that he hangs out with. Perhaps a little closer than stranger, but they aren’t someone he trusts enough to tell everything. It isn’t that hard to understand though, the life isn’t full of pink and sometimes a few relationships is needed in order to make everything progress well. Madara isn’t the type to make friends with people, he has things he needs to deal with, brothers to take care, but he guessed it all change when his only brother started studying abroad. They still talk and video call, but it was never the same. The stress his father placed upon him, it is what made him starting to hang with them – to place he would never visit before – too busy to do that and he didn’t want to disappoint his father.

However, that changed now. Some would call him crazy for did, but honestly, Madara doesn’t care about them nor their words. It has been two months since he started meeting this guy – something he first thought it was just a dream, because he only met him when he goes to bed. But turned out, it wasn’t his imagine or a simple dream, because night after night, he meets him and fuck, Madara thinks he may get addicted to this. The man is simply breath-taking, not just his looks but also his personality and his clever mind. Although there is something off about the man, something Madara just can’t put a finger to it, but he just couldn’t reject him. Said person is called Tobirama and since then, he no longer has nightmare or even feels lonely. Although they only meet when Madara falls asleep, but that’s enough for now.

Life seems to be brighter, Tobirama is a good listener and also gives good advise, something that help Madara a lot in life, however, for the past few days, the Uchiha has been feeling that this isn’t enough. He is curious, wants to know more about this strange white-hair guy, how he keeps appearing in his dream. He did some researched, but he just isn’t that sure anymore. Perhaps a talk is what they need, still, Madara has a feeling it won’t be easy, not only because Tobirama will probably try to avoid this topic but also because... well... Madara can’t really focus when he meets him. It is hard to meet someone that clicked so well with him like that and the Uchiha knows he has never a straight man.

Fortunately, he has yet to meet anyone that catch his interest so it is safe to say no one has found out about this secret, not even his family. Everything changed when he meets him, and like hell Madara can deny the fact he isn’t interested in him. Who wouldn’t anyway? Whenever he looks into those red orbs, he feels like drowning and it is so hard to look away from him. He even caught glimpse of what is hidden under those shirts Tobirama wears and fuck, 22 he may be, Tobirama still knows how to make him feel like a fucking horny teenage. But of course, it isn’t just about sex nor look, Madara is drawn in by Tobirama’s mind and words, how the man is so clever is still a mystery to him.

Sighed to himself, he honestly can’t stop himself from wanting to go back and falling asleep as quick as possible – just because he wanted to meet him. Madara knows it is bad, because he isn’t that stupid, he realizes he is withdrawing from the rest of the world, even from Izuna, just to spend more time with Tobirama, but there is barely anything for him to do. When people fall in love, they become blind, don’t they? It is the same case for Madara and he just wishes he can spend more time with him, or even holds him in reality, but somehow, he doesn’t think that is possible, or is it? Shook his head, the man put away those thought, he has things to do and unless he doesn’t want to spend more time with Tobirama, he better does it fast! With that settle, the Uchiha focus on his work, but somewhere in his mind, a familiar figure just stand there and smile at him...

“You have been staring at me for a while now, Madara...”

Sighed, Tobirama gazed at the Uchiha and wondered what is wrong with him today. Since they are in the dream land, where Tobirama pretty the one in control, it isn’t that weird seeing a room in japanese style, nor the fact they are drinking some tea right now, especial when they are the Land of Dream. Someone once said, illusion is reality and reality is illusion, someone can be nowhere yet everywhere, and someone can be someone yet noone. The line just doesn’t exist here, so yes, things like that can happen. Calmly picked up his tea cup, Tobirama relaxed himself at the smell of this lavender tea while waiting for Madara’s answer.

Knew that he should just get out with it, but seeing the way Tobirama relaxed himself like that, it reminds him of an adorable cat and it made him wanted to touch him so badly, even just a small stroke at Tobirama’s chin would be enough. However, Madara pushed those thought away and kept himself in check because while he has feeling for him, the dark hair male doesn’t believe it is possible for them. What if this is just some kind of insane dream or his mind play trick on him? But most of all, he doesn’t want to lose this friend...

“Well, it has been two months since we met and I’m just curious... What exactly are you?”

Paused, Tobirama knew this question would come, and Madara is more patient than he has thought, most of them couldn’t wait that long to ask this question. Allowed the warm liquid to fill his throat, then the Senju placed down his cup and looked at him, red orbs seem to lit up, but perhaps it just Madara’s imagine.

“Curious?” Earned a nod from Madara, which made the Senju chuckled at how eager Madara is. Yes, the Uchiha is an adult, but compared to someone like Tobirama, Madara still quite young.

“Hm... I can tell you, but...” He trailed off and gazed at him with those half-close eyes, like a smug cat which made Madara became more impatient and leaned toward.

“But?”

“You see, nothing is free, my dear Uchiha... You should know, I don’t share my personal information with people I don’t trust”

“But aren’t we friends?”

“We are, however, that alone isn’t enough for you to have my whole trust”

Tobirama could see the frustrated in Madara’s eyes and he knew, everything is progressing nicely. The Uchiha will never know that this youkai has been watching him for a while before approached him two months ago, nor the fact everything actually planned out by him. It isn’t because Madara is too dense for those things, but because Tobirama has been living for a while now, he has met and interacted with different kinds of people, he knew exactly how to make them fall into his trap. However, Madara is different. At first, it only because the man’s dream is rather delicious to him, but sometimes, those dream containted his memory and the more he learnt about him, the more Tobirama found himself wanted him. Does he love him? That is a good question, one that Tobirama isn’t so sure, after all, is it possible for someone like him to feels such things? Many has met him before and Madara wouldn’t be the first one to be lead on like this, but one thing for sure, the Uchiha is the first one that caught Tobirama’s attention and made him wanted the man so bad. As if he wanted to own him completely...

It isn’t coincidence that they met, everything that happened, it happened for a reason. Tobirama was the one who wanted it to happen and he trusts himself that he can catch this Uchiha’s interest. It is a bet, and guessed what, he won. From the corner Madara can’t see, the Senju smirked – one that made people feel like he has finally archived his goal, however, he isn’t an arrogant, he knew this still a little too soon...

“Then what do you want from me?”

Madara knew he shouldn’t ask this question, because it felt like he will regret this. But does he look like he will give a damn right now? He just too close to it and it actually hurt to know that Tobirama hasn’t trust him fully yet. Trust takes a long time to build, but Madara already falls so hard, so deep. He gave the Senju his whole trust, not only because Tobirama only exist here but also because there is just something that made him wanted to trust him so badly.

‘Hook, Line and Sinker’

“What I tell you are a little dangerous, so I will need to form a contract with me. It isn’t because I don’t trust you, but this is our rules.” The words made Madara perked up a little, contract sounds like something could give Madara some trouble, however, it isn’t like Tobirama will harm he, right?

“I want to read the contact first”

“Sure”

In a burst of flame, the contract appeared right in front of the Uchiha. Upon reading and scanning it, he has to admit, this is acceptable, basically, it is to make sure he won’t tell anyone about what he has heard from Tobirama, nor try to harm Tobirama after he has known what the man truly is. However, he thought that wouldn’t be necessary, Madara would never try to hurt him! Although he can be rather ruthless towards his opponent, when it comes to his family and friends, Madara would do anything for them, even if he won’t admit it. Still, if this is needed, Madara wouldn’t mind signing it. However, there is one sounded a little strange, because it stated that once he signed this contract, it means he will now a part of Tobirama’s group and he just frowned. It is good to be close to Tobirama, but does this mean everyone who meet Tobirama before also sign something like this? And why would it needed to be in the contract? Something seem off, but he just couldn’t figure out what is what. Perhaps Tobirama too, noticed the look from Madara, that’s why he gave him a small smile and cocked his head to the side.

“Something wrong?”

“...I suppose not”

Shook his head, Madara decided it probably because he thinks too much. So received the pen from Tobirama, he signed down his name, never notice this dark look from his dearest crush, or the small smirk on his face. If Madara has seen it, perhaps he will know just what he got himself into, but unfortunately, he should have been more careful of who he has been meeting with, because sometimes, things isn’t like what they seem to be...

The moment the contract is seal, it burst into flame and vanished as quickly as the moment it shown up. Onyx gazed toward the white-hair male and even without words, the Senju knew what the Uchiha is asking. Doesn’t matter, everything is progressing smoothly and in no time, he will have the Uchiha as his own. As promise, Tobirama will have to tell him what he is and explain everything – something he has no problem with, because this isn’t the first time it happened. So calmly enjoyed his tea, the inhuman figure began his tale.

“As you may guess... I aren’t a human, nor used to be one” A spirit could appear in dream like this, however, those trash could never reach Tobirama’s level. “I am what you people called Baku...” A creature that eat nightmare and dream, but of course, this is barely the end of said story. This only the beginning, and as red orbs bored straight into onyx one, Madara felt as if he is melting under those look.

‘Not now, boner!’

Is it even possible for him to have a boner in his dream? He has no idea, but he wouldn’t want Tobirama to know. Laughter filled the entire room and as Madara once again swipe his attention to Tobirama, the man carried on with his story.

“So it begins like this....”

A month later...

Lately... Madara has been rather tired, he doesn’t know why but he has been sleeping a lot more than usual. Of course if it is someone else, they may suspect the Senju seeing the Senju eats dream and nightmare, so he could be the reason. However, Madara trust Tobirama too much and well, it isn’t really a bad idea as it means he can meet Tobirama more. Ah, has he mention it? Just last week, they have offical became a couple! Yes, it sounds insane but after knowing that Tobirama isn’t a dream or something his mind created on its own self, Madara just doesn’t give a shit anymore. So what if the man is a youkai, he is real and he is there for him. Dream it can be, but everything is even more real than reality. He just doesn’t realize this, but he is being dragged deeper into the Land of Dream, one that Tobirama controls and soon, the Uchiha would never manage to return to his world anymore.... But perhaps, it will happen even faster than Tobirama ever planned, because sometimes, things would never follow the plan nicely.

A yawn passed his lips, Madara tried his hardest to focus on the route, however, just as he turned the wheel over, the car from the opposite way somehow lost control and within a blink of eye, it crashed into Madara’s. Unexpected, his eyes widen as he never thought something like this could happen seeing he always try to drive as safe as possible. Pain crashed through his body and Madara could barely think of anything, image of his family flashed through his mind as he became dizzy and the pain just increased, to the point where his body and mind could no longer handle it and the last thing in his mind was the worry face of his lover.

“Tobirama....”

Fortunately, the pain didn’t last long because right after darkness claimed him, Madara snapped out his eyes, wondered to himself just what the hell happened, wasn’t a car crashed into his and he fainted due to the pain and the blood lost? How can he awake that quickly? As he took a look around him, he realized this place seem familiar, but he thought he could only enter this place when he goes to sleep? Curious and confuse, yet it all disappeared when he felt a pair of arms wrapped around his shoulder, he knew this scent, it belonged to Tobirama – Madara was certain because he could never forget it. Whenever they get too close, he could smelt it, especial when... they make love to each other.

“Tobirama?”

Unsure tone, he turned over and looked at his lover. However, Tobirama stopped him and tighten the hug around him. Madara will never know but if the man has faint before he called out for Tobirama, chance is, the Senju won’t be fast enough to grab his soul first, and the Death God could get his hands on Madara’s soul before him. He felt worry and scare, something he didn’t know he could feel, because he is a youkai and emotions are something rather expensive for them. But he did, and it is all because of this Uchiha. He knew, he may have him, but Madara has his heart and well... Perhaps Tobirama was the one who lost to this game.

“You’re safe now....”

“I remember I got into an accident”

“You did. But you are safe now... I will protect you, I won’t let them take you away” Tobirama repeated the line, as if he is telling himself that Madara is safe now and won’t leave him.

“Them? What did you do, Tobirama...?”

“Shh... It isn’t important.”

Turned his lover over, Tobirama caressed his face gentle. A little faster than the plan, but seeing that Madara already here... he isn’t going to let him go anymore.

“I won’t let anything happen to you again.” Blood red eyes seem to become darker and Madara suddenly felt like something is wrong, however, a finger pressed against his lips and he could only stared into those red orbs.

“I will protect you” Leaned forward, Tobirama allowed the space between them became smaller and smaller, finger stroked against Madara’s lips.

“I will give you everything you want, however....” As the Senju removed his finger and closed the gasp between them, they were close enough for their lips to meet and Tobirama muttered against Madara’s lips. “I will never allow you to leave my side again... You’re mine and mine alone, Madara...”

And with that, he pressed his pressed against his lover’s lips. All words left Madara’s mind and the only things he could feel or think is Tobirama. He knew he should talk to him about what Tobirama just said just now and about the accident, he knew he should be worried as Tobirama is acting strange. Especial because from what he gathered, he gets in a serious accident and he could die. What Tobirama said just confirm his theory, however, words is meaningless right now, it isn’t like he could do anything and Tobirama needed him right now. He knew the event must gave his lover a heart attack, so wrapped his arms around his lover, he pinned him down and licked his lips playfully.

“Allow me to show you how it done”

The rest can be handled later... Right now, Madara has a lover to satisfy, and as he leaned down to kiss him, he never sees the way Tobirama’s eyes lit up or how demonic it looked. Yes, he loves him, there is no doubt about that, but at the same time, Tobirama is hardly a good youkai. He is selfish and he takes what he wanted, even without this accident, Madara would soon become his and his alone. Never forget, “The devil doesn’t come in pointy horns and red cape... He comes at everything you’ve ever wished for.”

[You’re mine....]

Since the moment Tobirama saw Madara, the Senju has already marked the Uchiha as his and his alone. He loves him, but he also a selfish person, too paranoid to wait for Madara’s time to come. As long as Madara still alive and out there, there is a small chance that someone will come and steal him away from Tobirama, something the white-hair male couldn’t allow to happen. He is madly inlove with him, that’s why...

‘I’m sorry...’

And he stole away Madara’s soul – just as he tore apart his lover’s wings... With these bloody eyes, he will seduce him; with this body, Tobirama ties Madara to his; with this soul and heart, he lock the Uchiha in his golden cage. The happiness because he finally made Madara his, the guilt because he just destroyed his own lover, it is what pushed the youkai to insanity. Lips curled up into a small smirk and he wrapped arms around him. So what if he is insane, what if he no longer the same...? As long as he has Madara, even if he has to pay with his life, it’ll be alright.

[Forever and ever... ]

End.

#madatobiweek2018 #madatobi #madatob #madtob #uchiha madara #senju tobirama #myfanfic #ivysylph #madara x tobirama

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