Amelia Earhart: Lady Lindy (The Treasure Chest #8)
Ann Hood
CHAPTER 1
THE CRUCIBLE
Maisie had survived a fire at sea. She’d escaped to Shanghai during the Boxer Rebellion, avoided arrows and lava, and managed to get out of a workhouse in London. Why, she thought, I’ve even survived my parents’ divorce and moving to Newport, Rhode Island, and being the new kid in school! And she had hardly been afraid at all. During all of that. But what Miss Percy was asking her to do terrified her.
“Come on, Maisie,” Miss Percy said in her strong, aristocratic Boston accent, the one that Maisie’s mother said sounded like she was one of the Kennedys.
She could be JFK’s sister, the way she talks, Maisie’s mother had said after parent–teacher night. She said it like it wasn’t a good thing, even though it seemed to Maisie that being related to President Kennedy would be a very good thing.
“You would be perfect as one of the girls,” Miss Percy persisted.
“I don’t want to be in the school play,” Maisie said.
What she meant was that the idea of getting up on the stage in front of the entire school—all those people who thought she was weird—and saying lines made her shake with fear and dread.
“But it’s The Crucible!” Miss Percy said as if that mattered.
Of course Maisie knew the play was The Crucible. That was all Bitsy Beal talked about these days, how she was going to get the role of Abigail Williams, which was the lead, Maisie assumed, or Bitsy Beal wouldn’t want it so badly.
“Arthur Miller!” Miss Percy continued, except she said it like “Ah-tha Mill-ah.” “One of the leading American playwrights of the twentieth century!”
“I’m sure he’s a very good writer,” Maisie said. “I just don’t want to be onstage, that’s all.”
Miss Percy had dirty-blond hair cut in a chin-length bob, bright blue eyes, and a strong, pronounced jaw. With her trim, athletic body, her kilts, and her polo shirts, she looked like she should have a stick in her hand—field hockey, ice hockey, lacrosse. But no. Miss Percy taught music and headed the drama club. For music, she made them play “Hot Cross Buns” on the recorder, watch the movie Amadeus, and dance to African drumming. For the play, she was directing The Crucible, which apparently was about a bunch of Puritan girls accusing people of witchcraft. Bitsy Beal said it was really about Communism, but Maisie didn’t care either way. She had stage fright.
Miss Percy handed her a pale blue book and smiled, showing all of her big horsey teeth.
“Here’s the script,” she said. “Just come to auditions after school this afternoon. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”
“Yes it is,” Maisie grumbled.
But Miss Percy just smiled even bigger and walked away in her penny loafers.
“Hey!” Felix said, coming up beside Maisie. “I’m trying out, too!”
He held out his own little blue script book.
Maisie groaned. That meant Bitsy Beal and Felix and Jim Duncan and the rest of them would get all the good parts, and Maisie would be stuck as a maid or worse—not that she wanted any part, anyway.
“What’s wrong?” Felix asked, confused.
“I don’t want to be in the dumb play,” Maisie said.
“Why not?”
Maisie glanced around to be sure no one could hear.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“You? Afraid?” Felix blurted.
“Why don’t you tell the whole world?” Maisie hissed. “Why don’t you put it on a billboard somewhere?”
“Calm down,” Felix said gently.
“I am calm,” she said, although her heart was racing and she felt all sweaty.
“You aren’t afraid of anything, Maisie. You’re practically the bravest person I know.”
In the distance, Hadley Ziff came down the corridor, waving one of the pale blue books, too.
“I want to be Tituba,” she said, her voice full of excitement. “She communes with the devil and gets everybody in trouble.”
“Is Rayne auditioning, too?” Felix asked hopefully.
“Of course!” Hadley said. “Maisie, which part are you going to read for?”
“I . . . um . . .”
“She doesn’t want to audition,” Felix said.
“I . . . ,” Maisie began.