Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was opening night.
The six weeks of rehearsals had seemed to go on forever while she waited for this night to arrive. Now that it was here, Rebecca wished that practices could have gone on indefinitely. She had gotten used to the auditorium being scattered with thirty or forty people at a time. She had thought a few more—a few hundred more—wouldn’t really make that much difference.
She had been wrong.
Rebecca had made the mistake of peeking out from behind the curtain just as the orchestra was warming up. She had hoped to spot her parents in the crowd. She thought seeing their proud faces would calm her frazzled nerves. Instead of seeing her mother’s round, smiling face or her father’s enthusiastic thumbs up, she saw throngs of strangers filling row after row of seats. It suddenly seemed like the auditorium stretched out into infinity. The frowning faces that stared up at the stage seemed harsh and judgmental. How was she supposed to face that crowd? How was she going to make it through the night without having a heart attack?
Back in the girl’s dressing room, Rebecca stared at her reflection in the mirror as she willed her pounding heart to slow to a regular pattern. She hardly recognized the face that stared back at her. Maybe it was because it wasn’t really her face she was seeing at all. It was Christine’s.
Her long, billowy gown was as beautiful as it was elegant. She was hardly worthy of something so spectacular. The iridescent skirt was sky blue with an over-skirt in a deeper shade of azure and a drawstring waist. It flailed out dramatically around her ankles. The matching bodice was complete with bell sleeves, a plunging neckline and a lace trim. It fit her curves snugly and was very flattering to her skin tone. The over-sized bustle under the skirt made it a little difficult to maneuver in tight corners but she was getting used to turning sideways when she had to walk through doors. A lace choker and a faux amethyst brooch completed the Victorian attire. Rebecca had never felt quite so feminine.
The costume was only the beginning of the trials of getting ready. She had sat through more than an hour of primping at her dressing table while three other girls worked on perfecting her hair and face. They yanked and poked, painted and brushed until they felt they had completed their masterpiece. They curled her long brown hair into perfect ringlets, and pulled it back on the sides with old-fashioned pearl combs. Her make-up was layered on so thickly, she was sure she would have to chisel it off when the show was over. Even with the excess of powder and blush, Rebecca still looked a little peaked. When she thought again about the crowd that was waiting for her on the other side of the curtain, she swore she saw herself begin to turn a little green.
“You look so beautiful, Becca!”
Rebecca did her best to force a grateful smile. “Thanks, Deb. So do you.”
The simple black gown of Madame Giry was the dress of a Victorian widow. Even though it was much more matronly than Rebecca’s dress, with a higher collar and a lot less puffiness, Debbie still looked exceptionally pretty. The straight skirt and button down blouse had a way of complementing Debbie’s tall, stocky frame, especially with the long blonde wig that was pulled back into a braid.
“You should grow your hair long,” Rebecca told her. “It suits you.”
Debbie blushed a little. “Really?”
“Yeah definitely . . . it . . . .” She paused in mid-sentence. Rebecca moaned as her stomach did an acrobatic somersault worthy of the Olympics. She closed her eyes, and tried to will the waves of nausea away. The last thing she needed was to ruin her costume. “Ohhh, God . . . .”
“Becca, are you okay?” Debbie exclaimed. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
“Just . . . just a little performance anxiety,” Rebecca managed to stutter through a shaky breath. “Really, Deb, I have no idea how I’m going to make it through the show tonight. I seriously think I’m going to throw up the second I step out onto the stage.”
“Come on, Becca, it’s not as bad as all that.”
Rebecca and Debbie both looked up in surprise at the new voice. It was a voice dripping with obvious sarcasm. Wendy had joined them, looking as perfect as any Barbie doll, even in the exaggeratedly elaborate pink gown of Carlotta. The cynical smile she wore could have been part of the costume, it fit so thoroughly with the nasty character she portrayed.
“Leave her alone, Wendy,” Debbie barked.
She might as well have been a ghost. Wendy completely ignored her. “Just think of it, Becca. The curtain rises. The lights flicker on.” She gestured with her arms for emphasis. “You’re the star, Becca. A million faces will be looking up at the stage. A million eyes, and they will all be watching you.”
“Knock it off, Wendy,” Debbie said through clenched teeth. “Why do you always have to be such a bitch?”
Rebecca didn’t say anything at all, but she felt her stomach lurch. Her face drained of what little color it had left and she had to hold onto the dressing table to keep her unsteady legs from going out from under her. Wendy knew exactly what she was doing, and she gleefully continued on with her torture tactics.
“Everyone one of those people will be waiting, Becca. Waiting for your voice to crack. Waiting for you to forget a line. Waiting for you to fail . . . .”
She could see it all playing out in her head, exactly the way Wendy described it. Everything would go fine until she made that one terrible mistake. Until she tripped over her long skirt or forgot what she had do to in a scene. At best, the audience would laugh—at her. Or worse, they would boo her off the stage and she would never be able to show her face in school, or anywhere else, ever again.
Rebecca couldn’t take it anymore. Her stomach did one last painful flip, and she pressed her hand over her mouth and ran from the dressing room. She heard Wendy laughing heartily in the background at her abrupt departure, but it didn’t matter anymore what Wendy was saying or doing. Rebecca’s immediate concern was finding a bathroom. She realized almost instantly that she wasn’t going to have enough time to make it all the way to the end of the hallway to the nearest ladies room. When she saw the trashcan in the corner, she made a mad dash for it, and quickly deposited the contents of her stomach.
She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, pale and trembling, using the edges of the trashcan to try to keep herself from sliding to the ground. She wished that she could just die and be put out of her misery once and for all. Her stomach continued to heave long after it was completely emptied. She was feeling dizzy and was a little worried that she might pass out right there in the hallway, when suddenly she felt strong arms support her around her waist.
“It’s all right, Becca.” A gentle voice soothed her. A cool hand brushed across her forehead. “You’re going to be fine.”
She didn’t need to open her eyes. She would have known that voice anywhere. She recognized the familiar touch of his fingers as they caressed her back. Just having him nearby was enough to make her feel better. Rebecca tried to hold back the sobs of gratitude that would have ruined whatever was left of her makeup as she threw herself in his arms.
“Oh, Justyn!”
He didn’t push her away, but she could tell by his stiff posture that he wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic about their reunion as she was. He gave her a quick hug before releasing her. She felt more than a little disappointed when he let her go.
“Are you sick?” It was a silly question considering he had just caught with her with her head hanging over a trashcan. But at least he cared enough to ask. That had to be a good sign.
“Just nerves,” she admitted, and blushed when she realized the full extent of her humiliation. He had just watched her puke her guts up. How much worse could things get? “Boy, do I feel like an idiot.”
He smiled just a little. “Don’t be embarrassed. When I did my first play, I threw up every night for a week.”
“Really?” Rebecca was surprised by the confession. “You always seem so cool and collected. I can’t imagine you ever being nervous about anything.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
That was true enough. No one knew it better than Justyn. At the moment, he looked no less than irresistible. The black cape, the ruffled blouse, the long formal tailcoat—they all made him look as though he might have stepped through a time warp. Without his normal facial piercings to give him away, there was no way to tell that he belonged to the twenty- first century.
The white mask that covered the left half of his face only added to his mysterious appeal. Rebecca wondered what he looked like underneath the mask. Only Miss King had seen a dress rehearsal of the make-up job Justyn insisted on doing himself. After he won her approval, he convinced her that it would have more shock value opening night if everyone, including the rest of the cast, were seeing his version of the phantom for the first time.
Justyn cleared his throat awkwardly. Rebecca hadn’t realized she was gawking at him until that moment. She felt her cheeks start to burn. But still she couldn’t tear her eyes away. He just looked too good. There was no way she couldn’t stare at him.
“Well, if you’re feeling better, I really should get going. I need to get ready for curtain call.”
“Justyn, please, wait . . . .” Rebecca took hold of his arm and pulled him back before he could leave. “Can we talk?”
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. “I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”
“If you’d let me, I’d like to say I’m sorry,” Rebecca said softly. “I’d like to ask for your forgiveness.”
He nodded. “Apology accepted. But it doesn’t change anything between us, Becca. You can’t have a relationship without trust.”
“But I do trust you, Justyn.” Rebecca swore. “I think I always did. I just didn’t know it.”
He finally looked up at her, but it wasn’t the look she expected. His eyes were glassy, glazed with terrible sadness. “But I don’t trust you anymore, Becca,” he whispered. “So, like I told you, there’s nothing left to say. Except maybe goodbye.”
Justyn disappeared behind the boy’s dressing room with a whirl of his cape before she could even process what had happened. It was all over between them. She realized that she had ruined everything, and it was hard to care anymore about how her make-up looked as one tear snuck free and trickled down her cheek. It was hard to care about anything, including the play, when she felt like her heart was breaking into pieces.