“Smoke upstage left!” Barb yells to Bob, and he repeats it into the phone.
The whole company and most of the donors have caught up with us now, and everyone’s talking at once. “Back up!” Barb shouts, her voice like a megaphone. “Move away from the building! This is not a drill! The fire department is on the way. Seriously, guys, move away from the building!”
We back across the lawn and gather together in a tight knot. “That’s our stage for Birdie,” Zoe says. “What are we going to do?”
“Maybe they’ll put it out quickly,” I say. “It probably looked worse than it is. The theater will probably be fine.”
But the glassed-in lobby is growing hazy with smoke by the time the police arrive a few minutes later, and it doesn’t look like everything is going to be fine. In the next few minutes, two fire engines and two ambulances arrive and drive straight up onto the lawn, digging deep ruts into the perfectly manicured grass. The way the spinning blue and red lights wash over the company reminds me of Pandemonium. Firefighters spill off the trucks and surround the theater, shouting things like “working structure fire” and “flake the line out” and “upgrade to next alarm,” and then they start unrolling hoses and strapping on masks and air tanks. Even from here, I can see flickers of flame when they open the theater doors and charge inside. Almost the entire company is taking photos and video on their phones, but I don’t want to document this. I stand very still with my arms wrapped tight around me, watching the theater burn.
Putting out the fire takes way longer than I expected. Pandora and Natasha cling to each other and wail as they watch firefighters rush in and out of the building, and I wish I could duct tape their mouths shut; everyone’s already upset, and they’re making things worse. Zoe cries silently, and I put my arms around her as a few men climb up onto the roof and cut into it with saws, releasing spirals of smoke into the night air. Everything reeks of charred wood and burning synthetic fabric, and it’s getting harder to breathe, but nobody makes a move to leave.
After about forty-five minutes, the firefighters finally get the flames under control, and we applaud as they emerge from the building, blackened from head to toe. Water streams out of the sooty lobby and soaks into our shoes as they remove their air tanks and start packing up their gear. Bob confers with the fire marshal, and when he finally heads in our direction, everyone starts shouting questions at the same time. Barb lets out an ear-piercing whistle to make us shut up.
“My dear, brave company,” Bob says. “What a tragedy that you had to witness the death of our beautiful theater. But nobody was hurt, and we can all be grateful for that.” I’ve never seen him look defeated before, and it’s heartbreaking.
“What started the fire?” calls one of the non-eqs.
“We’ll know more once we’ve done a thorough investigation, but it looks like the hazer shorted out backstage and ignited the curtains.” Zoe and I exchange a startled look; if we hadn’t used the hazer for our show tonight, would the theater still be standing? Is this all our fault? I wait for Bob to ask to see our group alone in his office, but he doesn’t even glance at us. “I’m sure this goes without saying,” he continues, “but you must not enter the theater again for any reason. It has sustained major structural damage, and you could be seriously injured. A contractor will board up the building tomorrow.”
“But we’re supposed to load in Birdie on Saturday,” Livvy says.
Bob looks pained. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Haydu will be out of commission for the rest of the summer.”
Zoe grips my hand. “Is the show going to be canceled?” she asks.
“Hopefully not,” Bob says. “My esteemed colleagues and I will talk over some possible solutions tonight, and we’ll all reconvene in Legrand for an update at eleven tomorrow morning, okay? In the meantime, be safe and get some sleep. It’s been a long day, and everything’s under control now.”
He tries to smile at us, and we try to smile back. But as we watch him turn away from the charred remnants of Haydu Hall and head toward his office, flanked by Barb and Marcus, it’s impossible not to worry.
I wake up the next morning to the sound of my phone ringing. It’s barely seven, and I don’t recognize the number on the screen, but no one ever calls this early unless it’s an emergency. Maybe something happened to my parents. I’m suddenly wide-awake.
“Make it stop,” Zoe mumbles. She pulls my pillow over her head as I hit talk.
“Hello?” I choke. My throat is scratchy from all the smoke I inhaled last night.
“Good morning,” says a calm, pleasant man’s voice. “Is this Brooklyn?”
“Yes. What’s wrong?”
“This is Bob Sussman, the managing director. I’m so sorry if I woke you, but we’d appreciate it if you could join us in my office as soon as possible.”
I struggle into a sitting position. “What? Why?”