Melissa Ferguson - The Cul-de-Sac War

They say 95 percent of the time the first impression you have of a person is right.

Well, if anyone in the audience was watching her clutch a plastic fern with one hand and the slumping fabric on her chest with the other, all the while beads from her costume scattered across the shadowy stage with a thousand ping-ping-pings, theyd have a fairly accurate picture of the woman formally known as Bree Leake. Or, in this particular moment, Mustardseed, fairy servant of Titania, as vital to A Midsummer Nights Dream as the fern in her hand.

How canst thou thus for shame, Titania...

Glitter floated in the green-tinted spotlight as Bree stood far upstage, where she stayed approximately... always. She took a step to the right. Then another. And another. Beads dropped with each movement, no matter how she adjusted her hold on the intricate fabric dissolving in her hands. Leave it to her roommate, the Barters one and only costume designer, to go overkill.

Actually, leave it to her roommate to plan a wardrobe malfunction like this. Evie had probably gone to great lengths, in fact, to attach the shoulder straps with just enough strength to hold up until Bree made one fatal step onto the long tulle train thatnow that she thought of itno other fairies in the cast possessed.

She could just see Evie now, in the dim light of their basement, laughing maniacally over her sewing machine.

So here Bree stood, newest member of the nations oldest live-performance theatre, trying to shield herself with a plastic plant while smiling a not-too-convincing stage smile as heat crept up her neck. Not that anyone would notice her blushing, given that her face and neck were painted Andes-mint green.

While she understood all of this was very, very important, her immature side couldnt help seeing it as also very, very funny. But laughing was, by all means, the most critical thing to avoid at this moment.

Do. Not. Laugh.

She mustnt laugh.

She was a professional artist, and artists were at all times calm, cool, and engaged.

She took a step to the right.

Ping-ping-ping.

Slid her left foot to meet her right.

Ping-ping-ping.

One creeping step to the right.

Another.

With three more swift ping-ping-ping steps she slipped offstage and broke into a run between the curtains.

Evie! Bree hissed, passing a couple of stagehands waiting beside overhanging set trees.

Bree swept past portable columns and hanging windows and hedged around Titanias set bed laden with roses and vines. Stephen, the stage manager, caught sight of her while talking rapidly into his headset, but before she could propel the manic-driven man into overly manic drive, she let go of her hold on her dress long enough to give him a thumbs-up from across the room.

Nothing to see here. Just your newest actress jumping ship.

She pushed open the doors to the back hall.

Half a dozen doors lined the long hallway, one of them open to the dressing room, whose dozens of vanity bulbs were blinding even from where she stood twenty feet away. She made for the room but only found the ever-disgruntled understudy on her phone.

Bree halted beside her chair. Have you seen Evie?

Celia looked up. Blinked. She just left to get coffee.

She went all the way to ZazzyZ? Bree said, her tone inching higher.

She shook her head and tilted her chin toward the door. No, Styrofoam coffee. To the front. The gift shop.

Oh. Okay. Thanks. Bree reemerged into the hall. She had to get back onstage for one lineone. True, it may not be an important line, but it was her line.

And by golly shed be there to give it.

It was going to take ages to throw open the back door, dash down the metal stairway, and fly around parked cars and pedestrians to reach the front of the theatre while hanging on to her dragging dress and slumping top. But she could kiss her job good-bye if she took either door leading into the shadowy aisles of the theatres auditorium.

She would just have to run.

She picked up speed as she moved down the empty hall in her leather slippers. As fluorescent lights shone overhead, beads fell like breadcrumbs behind her. The Exit sign loomed and she shoved the doors open with her fern.

As she pushed her way through, her fairy wings knocked against the doorframe, fighting against her as if crying out, This is the exit door! Get back onstage, woman! But with a final wrench of her drooping costume and an explosion of beads, the wings gave way and she took two stumbling steps onto the metal platform in the bright midday air.

Bree grabbed for the railing with her right hand but felt the impact of something against her knee before she could reach it.

Her foot slammed into the unidentified object. Before she could stop herself, she found herself flying forward.

Whooooa

The world was suddenly upside down.

Pavement and steps now above her, racing toward her head.

But just as the tip of her braid whacked the steps, she felt something grab her by the waist.

Her body tilted like a carnival ride. Only the ride was a man who had reached around her waist and was pulling her backward. A man who had been sitting on the top step of the metal stairway leading to the back parking lot. A man who, after her knee had knocked him in the back of the head, had stood, grabbed her flying body out of thin air, heaved her backward by the force of his might, and landed her back on the metal platform.

Where she now stood. Frozen.

Clinging to her potted fern.

She blinked. Looked down at the fern. Then up at him.

Im... sorry. Thanks.

Sorrythanks, the man repeated, stooping down for his phone, which had toppled three steps down. Well, Im sort of the reason you tripped, but Ill take it.

A smile ghosted his lips, his sharp jawline softened by a five-oclock shadow. His brown eyescrinkly at the temples, as though he dispensed of smiles easilywere just a few inches below hers. Which was incredible, given he was now standing two steps below her.

And she was six feet even.

The fabric at her chest started to droop, and she adjusted her grip. Only then, it seemed, did he look down. Oh. I see youve still got that problem there.

Bree felt her green face flush. Ah. So you saw.

He let out a breathy laugh. Saw you inch your way offstage like some sort of plant-loving alien backup in a music video who wasnt supposed to be there?

Brees eyes narrowed.

He coughed. Because that is definitely not what I saw. That is definitely not what made me start taking a video and get kicked out by a ninety-year-old usher for violating Barter rules. He paused, grinned. Im Chip. And believe me, you were the highlight of my evening.

He put out a hand.

Bree. Brees smile twitched as she looked to his outstretched hand, her own hands still occupied by her dress and plant. And now youre taunting me.

His smile was as good as a wink. Just a little.

Her eyes lingered on his before a shout came from onstage.

Her mission. Right.

She edged around him, hiked up her dress a few inches, and took a couple of steps down the stairs.

I need to find my costume designer, she said. And I have about, oh, two minutes to get back onstage.

So, tons o time.

Loads, she said, her eyes flashing back at his with a smile.

Well, he said, resting his arms on the railing as he scanned the empty parking lot. Id venture a guess she isnt out here. But if youre looking for a quick fix, I have something in my truck that might do the trick. Its across the street, but I could be back in forty-five seconds.

She paused, her foot hovering over the third step down.