Fade to Us Read online

  He frowned at my expression. “What?”

  “Do you really run everything?”

  “I don’t direct the actors.”

  “But everything else?”

  He nodded grudgingly.

  “What are you doing at the table with your mom?”

  “Taking dictation mostly, and I need to get back. You can stay.”

  I smiled with relief. “Thanks.”

  * * *

  Micah called the afternoon break at three. As everyone on the stage scattered, he rose and went through a side door. Lisa slumped in her seat, her sigh audible from a dozen rows away.

  Would it be okay to disturb her? She should be told that we had a solution for Natalie, only it didn’t seem fair to intrude on her thoughts. How often did she get to do nothing?

  I was wasting my chance, though. It was quiet, with no one around to distract or overhear. I walked down the aisle and waited until she glanced my way. “I’m Brooke. Natalie’s stepsister.”

  “I remember. How can I help you?”

  “Her problem is solved. I’m available now.”

  Micah reappeared and set two water bottles on the table. “What did I miss?”

  Lisa gestured toward me. “It sounds as if she’s the backup plan for Natalie.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re free? All the time?”

  I nodded.

  “Your boss is okay with that?”

  “I don’t have a boss anymore.”

  “Did you quit?”

  “Yes.” I flinched at the question. I ought to be used to that word already, but wasn’t there yet. “Would I be allowed to come down here occasionally? I’m not an adult.” At least, not for another five months.

  “Sure, it’s okay.” Micah opened his water bottle and took a swig.

  Lisa’s face had taken on a calculating look. “Do you have anything else lined up for the summer?”

  “Not really.”

  “Mom.” His tone held a warning.

  “You’re the one who suggested getting an assistant. It wasn’t my idea. Well, asking Brooke is.” Her head tilted as she considered me. “Natalie says you’ve been working in an office.”

  Four days’ worth. That counted. “Yes.”

  “How would you like to be our assistant for the show? It’s mostly clerical stuff…”

  He hissed in frustration.

  “… and it would eliminate some of the noise for Micah and me.”

  Lisa was offering me a job. Excitement flared at the thought of being involved, but I needed details. “Would I be paid?”

  “No, it’s a volunteer position.”

  Disappointing, but not a deal breaker. Yet. “What are the hours?”

  “We can be flexible, although I prefer the same hours as the campers.”

  Flexibility was great. But nine to five? That would make my job search harder. “What are the duties?”

  “Anything we ask.” She ticked items off her fingers. “Sit behind me and take notes. Keep me supplied with water. Deliver messages that we can’t say over the headset. Run errands for both of us.”

  “It would include a few more things than that,” Micah said.

  My excitement dimmed at his attitude. “I’m trainable.”

  “I’m sure you are.” He flipped through the binder to a section marked SCHEDULE. “Actually, I agree that this makes sense. I can focus more on the blocking, and Brooke will have a valid excuse to be in the arts center. None of the other campers would question it, if Natalie would worry about that.”

  His agreement wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but he was right. Being a volunteer assistant could work well—for all of us. It wasn’t the same thing as earning money, but I could still claim the experience on my résumé. Probably I should think harder about this, but I wouldn’t because I wanted to do it. I nodded at Lisa. “I accept.”

  “Wonderful. Can you stay till five-thirty today? There’s a production team meeting every afternoon after the campers leave. We could introduce you to the others. Then plan to be here each morning by eight, or earlier if Micah asks.”

  Wow. Five seconds after accepting and the demands had already started. “I’ll be there.”

  “Oh, and Brooke? We don’t have time for please and thank you around here. We simply work hard. A spectacular show is the only reward you get.”

  * * *

  After my first production team meeting, I couldn’t find Natalie inside the building. When I walked out to the parking lot, she was waiting by the Honda. After I told her my news, she stared from the car window, saying nothing as we drove home. But as I ran up the stairs and into my bedroom, she was right behind me, nearly kicking my heels.

  “Did you quit your job because of me?”

  I should’ve prepared for an inquisition, but I hadn’t. “It was mostly because Mr. Wilson couldn’t give me any flexibility.”

  Her face tightened. “Am I the reason you volunteered for the show?”

  “I’m the director’s assistant because Lisa asked me.”

  “We’ve already discussed this, Brooke. I like the truth. I like facts. When you tell me something but word it to mislead me so that I won’t completely get it? I hate that.”

  “Got it. No misleading words.”

  “Am I the reason you quit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in the show to be near me?”

  I sat on the bed beside Tigger and scratched his chin. “I’m actually looking forward to the job but, yes, you’re the reason.”

  “Am I a burden?”

  It was more complicated than a yes/no kind of answer. “Some.”

  “You mean yes.”

  “Being a burden doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

  “Tell that to Nai Nai.”

  Oh, wow. Natalie’s grandmother wasn’t a nice woman. I had experience with that, too. Fortunately, I could say with all honesty that Natalie’s grandmother was wrong. I scooped my cat into my arms. “Tigger is amazing and irritating. He hides from me when I want him and curls up around me when I don’t. He has fish breath, and his trips to the vet are expensive. Tigger’s a burden, and I don’t care. I love him anyway. If he were easy, he wouldn’t be as much fun.”

  Natalie rolled her eyes, but her shoulders weren’t hunched anymore. “As an analogy, that wasn’t so great, especially the part about fish breath.”

  “I irritate you, too.”

  “True.”

  “Am I a burden to you?”

  “Okay, you can stop now. I get your point.” She darted from the room, then returned immediately, hesitating in the shadows of the hallway. “I won’t mind having you there.”

  12

  The Simple Answer

  I babysat for the Thomas twins on Saturday morning, then drove over to Target to take back the clothes I hadn’t worn. When I returned, I followed a delicious smell to the kitchen. Natalie was frowning at the oven.

  “Has Mom come home yet?” I asked.

  “An hour ago. She said last night’s game continued until midnight, and they didn’t get to the hotel until one. She’s taking a nap now.”

  I crossed to stand next to Natalie and peered through the window of the oven. There was a glass dish covered in aluminum foil. “Do you know what that is?”

  “Yes, since I made it.”

  “You did?”

  “I watched this Five Ingredients or Less show on the Food Network yesterday. When I said I’d like to try this one, Dad bought what I needed. Chicken, cream of mushroom soup, a bag of mixed vegetables, and crescent-roll dough. Except I added salt and pepper, so really six ingredients.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “It will be. It’s ready to come out.” She gestured at me. “Can you get it?”

  I found two pot holders and lifted the dish from the oven. “I thought you didn’t cook.”

  “I don’t, but I like to bake. Ovens only. No stove tops.”

  “Nice to know.” As I was setting the pan on the table, the
side door opened and Jeff walked in. His clothes were saturated with grime and sweat.

  Natalie pointed at the casserole dish. “I made chicken pot pie, Dad.”

  His smile held pride. “Great. I’ll wash up.” He backtracked into the utility room.

  “Here’s another house rule,” I said as I set the table. “The cook or baker never has to clean the dishes.”

  “Why?”

  “You did your share of the chores by preparing the food.”

  “I like that rule a lot.”

  Jeff laughed as we both slid into our seats and filled our plates.

  Lunch was quiet. My stepfather made a few halfhearted attempts at conversation but gave it up to focus on the pot pie, which was so good that it rated complete attention. When we were done, Natalie disappeared down the hallway. Jeff collected the dishes and crossed to the dishwasher. I carried the pot pie to the stove and covered it with foil.

  “Brooke?”

  I looked over my shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

  “Your mom and I…” He swallowed. “This week has been hard, and you’ve been great. We’ve noticed, and we’re grateful.”

  I nodded, warmed by the praise, not sure how to respond.

  “Go on. I’ve got this.” He bent over the dishwasher.

  When I went up to my room, Natalie was thumping and singing next door, practicing her role and everybody else’s. I gave her an hour, then knocked on her door. “Interested in going to a ball game today?”

  “Jill has another one?”

  “Mom has games most nights. This one starts at four.”

  “Is today’s game special?”

  “It’s Mom’s turn to be the plate umpire.” The Sandhill Egrets were the home team. I was hoping that didn’t add to the special-ness. “She’s in control of the game.”

  “People have to do whatever Jill says?”

  “They do.”

  “Okay. I’ll go.”

  * * *

  Mom drove. Natalie rode shotgun, talking nonstop the whole way to the field, with Mom chuckling often. I sat in the back and watched the farmland and forest change over to housing developments and strip shopping centers.

  We arrived forty-five minutes before game time. As we were walking in, the home team was heading toward their dugout. Several of them stopped and watched us pass. It was hard to know who they were staring at. Me, because they knew who I was. Or my stepsister, because she was beautiful.

  While Mom disappeared into the press box, Natalie and I went to the snack bar. Armed with junk food, we searched for seats in the half-filled stands. I found a great spot near the top, directly behind home plate. As we wiggled into place, the two umpires were walking to the field. Mom spoke, and Steven listened.

  Natalie’s hand stilled in her bag of popcorn. “Does that man have to do what Jill says?”

  “He’s responsible for making most of the calls on the field. Since Mom’s behind the plate tonight, she’s the final authority on any disputes. But that’s rarely necessary. Mom and Steven call games together all the time, and they’re both really good.”

  It was the bottom of the first inning when I noticed a ballplayer from the home team on deck, waiting his turn to bat, smirking at me. I knew who he was. I called him Jerkface. Everyone else called him Finley.

  When the current batter struck out, Finley took his place and got into his stance.

  The first pitch screamed past. Mom called a strike.

  Finley stepped out of the batter’s box and gave her a disgusted look.

  “Why’s he acting that way?” Natalie asked.

  “He thinks she’s calling them inside.”

  “Which means…?”

  “When the pitcher throws the ball, the batter is supposed to hit it if he can. But to give him a fair shot, the ball has to be over the plate and between the player’s chest and knees. Mom’s calling them right over the inner edge of the plate.”

  “So that’s correct?”

  “They look like strikes to me, but this guy doesn’t agree.”

  “Will he say anything to her?”

  “He’d better not. It never ends well for a player when he voices an opinion to the ump.”

  Finley struck out. Inning over. He shrugged angrily and strutted to the dugout.

  Natalie demanded to know every detail and nuance for the first half hour. Then she lost interest until the visiting team got a two-run homer in the fifth inning. That perked her up.

  The home team got their turn. When Finley stepped into the batter’s box, the bases were loaded, and the tension was high. He grinned at the crowd, ready to hit his teammates in and be the hero.

  Here came the first pitch.

  “Strike.”

  The batter stepped back and muttered. His words weren’t audible, but the tone was. The fans behind home plate grumbled. I shook my head uneasily.

  “Get back in the box, Finley,” Mom said.

  He did as she asked, took a practice swing, and got ready.

  “Strike.”

  The catcher laughed and said something. The batter responded with manly attitude.

  Mom said, “Enough.”

  Natalie nudged me hard in the side. “What’s happening?”

  “Apparently, Finley is upset about her strike zone. The catcher is probably trash-talking him and making him madder.” I blew out an anxious breath. “I don’t like the way this is going.”

  The batter stepped to the plate. The next pitch screamed past, over the inside edge.

  “Strike.”

  Jerkface used his bat to draw a line in the dirt, about an inch from the plate.

  “Ohmigod,” I said as the crowd fell into a shocked silence.

  “Finley,” his coach roared.

  Natalie smacked my thigh. “What?”

  Mom pointed at the batter and flung her hand in an arc toward the parking lot.

  All sorts of things happened at once. Noise exploded from the stands. Laughter, applause, and gasps. The catcher jogged to the pitcher’s mound. Finley’s coach raced for home plate.

  With an apparent lack of concern, Mom reached into her pocket and drew out her lineup card to jot down her decision.

  “What did that mean?” Natalie asked.

  “Drawing a line in the dirt is Finley’s immature way of telling Mom she’s a bad umpire. It’s disrespectful, both to her and to baseball. So she’s ejected him.”

  “He can’t play anymore?”

  “Not in this game.”

  Finley’s face flushed to a shade of red so dark that it nearly glowed. He thumped his bat against the ground.

  The other umpire trotted toward Mom.

  “Come on, Finley,” the coach shouted as he skidded to a stop beside his player. “Now.”

  But the idiot wasn’t listening. Instead, he spoke too softly to hear in the stands but Mom could.

  Shifting her body enough to lock her gaze on the coach, she said in a low, lethal voice, “Coach, you have one minute to get him out of this park, or you’ll forfeit the game.” Turning her back on the player, she sauntered over to Steven and began a conversation.

  The coach practically pushed Finley off the field.

  * * *

  Finley’s team won without him.

  Mom disappeared into the ump’s locker room, emerging five minutes later in a fresh T-shirt, the same sweaty uniform pants, and her gear gripped in one hand. She gestured for us to head to the parking lot. “You can drive home, Brooke.” She tossed her things into the backseat, got in, and buckled up.

  The ejection must’ve upset her more than she was letting on. She rarely allowed me to drive if she was in the car.

  Natalie immediately blasted into obsessive questions about this new interest. “How did that feel, Jill? To throw a guy out?”

  “Not good.” Mom sounded tired.

  “You had the power.”

  “Having power isn’t always fun.”

  I checked on her from the rearview mirror. She had her head t
hrown back and eyes closed.

  “Did it scare you?” Natalie asked.

  “A little, but Steven and the coach were right there. The player would’ve had a hard time getting near me.”

  “What if he had? What if he’d touched you?”

  “That would be assault. He could’ve spent the rest of the season in jail.”

  Natalie opened her mouth to say more, but I waved for her to stop. She shrugged and stared out the window, into the darkness. Not another word was said for the rest of the drive.

  * * *

  Jeff was waiting on the veranda when we pulled into the driveway. He stood as we walked up the steps, his smile dying when he read Mom’s face.

  His gaze shifted to Natalie. “What did you think about the game?”

  “It was interesting. For one time.”

  He nodded at me as he extended a hand to my mom. She clutched him like a lifeline. When he pulled her to his side, she seemed to melt against his body. Without saying a word, they entered the house, wrapped around each other.

  “What’s that about?” Natalie frowned after them.

  This was the way I loved to see the two of them. Communicating without words. Comfort given and received. “Jeff’s very good at knowing when Mom’s worn out.”

  “If she’s tired, does she want him around?”

  “Oh, yeah. She does.” After the tension of the past week, it was wonderful to see them in sync.

  * * *

  I got up Sunday with one major goal for the day. Since I’d quit the job that should’ve paid for my car, I would have to find another source of income. Before launching another job search, though, I ought to reassess my available skills. I already claimed that I could do website updates, spreadsheets, and image editing on my résumé. From the jewelry store, I could add official experience with WordPress and a database, although a week wasn’t much. But still … more than nothing.

  Now, a reality check. Without reliable transportation, I couldn’t get a job outside of biking distance. With the heat picking up, biking to a job would get increasingly less manageable. Smells were an issue.

  Schedule could be a problem, too. For the next month, I had to be at the theater every weekday until five p.m. or later. There weren’t many paying jobs for teens in this area anyway, and my available hours weren’t great. Any decent after-five job options had been snapped up long ago.