Eyes Like Stars Read online

  Eyes Like Stars

  A FEIWEL AND FRIENDS BOOK

  An Imprint of Macmillan

  EYES LIKE STARS. Copyright © 2009 by Lisa Mantchev.

  All rights reserved. Printed in June 2009 in the United States of America by

  R.R. Donnelley & Sons Company, Harrisonburg, Virginia. For information,

  address Feiwel and Friends, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mantchev, Lisa.

  Eyes Like Stars: Théâtre Illuminata, Act 1 / by Lisa Mantchev.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Seventeen-year-old Bertie strives to find a useful role for herself at the Théâtre Illuminata so that she won’t be cast out of the only home she has ever known, but is hindered by the Players, who magically live on there, especially Ariel, who is willing to destroy The Book at the center of the magic in order to escape into the outside world.

  ISBN: 978-0-312-38096-0

  [1. Theater—Fiction. 2. Magic—Fiction. 3. Actors and actresses—Fiction.

  4. Orphans—Fiction. 5. Books and reading—Fiction. 6. Identity—Fiction.

  7. Theaters—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.M31827The 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008015317

  Feiwel and Friends logo designed by Filomena Tuosto

  Book design by April Ward

  First Edition: 2009

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  www.feiwelandfriends.com

  For my mother, who left a

  half-crimped pie crust on the kitchen counter

  to take me to my first audition

  Eyes Like Stars

  CAST LIST

  Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, a seventeen-year-old girl

  Peaseblossom

  Cobweb

  Moth

  Mustardseed

  the fairies from

  A Midsummer

  Night’s Dream

  The Stage Manager

  The Theater Manager

  Nate, a pirate from The Little Mermaid

  Ariel, an airy spirit from The Tempest

  Ophelia, daughter of Polonius in Hamlet

  Sedna, the Sea Goddess (also the Sea

  Witch from The Little Mermaid)

  Mrs. Edith, the Wardrobe Mistress

  Mr. Hastings, the Properties Manager

  Mr. Tibbs, the Scenic Manager

  CHAPTER ONE

  Presenting

  Beatrice

  The fairies flew suspended on wires despite their tendency to get tangled together. Beatrice Shakespeare Smith, busy assessing her reflection in the looking glass and thinking perhaps she shouldn’t have dyed her hair blue on this particular morning, turned to glare at them when they rocketed past the end of her nose for the third time in as many minutes.

  “If you make me spill this stuff on the stage,” she said, “I’ll squeeze you until your heads pop off.”

  Unperturbed by the threat, Mustardseed swung by her like a demented pendulum. “Going in there with fairy guts on your hands isn’t going to make a good impression!”

  “Nervous about your call to the Theater Manager’s Office?” Moth asked, chasing Peaseblossom in circles.

  “Not the best of timing,” Cobweb singsonged, hanging upside down at the end of his line, “mucking up your head right before a ten o’clock summons.”

  “I’m not getting called on the carpet with my roots showing.” Bertie coated another section with Cobalt Flame liquid concentrate, pilfered just an hour ago from the Wardrobe Department. “Do we like the blue?”

  “Better than Crimson Pagoda,” Peaseblossom said. “Your entire head looked like it was on fire that time.”

  “Maybe I should have taken Black Cherry.” Bertie stuck her tongue out at the Beatrice-in-the-mirror. “Maybe Cobalt Flame will encourage the Theater Manager to get creative with his punishment.”

  “He’ll probably just remove the desserts from the Green Room again,” Peaseblossom said.

  The others groaned at the prospect, then Moth perked up to suggest, “He could make you scrub out the toilets in the Ladies’ Dressing Room instead.”

  “Or scrape the gum off the bottoms of the auditorium seats,” said Cobweb.

  “Ew.” Bertie wrapped another strand of hair in aluminum foil and crimped it against her head. “An excessive punishment for whistling a scene change, don’t you think?”

  “ ‘Whistling a scene change’?” Peaseblossom giggled. “That’s a euphemism and a half! You set off the cannon, blew holes through three set pieces, and set the fire curtain on fire.”

  “Quite the valuable lesson in emergency preparedness, I think,” Bertie said.

  Moth twitched his ears at her. “Pondering our recent criminal history, I must admit there have been more pyrotechnic explosions than usual.”

  “Maybe the Theater Manager thinks you’re doing it to impress Nate,” Cobweb said.

  Bertie felt the blood rush to her face until her cheeks were stained Shocking Pink. “Shut up.”

  “It is like you’re acting a part for the dashing pirate lad’s benefit,” Mustardseed said.

  Bertie snagged his wire, reeling him in until he reached eye level. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The fairy twitched. “You know. The hair dye, the black clothes—”

  “The clove cigarettes!” Moth added from below.

  “The drinking and cursing,” said Cobweb.

  “Is it method acting?” Mustardseed asked.

  “This is a theater.” Bertie, annoyed by the inquisition, dropped him onto the stage. Several feet of slack cable landed atop the fairy in a slithering heap.

  “Oh!” Peaseblossom said. “You’ve buried him alive!”

  “I told you it was silly to use the wires when you can fly perfectly well without them,” Bertie said.

  “But they’re fun to swing on!” Moth protested as the fairies shed their harnesses and went to investigate the tomb of their fallen comrade.

  Indefatigable, Mustardseed emerged from the pile, rubbing his bum. “If it’s not for Nate, is it because of your abandonment issues?”

  There was a very long silence before Bertie told her reflection, “The only reason I’m friends with any of you is because I outgrew the von Trapps, one annoying Austrian at a time.”

  “You could have joined the Lost Boys,” Moth said.

  “They did nothing but whiz on trees, and I’m not properly equipped for that.”

  “So you’re stuck with us because of your innate inability to pee standing up?” Peaseblossom put her hands on her hips as she hovered nearby.

  “That’s right.” Bertie used her brush to stir the dye.

  “We can do lots of stuff besides pee standing up,” Moth said.

  “Like sword fighting!” Cobweb slashed and parried with great enthusiasm.

  “Call the pirates and the shipwreck scene!” Mustardseed flailed his tiny yellow boots in an improvised hornpipe.

  “I’m not supposed to make scene changes and thus I’m appalled by the very suggestion,” Bertie said. “You’re a bad influence, Mustardseed.”

  “The rules have never stopped you before.” Peaseblossom looked knowing. “You just don’t want Nate seeing you with your head all slimy.”

  Bertie put on her best Lady of the Manor air. “He needn’t wait for an engraved invitation to pay a social call.”

  “But he prefers you pin a note to the Call Board,” Peaseblossom reminded her.

  The majority of the Players drifted in and out of existence according to the summonses pinned to the Call Board, but the more flamboyant, dashing, or mad the character, the more freedom they had to move about the Théâtre. The fairies dogged Bertie’s eve
ry step, whereas Nate was one for protocol.

  Probably all that rot about following the captain’s orders.

  Bertie’s entire head tingled as the ammonia burned her scalp. She tried not to scratch at it, because that way lay madness … madness and funky-colored fingertips. “It has nothing to do with Nate. I need to finish my hair before the Stage Manager gets back.”

  “He should be thankful it’s only dye on your head and not paint all over the stage,” Peaseblossom said.

  Bertie glanced at the walls of her room. The three connected scenic flats were part of the Théâtre Illuminata’s enormous collection of backdrops, stored in the flies overhead and in the backstage scenic dock when not in use. “I haven’t painted my set in years.”

  Lights up on BERTIE, AGE 7. She is painting over a dingy cream wall with something labeled “Violet Essence” as the STAGE MANAGER glowers at her.

  BERTIE

  It’s my bedroom, and I’ll do what I want with it.

  (To prove her point, she splashes magenta and silver over the violet and smears it around with her hands.)

  STAGE MANAGER

  (grabbing for BERTIE’S ear and missing)

  You can answer to the Theater Manager for this mess!

  (The THEATER MANAGER arrives with MR. TIBBS, the Scenic Manager.)

  (turning to the THEATER MANAGER)

  Why you ever decided she needed to sleep here, on the stage, is beyond my powers of reckoning!

  THEATER MANAGER

  She needed a bedroom, and this is the best we could do.

  STAGE MANAGER

  (His face turns three shades of crimson and steam hisses out of his ears like a teakettle.)

  But this isn’t a bedroom! We can’t stop the performances for bedtime, which means she’s underfoot until the stage is cleaned! And look at this mess!

  MR. TIBBS

  (chomping his cigar)

  We do not change the colors of the flats. We touch them up, or faithfully reproduce them down to the last paint stroke and bit of gilt. But we do NOT change them!

  BERTIE

  Just because you don’t change them doesn’t mean I can’t.

  THEATER MANAGER

  Bertie, this place isn’t about change. It’s about eons of tradition.

  BERTIE

  (crossing her arms)

  It’s my bedroom. I should be allowed to do what I like with my bedroom.

  THEATER MANAGER

  (studying BERTIE until she squirms a bit)

  That’s true enough. But I wonder what will come next. One day, it’s your bedroom and the next—

  STAGE MANAGER

  Utter chaos and pandemonium!

  BERTIE

  (curious)

  What color is pandemonium? It sounds yellow.

  THEATER MANAGER

  Beatrice, this is a matter of utmost importance, so I want you to listen to me and answer very carefully.

  BERTIE

  Yes, sir.

  THEATER MANAGER

  You like living here, don’t you?

  BERTIE

  (bewildered)

  Yes.

  THEATER MANAGER

  Do you want to remain at the Théâtre?

  BERTIE

  Of course I do! (stammering) I mean, it’s my home… .

  THEATER MANAGER

  Then you need to understand that while we will tolerate a certain amount of …

  (He pauses to search for the appropriate word.)

  STAGE MANAGER

  Wanton destruction?

  THEATER MANAGER

  No, I think perhaps the word I was searching for was “creativity.” While we will tolerate, even encourage, your creativity, you must limit it to your personal space.

  BERTIE

  (frowning hard and trying to understand)

  So I can paint my room?

  THEATER MANAGER

  Yes, you may. But you’re forbidden to change anything else. In that regard, you will have to learn to exercise something called “self-restraint.” Do you understand?

  BERTIE

  I think so. I mean, yes. Yes, sir. Now can I have paint the color of pandemonium, Mr. Tibbs?

  MR. TIBBS

  (scattering cigar ash about the stage)

  No, you may not.

  THEATER MANAGER

  (another long moment of contemplation passes before he nods)

  Gentlemen, let the young lady get on with her painting. Bertie, clean up after yourself.

  (He begins to make his exit, pausing at the edge of the stage.)

  Please do remember what I said about exercising self-restraint.

  Bertie contemplated her reflection. “Perhaps I could have shown more self-restraint.”

  The girl in the mirror didn’t blink, so Bertie averted her gaze and looked instead around her room. Viewed from any of the seats in the house, it would create the proper illusion of a teenager’s abode. Mr. Hastings, the Properties Manager, permitted her to sign out bits and pieces to make it feel cozier, but most of her knickknacks and trinkets were glued or nailed down so they wouldn’t scatter about the stage when the scenery was changed. The audience would never know it, but there wasn’t anything in the dresser; all Bertie’s clothing was kept backstage in Wardrobe, laundered and pressed by Mrs. Edith. The bed, an elaborate four-poster, resided on a circular lift that disappeared below-stage.

  And then there was The Book.

  THE COMPLETE WORKS OF THE STAGE

  Sitting atop a pedestal in the far corner of Stage Left and just in front of the proscenium arch, it was the only thing that remained constantly onstage. Resting there, it emitted a soft, golden radiance usually lost under the thousands of watts of power that poured from the floodlights.

  No one dared touch it. Even Bertie, who dared a lot of things that the others never dreamed, did not touch The Book.

  “You have dye on the end of your nose,” Peaseblossom said.

  Bertie set down her brush and wiped her face with a handkerchief that came away smeared with Cobalt Flame. She peeked at herself in the mirror, confirming that quite a lot of her skin was now blue. Cobweb and Moth, who’d paused in the middle of attempting to draw-and-quarter each other to look at Bertie, fell to the dusty stage floor, laughing themselves silly. Mustardseed landed on her shoulder and smeared his hands around in the dye.

  “Stop that!” Bertie swept him off with a practiced flick of her finger.

  He somersaulted backward, then rushed to swing his tiny fist at her nose. Cobweb and Moth tackled him, leaving miniature explosions of glitter twinkling in the air. Flying fists and booted feet kicked over the bowl of hair dye, and Cobalt Flame flowed across the stage floor to surround Bertie’s Mary Janes.

  She made a mad grab for the fairies. “Come back here! You’re making a huge mess—”

  “I’ll cut off his ears!” said Moth.

  “I’ll slice off his nose!” added Cobweb.

  “And we’ll cast the bits into the sea!” they howled together.

  “Forsooth!” said Mustardseed. “You’ll never take me alive!”

  Bertie tried to get in between them, but it was tricky not to step on someone. “Stop it!”

  Mustardseed grabbed the wet, sloppy brush and hurled it at his attackers, missing them only to hit the side of Bertie’s head. Several wads of aluminum foil fell off, and dye-sticky strands of hair snaked over her shoulders. Bertie used a pithy curse common amongst the pirates, but Peaseblossom was the only one who noticed the air turning blue to match the spreading mess.

  “Good thing you’re wearing so much black,” she said.

  The boys rolled past them. Tufts of fairy hair, ripped out by the roots, drifted into the orchestra pit. Tiny scraps of clothing exited the brawling tumbleweed at sporadic intervals: a sleeve, a sock, a pointy-toed shoe.

  “I’ll beat you for a living!”

  “You and what army?”

  All at once the fairies froze, like butterflies pinned to a piece of felt-covered
cork. They were only ever utterly still for one reason: Someone had placed a notice on the Call Board.

  “What’s it say?” Bertie asked.

  The fairies shook free of the trance.

  “All Players to the stage,” Peaseblossom said. “Ten o’clock.”

  Bertie swore under her breath again. “Everyone to the stage, you say?” She waved her arm at the floor, which was covered in smear marks and miniature shoe prints. “The stage that’s currently decorated with a crazed ballroom dancing pattern? ‘Tarantella for Three Miscreants in Pandemonium Minor’ perhaps?”

  “Maybe we should clean up?” Moth suggested, sounding sheepish.

  “You think?” Bertie ducked into the wings. Backstage, it was all black paint and dim lights covered in sheets of red gel. “We need to get rid of this mess before the Stage Manager sees it.” She located his headset, lifted the mouthpiece to her lips, and whispered, “Cue scene change. The Little Mermaid, Act One, Scene One.”

  The fairies cheered the blackout. In the pale echo of light, vague outlines moved through Bertie’s field of vision, but their details were lost to the dark. Her bedroom walls took flight in a soaring arc before disappearing into the rafters. The bed dropped below the stage while the armchair and dresser chased each other into the wings. Huge wooden waves slid in from Stage Left with the clank and wallop of mechanical water. Seaweed hit the stage with wet thumps, sand gathered in drifts, and saltwater misted the floor. Ground row lights painted the cyclorama in undulating shades of blue and green.

  “Fabulous!” Moth shouted, and the words were bubbles. “Come on, losers!”

  The others joined him, trailing froth and brine. Mustardseed climbed the pearl garland while Peaseblossom and Cobweb darted in and out of the coral reef in an elaborate game of tag. A chorus of starfish entered Stage Right and began to tap-dance, very softly, in the sand. Scrubbing the dye off herself and the floor with handfuls of kelp, Bertie watched the Sea Witch also make her entrance.

  “Sad, isn’t it?” said someone just behind Bertie.

  She turned to find Ophelia trailing flowers and chiffon through the saltwater-and-dye puddles. Like the fairies, she came and went as she pleased, walking the ragged edge of her sanity and drawn to the ocean by some unwritten instinct.

  “What’s sad about it?” Little puffs of sand lifted and settled again as Bertie slogged from one dye splotch to the next.