William's Midsummer Dreams Read online

  Actually, I kind of agree with Aunt Fiona that being a pain in the neck is just something most boys have to go through at one time or another. And I also know that if anybody can straighten him out, it’s you.

  Putting down his pen, William let his thoughts drift a little, but what they kept bringing up was all the stuff he ought to be practicing. So that was how it happened that the rest of the letter was mostly about blocking and stage business, and how Mr. Andre, the director, had given him—had given Puck, that is—so much extra stage business to do. And how day after tomorrow there was going to be the first run-through, which meant he couldn’t go back and do it over if he messed up. Right at the end of the letter he did get back to the Buddy problem.

  About Buddy, he finished up.

  Why don’t you tell him one of your stories? Maybe you could make up one about the awful things that happen to people who don’t eat their vegetables. Like maybe they shrivel up and turn into toothless monsters who can’t eat anything but rotten tomatoes. And you can also tell him that William says for him to mind Aunt Fiona, and knock off picking on the neighbors’ kids, or when I get home he’ll have to listen to me practice Shakespeare for four hours every day. Okay?

  Then he addressed an envelope to Jancy Hardison. 971 Eleanor Street, Gold Beach, California, and went back to going over the stuff he would need to know tomorrow.

  CHAPTER

  13

  The way it turned out, William was only too right when he told Jancy that the next few days were going to be difficult. It was the very next morning that things started going wrong, when he somehow managed to lose his promptbook.

  He’d written the promptbook in a little pocket-size tablet Miss Scott had given him. Each page started with his entry prompt, and then the beginning of each of the lines he had to say, along with charts that showed just where onstage he would be, and what he would be doing.

  The charts were his own invention, and he felt good about the way they’d turned out. Below the words he had to say, he’d drawn little stick figures that reminded him what he was supposed to be doing at that moment. For instance, he’d drawn a little stick man lying on his back with his feet in the air when he was supposed to fall over backward laughing at the stupid things Bottom and Quince were saying. He’d put a lot of work into the promptbook, and even when there wasn’t time to take it out and look at it, just knowing it was right there in his back pocket somehow made him feel a lot less nervous.

  He knew the notebook had been in his pocket when he arrived at the greenroom that morning. He remembered taking it out on his way from the cafeteria to the theater, to check on his first entry in act 2. But a little later, when he was coming back from getting a doughnut at the snack counter, he reached in his pocket and discovered it wasn’t there. He couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t the slippery kind of thing that would just fall out of a person’s pocket. He checked his pocket again. No promptbook, and certainly no hole big enough for it to fall through.

  By then nearly the whole cast was in the room, and it was pretty crowded, so he went around telling people he’d dropped an important little tablet that had all his cues in it, and asking them if they’d seen it. Nobody had, but when he told Titania (Virginia Blake), she started asking people to help look for it, and a few of them did, looking all over the floor and telling people to lift up their feet. But nobody found it. It was really weird, like it had somehow dissolved into thin air.

  By then it was almost curtain time, and William had to get to the place in the left wing where he would make his first entrance—promptbook or no promptbook. He was on his way there when Clarice popped out from behind something, the way she was always doing, and said she was still looking for his promptbook. “I’ve been looking everywhere for it,” she told him, smiling eagerly. “I’m sure I’ll find it.”

  William was puzzled. “How’d you know about it?” he asked her. “You weren’t in the greenroom when I lost it. At least I didn’t see you.”

  She shook her head. “No, I wasn’t. But Bernard was, and he told me you were asking people to look for it.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. He was there. I saw him.” William nodded thoughtfully. What he was remembering was that Bernard had been right behind him at the snack counter. It was something to think about.

  Not that he had much time to think about it for the next few hours while the rehearsal was going on. But he did in bed that night, while he was trying to go to sleep. What kept going through his mind was how crowded it had been around the doughnut tray that morning, and whether someone who was sort of squeezed up behind him could have reached out and … Well, maybe not—but on the other hand …

  The next morning as he walked from Edwin Hall to the cafeteria, he was still trying to decide whether to say anything to Bernard. Not that he’d have to decide right away since Bernard never ate at the cafeteria, because he lived with his parents right there on campus. There would be time later to decide whether to accuse him of taking the tablet.

  What he should do right at that moment, he told himself, was just forget about it, at least for the time being. So that was what he did.

  Once the curtain went up that afternoon on the important first run-through, William’s mind definitely wasn’t on what Bernard might or might not have done. Or even on what was missing from his rear pocket. As the play began he didn’t have any trouble remembering where he was supposed to be and what he had to do and say. In act 1 when the villagers were trying to organize their crazy play, it was easy for William to remember the extra business that Mr. Andre had given him to do.

  William thought that part came off pretty well, but then came the beginning of act 2, where Mr. Andre had come up with some really special stuff. The way it was staged, the act 2 curtain went up on a woodsy scene that looked like a clearing in a deep forest. And then Puck would swing in on a rope and circle around like a trapeze artist, before he dropped down midstage. Eventually the rope was going to be decorated with lots of fake leaves to make it look like a forest vine, but so far it was just an especially heavy cord. After William arrived onstage, he was to prance around playing to the audience, mugging and grinning, and doing backflips and handstands, until the First Fairy entered, stage left. Then he was to strut over to her, make a fancy bow, and start his big act 2 speech.

  He had rehearsed the rope-swinging entry dozens of times without any problem, and he was feeling Puckishly confident and cocky as he grabbed the rope and launched himself off from halfway up a tall backstage ladder. But this time something was different. Terribly different.

  For some reason he couldn’t seem to hold his grip. His hands slipped, and even though he hung on for dear life, he kept on sliding down the rope until, instead of soaring in a wide circle, he landed on the stage with a thud. Not hard enough to do much damage, but hard enough to hurt some, and ruin the whole effect. And because it was a run-through, he couldn’t go back and do it over to get it right.

  He filled in the best he could by going ahead with the acrobatics, but it wasn’t easy, because he’d landed hard enough to twist his left ankle a little, and it was hurting. But at least he didn’t forget his lines. When the First Fairy came in, he said the stuff about Titania’s changeling boy and then about being a “merry wanderer of the night.” But he was really glad to get to “Here comes Oberon” and limp offstage.

  Once he was in the wings, Miss Scott and several other people rushed up to ask him if he was all right. And Tom Grant insisted on taking off his shoe and examining his ankle. William kept saying he was fine, and by then he really was, at least physically. But he was really embarrassed about messing up something he thought was going to be exciting and a lot of fun.

  The rest of the performance went all right and William, even without his promptbook, managed to get through it without making any more mistakes. But he still felt bad about goofing up his big entry. The worst part, though, was when the final curtain came down, and Mr. Andre came looking for him and insisted on looking at hi
s ankle.

  “What do you think, Hardison?” he asked. “Maybe we ought to forget your airborne entry. We don’t want you to risk life and limb just to give our audiences a brief thrill. Now, do we?”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir,” William stammered. “I mean, I really want to do it. I’ve done it lots of times without any trouble at all. I don’t know what went wrong, but I don’t think it will happen again. It just seemed like the rope was extra slippery or something. I don’t think it will be so slippery once it has the leaves and stuff on it.”

  “Well,” Mr. Andre finally said, “we’ll have to give it some more thought, and maybe have Fred look into it tomorrow morning. There must have been some reason for the difference.”

  “That’s a good idea,” William agreed. Fred Bloom was the head man in the stage crew who took care of all the sets and props. “Maybe he can find out why the rope was so slippery.”

  Mr. Andre got up, saying, “I’m late for a staff meeting. Are you all right to walk back to your dorm?”

  William jumped up and bounced on both feet. “Sure,” he said. “See! My ankle’s fine. I’m just fine, sir.”

  And he was. Not much ankle pain, but his messed-up entry was still very much on his mind. And the more he thought about it, the more certain he became that he was going to need to look into it, with Mr. Bloom’s help or not. And to do that right away, it was going to be necessary for him to hang around for a while after everyone else cleared out. Not in the greenroom, because he didn’t want people asking about his ankle. Instead he looked around for a good hiding place, somewhere nearby, but out of sight.

  He checked out several possibilities, where set builders and janitors were still at work. Then as he passed the costume room, he opened the door and peeked in. Nobody there. Nothing but rows and rows of costumes hanging on metal racks. So he scooted in, past long rows of Shakespearean-looking stuff—surcoats and jerkins, doublets and bodices, and even a fairly convincing suit of armor. He kept on going until he found what he was looking for. A good hiding place, behind several long robes that hung clear down to the floor. Well hidden among folds of velvet, he crouched down and waited. And went on waiting until the sounds from the stage slowly faded and then died away completely. It wasn’t until the silence had lasted for several minutes that he stood up and, pushing aside a fur-trimmed robe, peered out. Nobody there. Good.

  While putting the robe back in place, he couldn’t help but notice how grand it looked. And how good it felt when he wrapped its long, velvety length around his shoulders, with the fur-trimmed collar brushing against his neck. Standing tall, he tried a few slow paces and then, still moving with regal dignity, made his way down the aisle and out to the fitting room, with its long mirrors. Turning from side to side, he admired the effect of wearing a royal robe. It was a lot different from the tights and tunics that he’d worn as Ariel, and the outfit that Igor was putting together for Puck was going to be just as skimpy.

  William decided he liked the difference. He practiced a few royal poses, shoulders back and high, head up. Not bad, he thought, particularly with the padded velvet thickening his chest and shoulders. Someday he might do one of Shakespeare’s kings—like one of the Henrys. But then, reminding himself of why he was there, he stopped fooling around and got down to business. Back in the costume room, he hung up the robe and headed for the deserted stage.

  It was almost dark backstage now, and very quiet. Walking quickly, William made his way through a forest of fake trees and behind some almost transparent leafy scrims. He was halfway across the stage when all of a sudden something made him stop and crouch down behind a small cardboard bush. Peering out, he frantically looked for … for what?

  Nothing and nobody there. It was, he decided, just the memory of that dream. That stupid nightmare that kept coming back, about a bunch of Baggetts chasing him around backstage. “Forget it,” he told himself. “It was just that silly dream. You’re in Mannsville now, not Crownfield. See,”—he looked around—“no Baggetts here.” Shaking his head hard, he stepped out from behind the bush and started taking firm, determined steps until he came to the ladder that led up to his takeoff spot. He stopped once more to look and listen.

  Complete silence. Still favoring his left ankle a little, he slowly and carefully began to climb the ladder.

  CHAPTER

  14

  Midway up the tall ladder there was just room enough for a person to turn around, reach up overhead, and unhook the rope. He’d done it so many times before, it had become almost automatic. And now, reaching out into near darkness, it was reassuring to find that the rope had been replaced on its hook. Which must mean that one of the stagehands had climbed up and replaced it, as they always did at the end of act 2. There it was, right where it was supposed to be, and always had been when Puck reached up to grab it and take off on his soaring entry.

  Lifting the rope off the hook, William ran his hands up and down its rough, scratchy surface. It felt familiar—the same as always—or maybe, not quite? There was—what? A slightly increased slippage, as his hand moved up and down. Almost as if … He was still wondering just what the difference was when he noticed something else. A smell.

  William had always had a sensitive nose. A nose that had reacted strongly to such things as the stifling, musty odor of his attic hideout at the Baggetts, and later to the clean, fresh smell of Aunt Fiona’s house. And now his nose was telling him that there was a smell up there, halfway up the backstage ladder, that seemed to be coming from the rope itself.

  Lifting it to his nose, he breathed deeply—sniffed and sniffed again. And then he knew. It was a familiar smell, one that usually made his mouth water a little. He swallowed hard. What the rope smelled like was definitely—bacon. William sniffed again, and nodded. No doubt about it, the rope smelled like bacon.

  Standing on tiptoes, he smelled again farther up, beyond where his hands usually reached. No. Only a bit of dusty dryness. No bacon there. And no slippery smoothness, either. But down where he usually held the rope, he could still feel a slight, slippery difference.

  Grabbing the rope with both hands, as he always did before he pushed off, William leaned back on his heels, testing his grip. There was a bit of a slip, but not much. Not nearly as much as he remembered feeling when he’d confidently swung off into space that afternoon—and found himself sliding on down the rope until he landed, too soon and much too hard. Which could mean that in the meantime someone had wiped it clean, at least as much as was possible.

  It was then that William began to put it all together. Since that afternoon, when he’d made his embarrassing crash landing, somebody must have come backstage, climbed up the ladder, and carefully wiped off as much of the … the what?

  Yeah. He had it. Bacon grease. Somebody had wiped off most of the bacon grease that it had been smeared with. Probably the same person who sometime earlier had put a thick layer of grease just where William’s hands would grab hold. And it didn’t take much longer to figure out who that someone must have been.

  After all, who would be only too happy if William Hardison broke an arm or an ankle, and wasn’t able to play the role of Puck on opening night? And—another important point—what person actually lived, not in a kitchenless dormitory, but in his parents’ home? In a home where quite possibly this person’s mother saved bacon grease, like Aunt Fiona did, to use for frying potatoes and things like that? And what if this same person arrived backstage early and climbed up to grease the strip of rope right where William’s hands went when he started his swing? And who then could have hung around long enough to find an opportunity to wipe off as much of the remaining grease as possible, to keep anyone from finding out what he had done?

  As he climbed down and quickly and quietly made his way to the stage door, William was congratulating himself on good detective work. He was clear out the door and heading across the parking lot before it came to him that what his detective work didn’t and couldn’t tell him was what to do next. What
would happen, for instance, if he went to Miss Scott, or even Mr. Andre, and told them what had caused his embarrassing foul-up, and who he thought was responsible?

  Would they believe him? The bacon grease was pretty much gone now, and by tomorrow the smell would probably be too. So wouldn’t Mr. Andre, and probably Miss Scott, too, suspect that William’s wild story was just something he’d made up? A kind of alibi so he could say that it hadn’t been his fault and blame everything on somebody else. On someone who, as everyone knew, wasn’t exactly a friend of his. And quite likely a person that Mr. Andre would think twice about accusing, since his father was an important person at Mannsville College. Maybe even one of the big shots who decided whether the Shakespeare festival could be held on the college campus every summer …

  By the time William reached the dormitory, he was beginning to think he’d better keep his mouth shut about his suspicions. Just say nothing at all. And do nothing, except try to keep his eye on Bernard as much as possible.

  That night at the cafeteria William sat at the same table as Quince and Bottom, and a couple of other members of the cast. Good friends, especially Bottom, who was trying to be comforting about the accident. But most of all, he seemed to be concerned that Mr. Andre might not let William go on making his flying entrance. He was grinning as he said, “If I were our fairly famous director, I’d insist that you continue doing your Tarzan-type entry, broken ankles or not.”

  “No kidding, William,” he went on, “we’ve all seen you do it dozens of times without any problem. And I’m sure it’s going to be one of those wild applause moments that the Mannsville festival is so famous for. You’ll see. Just wait until all the important critics and reviewers have their say. I can see it all now.”