Chapter Six: February Panics

There was something wrong with the directors.

Christine could see their eyes darting to her as they spoke in hushed voices, neglecting their job and leaving the cast to rehearse alone. They had been secretive these past few weeks, nervous, jumping at whoever spoke to them and glaring almost fearfully at Christine whenever they caught her eye.

She watched them retreat into their office and returned her attention to the script. It was only February and already rehearsals seemed to have been dragging on for years. Her life was the same weary cycle of work and pain, unfulfilled dreams. Just last week the doctor had told her that Valerius would soon be admitted to a nursing home. Raoul had finally found a job but was still horribly depressed over his misfortunes; it seemed that many companies had turned him down for no apparent reason. He called Christine and asked her out several times but she always felt herself refusing for reasons she couldn't quite name. It just seemed wrong somehow, like the memory of a dark dream that lingered on the edge of her unconscious, urging her to stay away from him.

So she was once again alone, but at least she was in the musical, and at least she still had her dream music.

Christine glanced up and noticed that the rest of the cast had ceased to rehearse and was divided into small noisy groups. She yawned, suddenly thirsty, and as she rose from her chair Christine remembered a question about scene five that she had been meaning to ask Mr. Richkin. She walked tiredly to their office. They always seemed too busy to speak with her during rehearsals, but maybe now she could get their attention.

She reached the old wooden door and raised her hand to knock, but the sound of her name stopped her in her tracks.

"Well, what are we going to do about Danes, then?" Mr. Mayhew's voice came out muffled and angry, and Christine leaned toward the door, curious.

"What can we do? We know how much power this man has. I don't really think that we have a choice in the matter." Mr. Richkin sounded tired.

"But damn it, we can't keep going on like this. Putting the girl in the musical was one thing, even letting her be an understudy, but I'll be damned to hell if we're going to take off the best singer this school has to offer and replace her with that weak-voiced Danes, he can threaten all he wants!"

"You know that they're not threats." Richkin's voice was so weary. "You know that he has the power to do exactly what he says he will do. We'll be ruined if we don't put Danes in the lead."

"And we'll be ruined if we do!" Mayhew spat. "I'm tired of taking orders from some psychopath! It's not fair, John."

"Of course it's not, and keep your voice down," Richkin hissed. "You know that he has eyes everywhere. And the problem with Miss Danes…"

"Do you think she knows?" Mayhew whispered. "Do you think she knows anything?"

"She's got to suspect something, but no, I think that she's in the dark with this." Richkin sighed. "I almost feel sorry for her."

Christine backed away from the door with her hands to her mouth. What was going on? What did they mean? Did someone tell them to put her in the musical? Who? Was the same someone telling them to put her in the lead? That was ridiculous, she didn't have the vocal strength for the lead and she knew it. But what did they mean? What if she wasn't good enough to be onstage, what if it was all this man, this strange figure who gave orders dealing with her? Who could it be?

And as her mind flashed to the sheets of music and the strange occurrences of the past months she felt fear grip her stomach, and she started running.

Her feet pounded on the tile as she ran up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time, heading for the one person she knew would give her a straight answer.

Christine flew through the brightly polished door to find him sitting at his desk, a mildly confused look on his face. He opened his mouth to speak but she slammed her hands on the desk and stared at him wildly.

"Did someone order you to put me in the musical?"

Mr. Reyes, the short, balding head of the theater department, frowned at her. "What?"

"Did they? Did they? Did someone tell you to cast me in the musical? Did someone tell you to give me the lead? Is someone threatening you and what does it have to do with me?"

Reyes stared at her as if he had never seen her before. "Oh dear," he whispered. "How did you hear about this?"

"It's true then?" she gasped out. "Please, don't lie to me. Is it true?"

"Yes," he said softly, sadly. "I'm afraid that it is."

Christine gripped the desk to keep herself from falling. "What is going on?" she whispered.

In response Reyes opened his bottommost drawer, pulled out a handful of papers, and handed them to her.

Christine took them shakily and started as she felt the familiar knotted texture, but her heart didn't drop into her stomach until she saw the clumsy red handwriting.

'It's the same person! Oh God!'

She glanced at the papers, the most recent first, then the one after that, and the one after that, going back for months, and realized horribly that almost all of them were about her.

'I would like to correct you on the idea of Miss Holleywell as the lead role, Miss Christine Danes seems far better suited…'

'I am of the mind that rehearsals should not be held during Spring Break but perhaps should be extended longer after…'

'Do I need to remind you of my salary? As rightful owner of this university I will not be denied the extra sum that I ask for…'

'I need to revise your choice of casting Miss Clark as the understudy of Miss Holleywell…'

'I believe that it would be in your best interests to add Miss Danes to the cast list as she rightfully deserves to be…'

Christine looked up, unable to read any more. "What are these?" she asked.

Mr. Reyes sighed heavily. "They're my orders," he said. "And in a way, yours."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, this man obviously wants you to perform and I believe it would be unwise to go against those wishes."

"'This man?' But…but he says in this note that he owns the university! Is this true? How can you not know who he is?"

Reyes sagged his shoulders, looking older than his years. "We just don't. It's true that he owns the university – though he skims extra money off the top with a form of blackmail he calls 'salary'— but he's remained completely anonymous. He works entirely out of random notes and pseudonyms. We can't track him, can't find out anything about him, and no one will help us look. It's like he owns everything, has everyone scared."

She swallowed and tried to find her voice. "And what does this have to do with me?"

Reyes pulled out a spotted handkerchief and mopped his round face with it. "I'm not sure. All I know is that he seems to have a particular interest in you and your voice." He suddenly sat up straight. "Has anything unusual happened to you lately? Anything that could relate to this?"

Christine bit her lip and stared at the ground. What was she supposed to tell him about? Music that appeared out of nowhere, random events, dreaming of strange and lovely things? None of it made sense. How could it possibly help?

"No," she muttered. "No, nothing much. But I can't do this anymore, not now that I know….I'm sorry, I…..have to stop. I'm leaving the musical. I'm sorry. But…keep me informed, will you?"

Reyes stared at her with his mouth partly open as if about to speak but she flushed and edged toward the door, then ran out of the office.

Christine flew down the steps and out of the building, breathing sharply. What was going on? Who was this shadow man? Why was he haunting her? It didn't make any sense!

"God DAMNIT!" She stopped, hands on her knees, and screamed. In the few minutes since she had overheard that conversation, everything Christine believed in had shattered around her. She wasn't good enough to be cast, she wasn't doing the right things with her life. It was all some strange person. Nothing was her.

"Nothing is ever me," she whispered. "Never."

She stumbled and ran to her apartment, took the stairs instead of the elevator, locked the door, and collapsed in a corner of her room, her head between her knees.

Meg found her there an hour later and paused in the doorway, fearing another panic attack. But when Christine looked up at her with a lost, tear-streaked face, Meg dropped her bag and went to her friend's side.

"Chris? Chris, what happened?"

"It's not me, Meg," Christine whimpered. "I'm not good enough, I never will be, and he, he…" She gulped back another sob. She felt as if she was breaking on the inside, like glass under the weight of a truck, shattering into dust and dirt.

"Calm down, honey." Meg snapped into her 'mother' role, straightening her shoulders and sounding commanding yet gentle. "What's going on?"

"I quit the play," Christine muttered.

Meg widened her eyes. "What? Why?"

"I found out…something horrible." Christine lifted her wet, red face to her friend's, trying to coherently explain the strange events of the afternoon. "I overheard the directors talking….and then I found out…"

"Yes?"

"There's some….man, I don't know who, the owner of the university, I guess…it's all so confusing…..but he….he's been telling the theater department what to do. He told them to cast me…practically threatened them. I don't know why, but it's all him, not me. I wasn't good enough. It's so strange, almost….frightening."

Meg blinked as she digested the information. "Why would this person ask for you to be cast?"

Christine let out a choked sob. "How should I know? I have no idea!"

"So what are you going to do now?" Meg asked tentatively.

Christine shook her head. "I don't know. I quit the play. I can't be there anymore knowing…knowing this. And I'm going to Maine next week for Spring Break to see my old friends, my old town….so I'll get away. I just need to take things one step at a time or I'll go mad. I feel like everything is so wrong."

Suddenly Christine paused, and her breath caught in her throat as she stared at a pile of papers by Meg's side. "What's that?" she asked.

Meg glanced down. "Oh, just the mail. I picked it up earlier. What's the matter?"

Christine had gone pale and was reaching toward the pile, pulling at the corner of a just-visible folded slip of paper with a strange, knotted texture.

She swallowed painfully and unfolded it. The clumsy handwriting only said two words, but she felt like someone had punched her in the stomach.

'Don't quit.'

"It's about the musical," Christine whispered. "But how…so soon…"

She drew her brows together in sudden anger as her flood of emotions reached its peak. How dare some strange person interfere in her life! How dare they make her feel like this, frighten her, unnerve her? It was unfair. It was wrong.

"No," she whispered angrily. "Goddamnit, NO."

And Christine crumpled the note and tossed it in the garbage.