3

Nikki

Madame Q, as she introduced herself without looking me in the eye, led me down a few hallways where I could hear the muffled sound of thrilling music, until we reached a door in a quiet corridor labeled with a gold plaque, Mister Y. "No promises," she said. She knocked three times on the door, "Mr. Y? Mr. Y, there's some kid here who coerced me into bringing her to talk to you about Learning Lunacy."

All of her murmurings about this not going to happen made me not expect to hear a commanding reply, "Send her in. Alone."

She gestured to the door. "In you go. If I were you, I'd stand up straight and end every sentence with sir."

"Do you do that?" I murmured.

"Nah. He knows me…as well as he knows everyone else." With that, she walked away. I took a breath, put my shoulders back and turned the golden doorknob.

Mr. Y's office had dark red wooden walls, a red and gold carpet, bookcases inside the walls, a desk set up with a quill and inkbottle on one side of the room and a piano on the other. No windows, no light bulbs. Only candles and candelabras, but it was lit well enough for me to see the man behind the desk, wearing a black old-fashioned suit or something and a mask, only a few shades whiter than his face. His black hair was slicked back neatly behind his ears. His eyes were a strangely rare shade of blue that burned like ice into mine when he looked up at me. He stood up and said, "I'm afraid I wasn't expecting visitors, so I have no place for you to sit."

There was a bench at the piano. "No problem. Mind if I move this?"

"Please, allow me," he replied.

"No, I got it." I lifted it with ease and put it across his chair on his desk. Before sitting, I held out my hand to him. "Nikki Lasalle-Jones. I, uh, represent the J.D. Walker Academy theater department." He shook my hand and when he released it, we sat at the same time. "Mr. Barry Costello is a fan and…had his heart set on Learning Lunacy."

"Mr. Costello is a director?" he asked.

Heeding Madame Q's weird advice, I said, "Yes, sir. He would be here himself, but his partner has the car and there's no train near the school that would take him here. As assistant director, he sent me, and told me to assure you we would pay full price for the rights."

His lips tightened. "Learning Lunacy, yes? I'll tell you, Miss Lasalle-Jones, not once in all my years of composing has anyone come to me for the rights to my shows. I do recall performing it…some twenty years ago."

"He said he saw it at Phantasma when he was about my age," she said. "And credits it to his love of theater. I…only know a plot synopsis from the Internet but I'm so interested that I'm here."

"The reason it has not been performed by anyone else, though," he said firmly. "I do hope you'll understand. I take particular pride in my art, and cannot bear to see it altered without my permission, or ruined."

"Understood," I replied. "Yeah, that makes perfect sense."

"So you'll understand my hesitance to put it in the hands of teenagers."

"Not exclusively teenagers," I murmured. "It's sixth through twelfth grade."

He sighed. "Even worse."

"Mr. Y, sir," I pled. "I can assure you we're a talented bunch, and Barry has no patience for people who…pardon me, suck."

He looked up from his hands and his eyes on mine made me freeze. "Forgive me for changing the subject, my dear, but Lasalle-Jones sounds familiar."

I smiled a little. "I know. A lot of people say that. My, uh, my mom was New Orleans R&B Queen Imani Lasalle…and my dad is the guy who was in the gang but got mad…and killed them and some other people."

"I believe it was only Imani I knew personally," he said. "Is she still in New Orleans? I haven't heard very much about her in…some time."

I don't like talking about my mom's death. I'd almost rather talk about my dad's because he deserved to be beaten to death by other inmates. "They didn't make much of a big deal out of it…but she died during Hurricane Katrina." My hands clenched together. "About the show, Mr. Y. What can we do to have it your way?"

He sighed again. "There's very little that comes to mind."

"Like, if you want to come in and give some tips, that would actually be wonderful. We'd love to hear some real advice from a guy in the business. It's a learning experience, as Barry says."

"You must understand, Miss Lasalle—"

"Nikki," I said. "Sorry."

"Nikki, is that what Imani came up with?" he replied.

"Technically, it's Nicole," I replied, my hands clenching tighter.

"May I call you Nicole?" he said. My eyes widened but I didn't say anything. "A name such as Nicole is so beautiful, I cannot part with a single letter."

I knew I was blushing but I felt crazy. I don't know how old this guy is because "Mr. Y" has been around since 1900, but Barry is pretty sure they reelect one after the prior one dies. This one has to be old because he knows my mom. But…he's gorgeous. "I guess," I murmured.

"It was, after all," he said, standing up to browse one of the bookcases. "The name of the character your mother played in Learning Lunacy."

That's right! The female lead was Nicole Bronwyn. He retrieved a program dated 1990, and I recognized my mom on the photograph on the cover immediately. She was twenty-one. Mr. Y let me examine it with my hands. As I did, he said, "It was the first and only time it was performed, and it was beautiful. You'll understand my reluctance to put it in a stranger's hands, won't you, Nicole?"

My name rolled off his tongue. I looked up at him and said, "Yeah, of course. But…sir, we're desperate." He was not gonna give us the rights, so I guilt tripped him. "You and my mom were buddies, huh? Would you give the rights to her if she offered you money?"

"Money," he said with disdain. "Is not a concern of mine."

"If she promised you it would rock, would you?"

His lips tightened again. "Perhaps."

"I will personally see that we follow everything the script says. No improvisation. Everyone'll know their lines and stuff," I replied eagerly.

"Assistant director, correct?" he said.

"Yeah. I have that kind of power…I guess," I mumbled.

"Hmm," he breathed.

"You can come to rehearsals and give us feedback if you want," I said. "Like I said, we'd be honored."
"Yes, I was about to say," he replied. "As you may know, I must maintain my anonymity. It's a big deal for you to be here, speaking one on one to me. I may prefer to communicate my concerns and feedback to one person. I do that here, at my own theater."

"I get it, you're a…bit of a hermit," I murmured. My palms sweaty with nervousness around this intimidating creature, but my head determined to do what Barry said, I continued, "That can be arranged. I can give you status updates and…yeah. Anything you want." I reached into my bag that remained on my shoulder and pulled out a slip of paper and a pen. I wrote down my cell phone number and school email address and put the paper slowly on his desk. "Assuming you're leaning towards yes, or need time to think."

"Your promises have convinced me. All there is to do is keep them," he said.

My eyebrows raised. "Really?"

"Yes," he replied, a slight smirk on his face. He put the program back and retrieve a leather-bound book that read in cursive Learning Lunacy. "I assume you'll have the equipment to make copies of this for your actors."

"No…contract or anything?"

"Not necessary," he replied.

I stood up and took the book. "Thanks, Mr. Y. We won't let you down. I'll, uh, make some copies tomorrow and run it back to you then."

"Yes, just tell whoever sees you first that I gave it to you, they'll have to understand," he replied. "I'll be in touch."

"Great." I held out my hand one more time. "Thanks again."

He took my hand but didn't shake it. He just stared into my eyes again and said somewhat firmly, "But, Nicole, promise me that this meeting shall be kept a secret between you and me. No one is to know the details, for my sake of anonymity."

I shrugged. "All right."

He lifted my hand to his lips and gently pressed them against my fingertips. My face burned—I was blushing. No, I was red. He released my hand and I said a timid goodbye, then ran. I forgot to ask for his contact information. I just ran to my car.

Once I was safe inside, I wiped the sweat from my forehead with my sleeve, put my bag and the script in the passenger seat and called Barry. I started the car as the phone rang and he answered, "Hey, Nikki, that was quick. How'd it go?"

"Erm, I met with him. He's…actually really nice. He gave me the original script and I said I'd make some copies and…yeah."

"No contract involved?"

"No. He just gave me explicit permission," I replied.

Barry was more friend than teacher, but I still honored the promise I made to Mr. Y by telling as little as possible. Luckily, that was good enough for him. "Great! See you tomorrow, kid!"

I smiled. "Bye, Barry." He hung up.