"None will ever be a true Parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom or indifference over his inward joy."
Angelique Chanson thought her name was way too romantic sounding for who and what she actually was. That was why no one now knew her real first name, except her boss who signed her paychecks; she simply introduced herself as Ang. Her name, among many other things, had been a source of relentless teasing and bullying when she was younger, and the shortened name seemed to garner much less attention. Given her opinion that life was safer lived in the shadows, she gravitated toward clothing in drab colors and at least a size too large on her narrow frame, and though she had subtle, supple curves beneath all those layers, none were the wiser. Her eyes were gray like the ocean on an overcast afternoon, although they occasionally shifted to a dark aqua or a smokey green, depending upon her mood. Her skin was unremarkably pale due to what she assumed was a mixed European ancestry, with no freckles to speak of, and a small nose that, to her embarrassment, turned up at the end. The only part about her that stood out, besides her diminutive height, was her hair: natural waves the color of burnished copper fell to the small of her back when left down, but which remained unfailingly tied up in a hurried, messy bun at the back of her head to keep it out of her face.
The cards were stacked against her almost from the beginning. The only thing she had of her actual family was a faded photograph of smiling parents with her as an infant in a white christening gown, cuddled lovingly between them. She'd gotten her fiery hair from her father and inherited her mother's almost too-large stormy gray eyes and thick black lashes. It was a car accident on an icy switchback that had changed her life, killing both parents – her entire known family. As for her, eight-month-old Angelique lost her leg below the knee and she fought for her life for a good two months before she could be moved from the ICU. While she couldn't remember it, the nurses had been kind and loving. Her caseworker had done his best to place her with a family who could tend to her medical needs, but each time, each household, the family decided she wasn't worth the headache of constant therapy visits and prosthetics. When he retired, her file was transferred to an overworked, underpaid matronly woman who was none too pleased that the young amputee just couldn't settle with a single family.
Growing up in the foster system, she bounced from house to house in a long string of abusive and neglectful families before finally landing at a girls' home in the Midwest when she was eleven. She'd learned very early that the more invisible she could make herself, the better. Her limp and prosthetic stood out like a beacon to the bullies of the houses, and between that and under-five-foot stature, she was an easy target. She'd had to toughen up fast, both physically and emotionally.
Memories tended to crash over her whenever she allowed herself to become too still or too quiet, as she was now, staring blankly at her reflection in her closet-sized bathroom. Rather than dwell further, she shook her head to clear her thoughts and hurried through her morning rituals. Her face was quickly scrubbed clean with a soft washcloth, which she hung up to dry on its command hook on the wall beside her bathroom sink. A strong, black hair tie was snapped up and held outstretched while expert fingers quickly wound and bound up her thick mass of hair. A few pats of liquid concealer beneath her eyes was all she wore by way of make-up.
Five minutes later, Ang was dressed in her work uniform: black stretch jeans, black sneakers, and a long-sleeved black tee shirt that read "stage crew" on the front and "You can't see me" on the back in dark gray letters, barely visible against the black cotton background. Everyone on the production and backstage team at the theater had one, a joke among techies everywhere. Her beat-up canvas messenger's bag was loaded with everything she'd need for the day: a large water bottle, a few packs of trail mix, half a dozen energy bars, and her show script for "Phantom", the season opener. Before leaving her apartment, she patted her back pocket, feeling for the familiar crinkle of thick photo paper that was her family picture, always kept on her person, a reminder that she had been loved at one point, even if for just a little while.
While she had no actual memories of the crash that stole her parents from her, somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she must have remembered – she had a nearly crippling fear of cars. Therefore, wherever she went, she walked. And if it was too far to walk, she rode her bike. Of course, carrying that up and down four flights of stairs between her small studio apartment in the city and the street was more punishment than she liked. At least it was a fair fall day today rather than the pelting rain that had soaked the city last week.
The music from her current show played in her ears from memory and she hummed softly beneath her breath as she went. It wasn't the Broadway smash that everyone and their dog seemed to know by heart, but she liked it. It felt a little grittier. Plus, she loved the mini-series it was based on. The title character, played by Charles Dance, was just so dry in his humor that she still laughed whenever she remembered snippets of dialogue. As she maneuvered the crowded city sidewalks, she swallowed a chuckle, not wanting people around her to think she was crazy by guffawing to herself out of nowhere. But still... funny stuff.
"Hey Mac," she called out as she walked in through the back door of the theater.
"Here, lass," the Scotsman called in return.
She followed the trail of his voice through the brick hallways until she ended up on the stage, bare of furniture but nearly complete as far as the set pieces went. She spotted the burly Celt perched on a tall ladder with a paintbrush, carefully adding gold leaf to the foam ornately carved and attached to the top of the proscenium arch, mimicking the carvings seen in the Paris opera house during the late 1800s. Ang stood at the base and craned her neck back to peer up at him. "Is Stitch here yet?"
"Nae, she's still sick. Won' come in 'til rehearsal t'night," he answered in the thick brogue she loved to listen to.
"Makes sense. Why sew here when you can stay home on your couch?"
He snorted, refilling his brush with paint. "Wish I could do me job from th' couch."
"Yeah, me too." She headed down the side stairs into the house. "Then I wouldn't have to stare at your ugly mug all day," Ang quipped over her shoulder with a grin.
Without missing a beat in his strokes with the brush, his free hand flipped her the bird, and she snorted. "You love me!" she yelled as she trekked up to the control booth.
"Aye, I do," he quipped. "Yer better ta look at than Gus."
"Where is Gus, anyway?" Their set designer was a master of his craft. He'd gotten his degrees in architecture and interior design but was also an incredible artist and sculptor on top of that, in everything from carving foam to look like stone gargoyles to painting a blank wood flat to appear as if it were three-dimensional brick. The man's talent truly boggled her mind, and somehow he'd made his home here instead of finding work in New York City on Broadway. However, he was even more reclusive than she was; she'd only met him a handful of times over her three-year career there as the light technician's assistant and the customer's extra pair of hands.
"God knows. Probably hidin' in th' basement, diggin' through the props fer set dressin'," Mac quipped before returning his focus to the job at hand.
Eight hours later, Ang stood off to one side, covering a yawn with her hand, waiting for the light board operator to shut down the power to the grid before picking her way across the rickety metal catwalk to the source of the problem. One of the main lights had shifted its position, likely due to a giving of bolts that let it slip away from its original placement. With one leg over the rail and the other hooked from the inside, she leaned just slightly over the top, nimble fingers quickly loosened the screws that held the massive light fixture at the wrong angle, arms held out from her body to avoid burns from the still blistering metal sides. On the stage two stories below, backstage techs dressed in their show blacks scurried to and fro, checking the mechanics of the curtains, the weight and pulley system against one wall, and the computer program that would automatically trigger this backdrop or that to fall or fly up into the theater's heavens.
"Trap 1. Go." The call below sounded the warning that the false floor would be sliding away from its closed position. With a rumbling woosh, the panel slid back.
"Trap 2. Go." Another woosh, and the second section of the floor vanished.
"Light cue 126." The voice over the god mic echoed from the various speaker boxes arranged high in the corners of the theater.
Ang's eyes snapped wide and she screamed into the darkness of the house toward the control booth. "Wait!"
"Go."
As the old bulb illuminated with blinding light, she yanked both hands back, but not before yelping in pain at the split-second burn to her palms and the pads of her fingers. There was an awful groaning of metal as loose bolts gave way; sparks rained down upon the stage as the light pulled free, the cord severing. Trying to spare the expensive piece of equipment, Ang lunged for the light, and both toppled from the broken railing and disappeared through the floor's activated trap doors, her terrified scream echoing over the chaotic cries of her team.
Author's Note: March, 2024. After publishing my first full-length novel I'm going back through this long-shelved fanfic to breathe some fresh life into it, and hopefully finish it! If it's your first time reading through it, welcome! If you're reading through it again to refamiliarize yourself with it, thank you for not giving up on me! If you're interested in my book, search for my non de plume, Lily M. Winter, or by the book's title The Boxer and the Rose on Amazon; if you'd like a signed copy, feel free to PM me! Love and light!