A/N: In a 2009 interview with The New York Times (Bruce Pask, "Asked and answered: William Ivey Long of 'Dreamgirls'", NYT, December 8, 2009) Long confirmed that there were 580 costumes designed for the show, including those for understudies, swings, and standbys.

Chapter Six

"Uh… yeah," Stormer said, "Aja and Kimber were talking about that a couple of days ago." She hesitated. "Well, I mean, it could be fun. Maybe. But what about Roxy? Or Jetta?"

"Is that Pizzazz?" Kimber stage-whispered, and Stormer nodded while making a shushing motion.

"He did?" Stormer said in surprise. "Well, okay, I mean, we are going to be in Dublin the day after tomorrow, so we can try. But why would Jetta…? Yes, I know Tech-Rat doesn't have all the answers." She waited for Pizzazz to pause for breath before continuing, "I'll check it out. A-and I'll see if I can come up with a new song or two while I'm at it. But without Roxy…" She sighed. "Okay. And by the way, how's Hana May?"

Kimber blinked at the unfamiliar name, but she knew she wouldn't get any answers until Stormer was off the phone. She waited for impatiently, checking her watch and wondering how five minutes could suddenly feel like such a long time. Finally, Stormer said her goodbyes and hung up.

"So…?" Kimber asked.

Stormer sighed. "Pizzazz wants to reunite the Misfits for the benefit."

"I didn't hear you tell her 'no'," Kimber said neutrally.

Stormer sighed. "I don't think it's such a bad idea. Especially if we also perform as Kaleidoscope Haze. I mean, we sing a few numbers with our old bands for old time's sake and then we go on like we have been. It's for a good cause."

"I know it is," Kimber admitted. "I just can't help thinking that it feels like a big step backwards."

"It's not a done deal yet," Stormer said. "Pizzazz spoke to Tech-Rat. He said Jetta's currently performing with some band in a nightclub in Dublin. I figure we can try to track her down when we're there."

"I thought that's what that call was about," Kimber said, running a finger gently over Stormer's wrist. Stormer smiled and covered Kimber's hand with her own. Kimber frowned. "Stormer? Who's… Hana May?"

"Sorry I'm late, Marisol," Phyllis said, almost as soon as she was in the door. "Had some last-minute overtime. She been any trouble?"

Marisol laughed. "This one, Ms Gabor? Never!" She smiled fondly at the little girl with white-blonde pigtails, who was lying on the rug with an open coloring book before her, her small face frowning in intense concentration, as she selected a green crayon.

"Oh, Hana May!" the sitter exclaimed. "Green hair for the princess?"

Hana May glanced up for a moment. "Uh-huh," she said seriously, before looking back down at her picture.

"There's nothing wrong with green hair," Phyllis said dryly. "Right Hana May?"

The girl looked up again. "Princesses can get any hair they want to cuz they're princesses," she said. "An' this princess wants green hair!"

Phyllis's lips twitched. "Well, she's the princess, kid. Let her have it." She turned to Marisol.

"The only rule she has to follow about her coloring is that she does it in her book and not on the walls," she said firmly. "Got it?"

"Yes, of course," the sitter said, her eyes flitting nervously from her employer to her charge.

Phyllis nodded, satisfied. "Kid's got an imagination. Try not to rein it in when you don't have to. How much do I owe you?"

After Marisol had gone, Phyllis smiled sadly at Hana May. "Gonna try calling your mother tonight. Want me to wake you up when I do?"

The little girl frowned. "No thank you," she said politely. "She don't want me no more, so I don't want her either." She went back to her coloring.

Phyllis sighed. "Roxy," she muttered under her breath, "you'd better tell me she's wrong, even if you don't really mean it, or…"

Shana winced when a sour note emerged from her bass guitar. "When was the last time I played this thing?" she muttered. She'd meant to keep at it; her love for music had been there long before she'd been one of the Holograms and giving up performing was never supposed to mean giving up playing.

She'd never had to design over five hundred and fifty costumes for a show before. Yes, a good number of them were matching dresses for the main characters, but each performer needed her gown fitted slightly differently, different body parts needed to be emphasized or de-emphasized, plus each main character needed at least ten costumes and one needed twelve! That was just for the leads; the supporting characters and ensemble cast needed their outfits, too—and this wasn't some high school production where the director could just instruct the actors to "bring in leotards," or "blue pants, white blouses."

Shana was up for the challenge. She'd worked hours, studying the fashions of the 60s and 70s, trying to narrow down the fashion options, reminding herself that amateur hopefuls at a Detroit talent night would dress to impress, but not in the hottest—and priciest—looks of 1964. She'd had to coordinate with the set and lighting designers to ensure that the outfits would stand out properly against the backdrops and look right under different lights.

Her work was done. The costumes were easily her best work ever. But it had been months since she'd touched her guitar and she couldn't remember the last time she'd had an uninterrupted hour to play. "Get it together, Shana," she told herself. "Jem's counting on you. You can't let her down."

She attacked the song on her music stand with new fervor. She didn't hit any more sour notes, but she knew her timing was off. She hadn't sounded this bad in she didn't even know when. "Practice makes perfect," she muttered. "It's just going to take a lot of practice."

And hopefully, by the time she made it back to Starlight Mansion, she'd be back up to scratch.

Roxy sounded half-asleep when Phyllis called. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I got a major headache. Too many clubs on the strip, too many bright lights…"

Phyllis had never been big on sympathy. "You could always come back," she said. "Riot's talked Jerrica into a major benefit concert. The Misfits could get a piece of it."

Roxy laughed. "Sure. Or we could host our own concert! A bigger, better one! Like the old days. And we'll raise more money! And then we'll spend it!"

"Benefit, Roxy," Phyllis said again. "Money's for Parkinson's research."

"Aww," Roxy whined, and Phyllis knew her former bandmate was pouting on the other end of the phone. "Can't we get a teeny weenie cut for ourselves?"

Phyllis started to laugh, but then her brow furrowed. "Roxy, are you drunk?"

Roxy giggled. "Not yet, but call back in an hour and I'll be closer."

"Roxy…"

"I'm in Vegas, baby! Gotta live a little!"

"You're supposed to be in Vegas making enough money to pay your bills, not blowing it on booze," Phyllis pointed out.

"But the booze is soooo good," Roxy giggled again. "And I gotta tip the bartender. And the bellhops. And the taxi drivers… And I gotta look my best on stage."

"And you haven't seen your daughter in almost a year," Phyllis snapped.

There was a pause. "How is she?" Roxy asked softly.

"She looks more like you every day," Phyllis said.

"Too bad," Roxy replied with a bitter laugh. "She was such a cute baby."

"Roxy," Phyllis said seriously, "come home. Hana May misses you."

"Soon's I have enough saved to get us a place in LA," Roxy replied, almost whispering now.

"And when will that be?"

"Crud!" Roxy exclaimed. "I gotta get on stage in half an hour. Talk later, Pizzazz! Give Hana May my best!" The line went dead.

Phyllis stared at her cordless phone for a long moment before she replaced it on its base to charge. "Damn it, Roxy," she muttered. "Your kid deserves way better than that and you know it. At least, you do if you aren't already too far gone to see it."

"A baby?" Kimber repeated. "Roxy has a—?"

"Hana May's five now," Stormer said. "So, she's not really a baby anymore."

"I-I know," Kimber said. "But still! Who's the dad?"

Stormer shook her head. "Roxy never told me. Or anyone, really. After the Misfits broke up, we sort of drifted apart. Pizzazz, or I guess Phyllis, now—still weird calling her that; she really used to hate that name back then—anyway, she called me last year, asking if I knew anything about four-year-olds. I mean, she knew some general stuff from her courses; I think she had to learn a bit about child development or maybe psychology to get her degree—"

"I still can't really picture her as a social worker," Kimber interrupted and Stormer shook her head.

"That's… She had her reasons," Stormer said. "I-I don't know if she'd want me sharing everything, but…" She frowned. "How much do you know about her past?"

Kimber's forehead furrowed. "I know her mother walked out on her when she was a kid," she said slowly. "And her dad… Okay, I don't know this. I mean, I only met him once, so it's more the impression I got than anything else, but it seemed like he threw money at her, when what she really wanted from him was time."

"Sounds about right," Stormer said dryly. "Phyllis got into social work, for pretty much the same reason she took in Hana May. Deep down, she really gets what it's like to be a kid and feel like the people who are supposed to be there for you… aren't. Even if they're there physically, they're not there-there. A lot of kids in that situation act out. Not all of them, but she did. I think that's why she works with kids now, and why she's good at it. Anyway, Roxy asked Phyllis to look after her daughter a year or so ago. Financially, things weren't going great for her and she took some job in Vegas that was supposed to pay well. Just for a few weeks."

"And…?"

Stormer shook her head. "We were all pretty wild when we were Misfits. Me included. Phyllis and I grew out of it. I'm not sure about Jetta; I guess we'll find out soon, maybe. But Roxy… didn't. She's still in Vegas and according to Phyllis, anyway, she still hasn't... settled, and it doesn't look like that's changing anytime soon."

"So she left her daughter…?"

"Vegas is trying to be more family-friendly," Stormer said slowly, "but being a single mother when you work nights is rough. Being a single mother when you work nights and love to party?" Stormer shook her head. "I think Hana May's probably better off with Phyllis."

"Somehow, I doubt that's what Hana May thinks," Kimber murmured.

Stormer winced. "From what Phyllis was saying earlier, the sad thing is that she might be starting to."

"Don't be nervous," Jerrica said at breakfast, passing the plate of scrambled eggs toward Emma.

"I'm not," Emma shrugged, sliding egg onto her plate and reaching for a piece of toast. "School's school."

"Yeah," a girl about her own age said, "but you won't know anyone there. Besides me and Stephanie, I mean," she said, nodding toward a petite dark-haired girl beside her. "We're the only ones here in middle school. Nicole's in elementary," she added, waving at a small girl at the far end of the table, "and everyone else is in high. I'm Casey."

"Emma," Emma said, spreading butter on her toast. "And it's not like I knew people at my old school, really."

"Well, you're here now," Stephanie said. "We can show you around at lunch."

"So you know where all the bathrooms are and the fastest way to get to class," Casey added.

"And if you're into Pogs, I know where the best players hang out."

"Anthony Martin isn't the best player!" Casey laughed.

A dreamy look came over Stephanie's face. "But he is the best looking."

Casey rolled her eyes. "She'll be asking him for extra coaching next," she muttered to Emma.

"I-I don't play Pogs," Emma admitted.

"So what do you like to do?"

Emma shrugged. "Stuff."

"Stuff's good," Casey said. "I like stuff."

Emma tensed. Sometimes she wasn't good at knowing when someone who acted friendly was actually laughing at her. And Casey did look like she was ready to laugh, but not meanly. She shot her a hesitant smile and when she received a warmer one in turn, she felt her tension ease somewhat. "I… uh… kind of like," she winced, "uh… Mary Chapin Carpenter." And now, they were going to know just how big of a loser she was.

Stephanie perked up excitedly. "I've got State of the Heart in my room! We can listen after school if you want!"

Emma exhaled and dug her fork into her eggs. "Yeah," she said, flashing a small, genuine smile. "Yeah, I would. Thanks."

Emma tried to concentrate on her new teacher's voice, but she didn't have a clue what was going on. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I-I guess we didn't cover that at my old school."

Someone laughed, and Emma felt her face grow hot.

"Trevor," the teacher—Ms Kogawa, Emma remembered now—said warningly. She gave Emma a sympathetic smile.

"Don't worry, Emma," she said. "We'll catch you up in no time."

Emma tried to smile back, but she had her doubts. She'd never been a great student. Being bounced around from placement to placement meant that she'd also changed schools numerous times, often more than once in the same year. When she was already struggling to keep her head above water and learn the material, those moves didn't help. Each time, there was the frantic scrambling to try to catch up where she was behind and not show off when she was ahead. There were new teachers to get used to, new kids to meet, and often different textbooks, too. And no matter what she did or how well or how badly she performed, she knew that at any moment, she might be whisked away to start over again with a whole new crowd of students and teachers who didn't know her and she'd be back at square one. After a while, she'd just tuned everything out and marked time until recess or lunch or dismissal. Why had she thought that things would be different here?

A folded slip of paper suddenly landed on her open World History textbook. Startled, she unfolded it.

I can help you tonight, if you want, Emma read. I love Ancient Egypt. She jerked her head up in the direction from which the note seemed to have come and saw Casey smiling at her.

This time, smiling back was a lot less forced.

Three nights later, Emma walked nervously between Casey and Stephanie, approaching a door at the end of the hallway of bedrooms. The guitar, already playing loudly on the other side of that door, seemed to blare all the more as they approached.

Casey hesitated only a moment before she rapped on the door.

There was no response.

"She can't hear us over the noise," Emma groaned.

"What'd you say?" Stephanie asked. At least, Emma guessed that was what she was asking; she wasn't very good at reading lips, but she couldn't hear her friend and it didn't take a genius to guess that Stephanie couldn't hear her either.

"I… said…" Emma said, speaking more loudly and more slowly, "she can't hear us!"

Stephanie shook her head and Emma couldn't hear what she said this time either.

Casey attacked the door with her fists, pounding rhythmically in counterpoint to the guitar solo in the room beyond.

Emma reached past her and tried the knob. To her surprise, it turned easily. The three girls looked at one another with raised eyebrows before marching into the room.

"Deirdre…" Casey began.

The blonde teen was lost in her music and didn't seem to be aware of her surroundings. Stephanie stepped smartly to the electrical outlet and unplugged the amp.

Deirdre blinked and looked around. "Hey, what gives?" she asked. "Didn't anyone teach you guys to knock?"

"We did," Stephanie snapped. "Now it's your turn."

"Yeah," Casey chimed in. "We're trying to study here and you're playing so loud that I bet they can hear you clear over in Orange County. So knock it off!"

Deirdre winced. "Uh… sorry, guys. Hey, any of you want to try out for the Starlights? Ashley's holding auditions on Saturday."

"Great for Ashley," Stephanie said. "Unfortunately, we've got a test to study for. So, how about playing without the amp?"

Casey and Emma both nodded.

Deirdre sighed. "Okay, you win. But think about the auditions. Ashley's going to look pretty dorky up on stage if I'm the only backup singer."

"Isn't that kind of Ashley's problem?" Casey asked.

Deirdre shook her head. "I know you only came here after she left but… when it comes to Ashley, her problems have a way of becoming other people's problems, too." She looked from face to face. "Besides, I promised Ashley I'd try to find a few new people and… you're here, so I'm trying."

Stephanie raised an eyebrow. "I'll give you that," she said. "You and that guitar are very trying. And we're trying to study."

"Okay, okay." Deirdre gave in with a reluctant smile. "But maybe check out the auditions anyway?" She looked from face to face. "Emma, right? Maybe?"

Emma swallowed hard. "There's nothing special about my singing," she said. "Thanks."

As they made their way back to Stephanie's room to resume their homework, Emma found herself humming absent-mindedly.

Casey groaned. "Can't get it out of your head now, huh?"

"Sorry."

"Nah," Stephanie grinned. "It's catchy. Like the flu."

"So, about the auditions…" Emma said slowly.

For a moment, neither of her companions said anything. "We can think about it," Casey said slowly, a moment later. "But it's not just the auditions. It's the practices if you make the band. There are probably going to be a lot of them and they're going to cut into homework and study time. I might be a whiz at history, but… you notice I didn't ask if you need help with math."

"Oh," Emma said, and decided not to admit now that she did need help with math, too. "Okay."

Then she smiled again, when Stephanie proclaimed, "Yeah, math's more my thing."

Pan was watching the night sky as the Shadow descended. "Well?" he asked. "How fares the savior-to-be?"

The Shadow's eyes glinted with something that might almost have been amusement. "Are you that eager to have your son remember you?"

Pan sighed. "No, though I wish Neverland's air would work on me as it does the Lost Boys, so I could forget him as thoroughly as he has me. Until I obtain the Heart of the Truest Believer, I'm vulnerable. At least, in the unlikely event that my dear spawn finds not only his memories, but the courage to do what he'll need to if he's to remove me from the board."

His brow furrowed. "If the Savior turns aside from the path Destiny means her to travel," he went on slowly, |on her new course, it's just barely possible that the Truest Believer will not be born."

"You don't trust Destiny to take its course, then?"

Pan smirked. "I never have, Old Friend. I never have. No, it's no fun sitting on the sidelines and watching the game unfold. I'd much rather place a few pieces of my own on the board." His expression turned serious once more. "So. What news do you bring?"

The Shadow shrugged. "She's slept far more soundly than usual these last nights. Even the pipes at their most mournful barely stirred her, and when they did, she but rolled over and slept all the more deeply. As far as I could see, her dreams were likely pleasant ones," he added.

"And she's happy in this new city she's come to?" Pan asked. "She has support? Friends?"

"My observations would seem to confirm on each of those counts."

Pan's frown twisted into a scowl. For a long, terrible moment, he said nothing. And then, all at once, his face grew bright and he smiled again. "Well, then," he said lightly, "I suppose we must do something about that." He cast pensive eyes at a gleaming star, the second to his left. "All right," he told the Shadow. "Summon them."