The City of Dreams -- Part 31

[Really, REALLY in the home stretch. I think. Maybe. I'm struggling with this, both the pacing and the dreaded play. In a dream. In a novel.

[Why do we write? Because life isn't confusing enough.]

            Zoli said yes. Mrs. Absinthe was excited and said she'd talk to Pork Chop. Mr. Punctilious immediately began designing a set, even though he had no idea what the play was about. Father Thomas looked surprised, but pleased.

            Mrs. Humphrey was slightly trickier.

            "Interesting," she said.

            "I think you're perfect for the part," I said. "I even have a part for you in my daytime play."

            "I wondered if you intended that part for me." She looked at the pile of papers around her. "I don't know, Mr. Crows. I'm...comfortable here."

            "In all your old plays?"

            She blinked, her eyes large through her glasses. "Yes. In all the plays I could have written. I'll think about it."

            That was that. I didn't push. Mrs. Humphrey would come around. I hoped.

            And that left only one more person to invite.

            I caught her at her locker after seventh period.

            "Hi," I said.

            "What's up, Perry?" asked Brie. She folded her arms across her chest. Seemed like I'd heard something about that in psychology last year, but that was one class where I did my best to forget everything they packed in as soon as possible.

            "I have something I want to show you."

            "Okay." She waited, tipping her head slightly to look at my backpack.

            "Not here," I said.

            She shook her head. "I'm not going out with you, or anything close to that."

            "Ouch. But that's not what I want." Actually, saying it out loud informed me that it was EXACTLY what I wanted. "It's at Mr. Punctilious' Fabulous and Often Exciting Traveling Troupe and Garage Sale. Friday night."

            "Friday?"

            "Yeah. Mrs. Humphrey says we're moving along faster than she expected, and that we can be ready by then. Or close enough."

            "We?"

            "Look, I don't want to explain, because that would ruin it, but I really want you to be there, so could you please come? After that, if you want to, you can ignore me forever and I won't complain about it at all. It'll be like before."

            Brie's eyebrows were down over her eyes. "What are you up to, Perry?"

            "Just come? Please?"

            "We'll see."

            Then she left, and I hurried to try to catch a ride with Tamara. She wasn't above leaving me to walk home.

            "What did she say?" asked Mrs. Humphrey.

            "She said 'we'll see.'"

            "Excellent. Back to work."

            "How does 'we'll see' count as excellent?"

            "Because it means she'll be there."

            "How do you know? You haven't even met Brie."

            "No," said Mrs. Humphrey, looking up from my manuscript, "but I've met you, Mr. Crows. That is more than enough. Now back to work. Dress rehearsal is tomorrow."

            Thursday evaporated. It was like water on a hot sidewalk. Alas, poor Thursday, we hardly knew thee.

            Everyone came to the dress rehearsal, including Mrs. Humphrey. A small trail of papers blew in through the door behind her as she climbed into Mr. Punctilious' barn.

            "And who is this lovely lady?" asked the barn's owner, his smile very white in his dark face.

            "A charmer, are you?" she asked. "A man of the theater must be, I suppose."

            "Not much of a charmer," said Mr. Punctilious, "and truly, not much a man of the theater. It is a recent passion, but one I'm happy to have found. This young man here tells me that we have you to thank for the quality of the script."

            Mrs. Humphrey turned her large lenses toward me.

            "I said you helped. A lot."

            "Don't let him fool you, Mr. Punctilious. Mr. Crows is responsible for the meat of this work. I have helped him to dress it appropriately, but even the most skilled chef cannot carve a roast that isn't there."

            Mr. Punctilious looked at me. "I like her, Perry. Where did you find her?"

            "On a rooftop."

            "Coming through!" called Pork Chop. We made way for a short parade: an ottoman, two chairs, an end table that moved with a surprising amount of spunk, and an armoire. "We'll have the rest by tomorrow," he said in passing.

            "Hang on," I said. "The rest?"

            Mr. Punctilious waved his hand in the air, brushing my question away. "I had this image for the scene in the middle. I think we should read it while surrounded by furniture! It will be very artsy, very avant-garde. Brie will love it."

            "I'm not sure the scene really--"

            "Perry!" interrupted Mrs. Absinthe. "Does this dress work for you? I imagine my character wearing feathers. I know you didn't say that in the script, but I read the part you gave me, and I thought I simply had to wear something with feathers. You don't mind, do you?"

            "I hadn't exactly thought of feathers, but if you--"

            "Whassup," said Zoli. "Perry, I was thinking, should I wear a suit? I bet I could find one. You know, the kind like from the movie version of 'Guys and Dolls?' Something camel colored. I like how 'camel colored' sounds."

            "It will be fine," said Mrs. Humphrey. "Why don't we all gather on the stage and find our seats. It seems that Mr. Pork Chop has convinced some stools to sit still for us." The others went ahead and I was left, looking down at the small woman in a floral shirt who seemed like an anchor in the chaos of whatever it was that had just happened.

            "What just happened?" I asked.

            "The inevitable, Mr. Crows. You asked for help from some very enthusiastic people. If we had the time, we could cut back on the rush, but I don't recommend it. This entire project will live or die on sincerity. Let their generous hearts carry you along. Be the paper boat in the water."

            I blinked at her. "Were we talking about a paper boat?"

            "It's a metaphor from a play of mine that was never produced. Odd bits of memory come up when we're old, Mr. Crows. Also, I felt my character should be more mellow in her tastes than I am. You don't mind that I went with this more restrained look?"

            I looked at the vivid, splashy flowers that spread across her shirt, and something inside me shrugged. "Nice," I said. Then I looked back over my shoulder toward the sound. The sound like seventy bagpipes, all slouching their way toward the barn. I wasn't sure, though, but I didn't think that bagpipes could make that bass, whooshing noise that underlay the entire audio disaster.

            With a metallic crash, the sound stopped. Father Thomas poked his head through the door.

            "I hope you don't mind," he said, "but my pipe organ wanted to come along."

            "Ride the wave, Mr. Crows," muttered Mrs. Humphrey. "Ride the wave."