Brian fell silent as he counted the books. "So where will you be staying?" he asked, rising to his feet. "Did they mail you your room assignment?" "Yes.
Drama House." "Lucky you!"
"I don't like the sound of that." He laughed. "There are four houses being used for the camp," he explained. "Drama House, a sorority, and two frats. I'm the R.A., the resident assistant, for one frat. Two other kids who go to Chase will be the R.A.S for the other frat and the sorority house. But you and the girls at Drama House will have old Army Boots herself. I think last year's campers had more descriptive names for her."
Liza had, but Liza was never fond of anyone who expected her to obey rules. "Is she that awful?" I asked. He shrugged. "I don't think so. But of course, she's my mother."
I laughed, then put my hand over my mouth, afraid to have hurt his feelings.
He reached out and pulled my hand away, grinning. "Don't hide your smile, Jenny. It's a beautiful one."
I felt my cheeks growing warm. Again I became aware of his eyes, deep brown, with soft, dusty lashes.
"If you wait while I check out a few more supplies, I'll walk you to Drama House."
"Okay."
Brian headed backstage. I walked to the edge of the apron and sat down, swinging my feet against the stage, gazing into the darkness, wondering.
Brian had heard me say Liza's lines, but he hadn't mentioned the voices that I'd heard sitting in the audience. I thought of asking him about them but didn't want to sound crazy.
But it's not crazy, I told myself. It shouldn't have surprised me that being in a place where I couldn't help but think of Liza, I'd remember her lines. It was only natural that, missing her so, I would imagine her voice.
Then something caught my eye, high in the balcony, far to the right, a flicker of movement. I strained to see more, but it was too dark. I stood up quickly.
A sliver of light appeared-a door at the side of the balcony opened and a dark figure passed through it. Someone had been sitting up there.
For how long? I wondered. Since the rustling I had heard when I first came in?
"Is something wrong?" Brian asked, reemerging from the wings.
"No. No, I just remembered I left my luggage at the front door."
"It'll be okay. I'll show you the back door-that's the one everybody uses-then you can go around and get it."
He led me backstage, where he turned out all but the light that had been burning before, then we headed down a flight of steps. The exit was at the bottom.
"This door is usually unlocked," Brian said. "People from the city always think it's strange the way we leave things open, but you couldn't be in a safer town."
Aside from an occasional serial killing, I thought.
We emerged into an outside stairwell that was about five steps below ground level. Across the road from the theater, facing the back of the college quadrangle, was a row of large Victorian houses. A line of cars had pulled up in front of them, baggage was deposited on sidewalks, and kids were gathering on the lawns and porches. Someone waved and called to Brian.
"Catch you later, Jenny," he said, and started toward the houses.
I headed toward the front of Stoddard to fetch my luggage. As I rounded the corner I came face to face with someone. We both pulled up short. The guy was my age, tall with black hair, wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans. He glanced at me, then looked away quickly, but I kept staring. He had the most startlingly blue eyes.
"Sorry," he said brusquely, then walked a wide route past me.
I turned and watched him stride toward the houses across the street.
I knew that every theater type has a completely black outfit in his closet, maybe two, for black is dramatic and tough and cool. But it's also the color to wear if you don't want to be seen in the dark, and this guy didn't want to be seen, not by me. I had sensed it in the way he'd glanced away. He'd acted guilty, as if I had caught him at something, like slinking out of the balcony, I thought.
Had he heard Liza's voice? Had he been responsible for it? A tape of her voice, manipulated by sound equipment and played over the theater's system could have produced what I heard.
There was just one problem with this explanation-it begged another. Why would anyone want to do that?
By the time I had picked up my suitcase, dragged it around the building, and crossed the street, the guy in black had disappeared among the other kids gathering at the four houses. Drama House, which had a sign on it, was the best kept of the three-story homes. Covered in pale yellow clapboard with white trim, it had a steep pyramid-shaped roof, gables protruding at different angles, and a turret at one comer.
A guy about my height and three or four times my width blocked the sidewalk up to Drama House, two stuffed backpacks and a battered suitcase resting at his feet like tired dogs. He gazed toward the porch, where a flock of girls chattered and laughed. "She's beautiful," he said.
I peeked around him, hoping he'd notice I wanted to get past, but he was lost in wonder. "Which one?" I finally asked.
He blinked, surprised. "What?"
"Which girl?"
He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked embarrassed. "l-l was talking about the house. It's a Queen Anne, the style built at the end of the I800s.
Look at the way they used the different shapes-triangular, rectangular, round, conical. Look at the texture in the roof and front gable."
He had a strong Bronx accent-the kind I associated with beer vendors at Yankee Stadium, not an admirer of nineteenth-century architecture. I stifled a giggle.
"If I was painting it, I'd use colors with more contrast," he went on. "Red, gold, green. Lime, maybe. Yes, definitely. . lime." He swallowed the last word self-consciously. "I'm supposed to be over there," he muttered, slinging on his backpacks, then reaching for his suitcase. He started toward a peeling gray house that had a stuffed plaid sofa and purple coffee table on its front lawn. Obviously, a fraternity.
"Now, that house," I called after him, "could use a paint job."
He turned back and smiled for just a moment. Despite his thick dark hair, bristly eyebrows, and nearly black eyes, his round face looked almost cherubic when he smiled.
As he hurried on to the frat, I continued down the sidewalk to Drama House and up the steps of its wraparound porch. Four girls were gathered there in a tight group, talking loudly enough for three others to hear. I joined the quiet girls.
"So did you get yourself expelled?" asked a girl whose head was wrapped in elegant African braids. Her cheekbones were high, her dark skin as smooth as satin.
"No, Shawna, I did not," another girl replied, sighing wearily.
"How come?" Shawna asked. "Did they keep giving you second chances?"
"Something like that."
Shawna laughed. "Well, how many times did you try, Keri?"
"Not as many as I'd planned. I found out who went to the school where my parents threatened to send me. It would be entertaining for a while, but it'd get old."
As she spoke, Keri combed long nails through her hair, which was cut short and dyed, a high contrast job in black and white. Dark pencil lined her pale eyes-sleepy, half-closed eyes. I knew that look: Liza had used it occasionally to let others know they had better do something if they wanted to hold her interest.
"Hey, Keri, Paul's back," said another girl.
"Is he?" The bored expression disappeared.
"Still hot for Paul," the tall, thin girl observed.
Shawna shook her head. "I just don't understand you, girlfriend."
"Keri doesn't want to be understood," said the fourth girl of the group. She had long black hair and velvet-lashed, almond eyes.
"I mean, he's good-looking," Shawna began, "but-" "Oh, look who's headed this way," Keri said coolly.