Page 111 of Faultlines

I drop my bag in the front row, the soft thud absorbed by the plush velvet seats, and begin flipping through notes. “All right, everyone, let’s get started,” I call out.

A handful of students scramble into position, while others continue talking. I narrow my eyes, a silent command that cuts through the noise, finally getting their attention.

The familiar rhythm of rehearsal settles for a little while. Then the auditorium doors burst open with a sudden crash, making everyone jump.

Every head turns to see Sloane stumble through the doorway, her silhouette framed by the light of the hallway. A bright pink tape measure hangs around her neck, and she’s wearing a decorative scarf, massive sunglasses, and ridiculously high heels. She’s balancing a cardboard box on top of a teetering tower of massive storage bins. She makes it exactly three triumphant steps before the stack tilts dangerously.

“Oh no,” she says, with a panicked squeak.

The words leave her mouth before the top container slides sideways. The box bursts open, vomiting its contents across the floor in a technicolor explosion: feather boas, rolling hats, fabric scraps, and an entire elephant costume that unfurls with a comical flop of its ears.

The theater falls silent, and dawning amusement spreads across her face.

“I’d like everyone to know,” she announces, “that this looked incredibly professional in the parking lot.”

Students scatter to gather the fallen items, darting in every direction, while Sloane, hands on her hips, surveys the scene with a theatrical sigh.

Lucy enters, pushing a squeaky garment rack, and a weary expression on her face that speaks volumes. “I told you to make two trips.”

Sloane points to the floor with a dramatic gesture. “And miss this entrance?”

“You dropped more than half the contents,” Lucy says, retrieving a sparkly fedora from beneath a seat.

“I prefer to think I distributed them.”

A cast member retrieves an oversized feathered hat with plumes a riot of color. Sloane gasps, a hand flying to her chest. “Protect the feathers! Whatever happens, protect the feathers!”

He grins, clutching the hat like a precious artifact. “Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re encouraging her,” Lucy mutters, rolling her eyes.

“The youth recognize greatness when they see it,” she says, puffing out her chest.

“The youth are laughing at you.”

“Still counts as recognition.”

Sloane turns to me, her expression softening as the humor fades from her eyes, replaced by something quieter before her familiar grin slips back into place.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, a small smile playing on my lips.

“Excellent question,” Sloane replies.

“That wasn’t rhetorical.”

She sets her stuff on the floor with a clatter. “Lucy and I have officially joined the production.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

I look at Lucy, whose weary sigh is audible. “She volunteered us.”

“I absolutely volunteered us,” Sloane says.

“You didn’t ask me.”

“I knew you’d say yes.”