Page 116 of Faultlines

“But what if I do?” The question is a desperate plea.

Before I can answer, Sloane steps forward. She looks Ellie directly in the eye. “Listen, Your Majesty. If you forget a line, point at someone and yell, ‘Off with their head!’ Nobody will know the difference.”

Ellie lets out a shaky laugh.

“See?” Sloane says with a triumphant grin. “Problem solved.”

“I’m not sure that’s how theater works,” Ellie replies.

“Confidence is everything.”

The five-minute call echoes backstage, and students begin moving toward their places with a shuffle. After everything that has led me to step into a role I never expected to fill, opening night is finally here.

Ellie squeezes my hand, and I squeeze back. “You’ve got this.” She nods, and disappears into the shadows. Tonight belongs to her.

I slip into my seat backstage as the curtain rises to reveal Wonderland in all its vibrant glory. A collective murmur rises from the audience. I wonder if others recognize Ethan’s meticulous work.

The opening scene goes smoothly. Alice enters to enthusiastic applause. The White Rabbit successfully remembers his lines and his gleaming pocket watch.

At one point, a vibrant flower lets out a sneeze so violently that several petals detach from his costume and drift gracefully across the stage. Then another flower leans over, off script, declaring, “I think he’s blooming.”

The Caterpillar, struggling with their costume, makes a grand exit a few scenes later and accidentally hits a mushroom prop. The giant red and white mushroom rolls across the stage with alarming speed, hurtling straight into the Mad Hatter’s tea party. What follows is the clatter of teacups.

The Mad Hatter freezes mid-gesture with a teacup declares, “Well, that’s unusual.”

A warm wave of amusement ripples through the audience.

Meanwhile, the Caterpillar, a colorful blur at the edge of the stage, army-crawls along the back, attempting to retrieve the mushroom stealthily. He fails spectacularly, his bulky costume snagging on the backdrop, drawing even more giggles.

The applause at intermission is loud and enthusiastic. Spectators flood the popcorn-scented lobby, as they discuss favorite scenes.

Ellie slows down long enough for me to hand her a bottle of water.

When the second act begins, and my nervousness grows—it’s Ellie’s turn. As the stage lights shift to a royal purple and the music swells with a majestic, she steps onto the stage.

She stands tall in her costume, the heavy velvet swishing as she moves, chin lifted, her gleaming crown catching the spotlight like a beacon. The nervous girl from twenty minutes ago is gone, replaced by a queen whose presence fills the space.

“Who has painted my roses red?” she demands, her voice deep and commanding. Every dramatic gesture earns applause and every exaggerated threat lands perfectly.

A card soldier bows too enthusiastically. His oversized playing-card hat, a giant floppy heart, flies off and lands center stage in Ellie’s path.

She points dramatically at the hat.

“OFF WITH HIS HAT!”

The entire cast loses composure, and a roar of laughter sweeps through the audience, loud enough to make me wince. I catch a tiny smirk on Ellie’s face. The last scene enthralls the audience. Flawlessly, the students deliver their closing lines. The stage lights dim, and the music swells one last time before the heavy curtain falls.

For a suspended half-second, silence hangs in the air, then applause erupts—a deafening roar as people rise from their seats. The cast rushes back onto the stage for their final bows, their faces flushed with excitement.

When Ellie steps forward with the principal cast, my throat tightens in a way I hadn’t expected.

As the audience begins to filter toward the lobby, students spill out of dressing rooms still wearing pieces of their costumes. Parents clutch bouquets while camera flashes burst from every direction and conversations ricochet off the walls.

“Claire.” Grace Simms, assistant principal, appears beside me, her voice hoarse and her face beaming. “Amazing work. You’re the one person in this building who stepped up and made it work.”

“The students really should get the credit,” I reply.

She dismisses the idea with a decisive flick of her wrist. “I’ve been doing this a long time. Trust me. Successful productions don’t happen without competent leadership.”