Page 85 of Faultlines

“Ms. Whitmore.”

Before either of us can say anything else, a frantic voice shouts from backstage. “Who stepped on the crown!”

“Which crown?” someone shouts.

“The Queen’s crown!” another voice calls out, equally distressed.

Ellie gasps beside me, and runs toward the voice. “My crown?”

Another student appears from the wings, their face flushed. “The caterpillar stepped on it.”

“The caterpillar did what?” Brooke asks, her voice rising in disbelief.

“I said it was an accident,” a defensive voice insists.

Voices overlap for the next several minutes, students talking over one another until I can barely make out a single sentence. The Cheshire Cat shuffles across the front of the stage, struggling under the weight of a giant cardboard mushroom whose painted cap wobbles precariously.

The White Rabbit has lost a foot and hops precariously on the other.

Alice is trying to repair a broken teacup with what appears to be duct tape, its silver sheen absurd against the painted porcelain. “Nobody panic,” she says for what seems like the fifth time, her voice calm and steady.

I shouldn’t find any of this entertaining, but I do.

“This isn’t funny,” Brooke says, catching me smiling.

“It’s a little funny,” I counter, my grin widening.

“You’re not helping.”

I lift both hands in surrender. “Tell me what you need.”

She hesitates, then glances toward a stack of scenery flats leaning against the wall, tall and imposing. “Actually, there is something.”

That’s how I end up spending the next hour designing a new section to the Wonderland set.

The entire time, Brooke moves from one crisis to another, her voice steady, the one thing in the room that doesn’t change. She’s patient when students forget lines, firm when they need structure, and funny when nerves take over.

At one point, Ellie misses a cue and looks mortified.

Before Brooke can say anything, Ellie apologizes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know I missed it.”

Brooke smiles. “Good thing we rehearse.”

Rehearsal finally ends and the auditorium looks as though a tornado passed through it. Students pour toward the exits while parents gather in the parking lot. Ellie quickly disappears into a group of friends.

Brooke drops into a front-row seat and rubs her hands over her face as I sit beside her.

Seventeen days. That’s all that’s left until opening night. Seventeen days until the built-in excuse we’ve been using to spend time together disappears.

Finally, I turn to her. “Reid knows.”

Her smile vanishes. “What do you mean he knows?” she whispers, the words clipped and tight.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. The auditorium is empty now, but I lower my voice anyway.

“He figured it out, but he asked me to confirm it.”

She looks away, her gaze settling on the empty stage. “Then he doesn’t know for sure.”