Read Camouflaged (Hiding From Love #0.5) Online
Authors: Selena Laurence
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Camouflaged (Hiding From Love #0.5) (13 page)
Rouge
Copyright © Leigh Talbert Moore, 2012
Chapter 1
A trumpet blast, followed by silence. We were all frozen on our marks. Center stage, my arms were raised in a V, and the insides of my eyelids turned from pink to black as the lights went out and the curtain fell, sending the odor of musty velvet swirling around us. Applause filled the house, but on our side was the swift click-clack of tap shoes, the whisper of tights against taffeta, fishnets and feathers. I dropped my arms and exited stage right.
The glare of the spotlight had dazzled my eyes, but I’d done this so many times, I could find my way blind. I caught the small hand waiting for me in the wings as I passed. Not so small anymore, I thought as we navigated the maze of boxes and discarded scenery back to my dressing room.
The odor of grease paint and cigar smoke drenched everything, and my throat was dry from singing and from the cornstarch used to absorb the damp. The rosin that kept us from slipping on the glossy stage floor crackled beneath my feet as we passed dancers speaking in low voices about what worked and what didn’t and whose fault it was.
The dark passage we followed turned into a dimly lit hall lined with tiny dressing rooms where most of us lived. Secretly, of course, as this was not Storyville, and our New Orleans theater would be shut down if it were discovered so many single women lived here together. Prostitutes, they’d say, and they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. But I was born here, and the rest had no other options. So we all kept the secret.
I lifted the handle on our tiny door, and we pushed inside, both speaking at once.
“Oh, Hale!” Teeny’s voice was breathless. “You were like a dream—”
“Help me get this thing off.” I interrupted, easing into the chair and trying to hold my head still as I pulled pins from my enormous headdress. “It must weigh fifty pounds.”
She hurried over, her small fingers searching my scalp for the remaining pins.
“Like a real queen of the stage,” she continued as she removed the last tiny instrument of torture and lifted the enormous mélange of cut glass and feathers from my head. “It’s so beautiful.”
“Beautifully wicked.” I slid my fingers into my hair and rubbed my scalp. “I’m going to have a headache the rest of the night.”
I straightened up and peeled off my fake eyelashes as Teeny’s hands smoothed my dark brown locks behind my shoulders and down my back.
“I’ll never sing like that,” she said.
“Let’s hope your dancing can cover for it.” My tone was sharper than I’d intended, and I glanced up at her bright blue eyes. Her blonde hair was streaked with auburn highlights that on some days shone bright red. Every day she grew more beautiful, and she was only twelve. My head hurt worse. I had to get us out of here.
“We’ll get back to work on that tomorrow,” I said in a gentler tone.
“I don’t know why you’re so worried about getting me in the show.” She turned and placed the headdress on its stand beside my mirror.
“I know you don’t,” I muttered.
In my dressing mirror, I watched as she lay across the small trundle we shared, wondering for the thousandth time if I’d made a mistake begging Rosa to let her stay that night, years ago, when she’d shown up starving at the back door. For six years she’d slept in my bed, shared my food, worn my outgrown clothes. She’d never cost the show a penny, but soon she’d be required to pull her own weight—one way or another.
A gentle knock interrupted our conversation. “Miss Ferrer?” A tenor voice called through the door.
“Freddie,” I whispered. “Hide!”
Teeny jumped up and ran to the corner behind the dressing screen as I grabbed my red velvet robe. It was practically a dress with a broad collar and wide cuffs, and I pulled the button closed, tight in the center of my chest.
“Mr. Lovel,” I smiled as I opened the door wide.
Freddie Lovel was not the first of my male admirers, but he was the first Gavin, the theater owner, had sent to visit me. And as such, I gave him special attention. Not to mention he was closest to my age and quite rich.
“You were incredible tonight,” he said, handing me a huge bouquet of red roses. “So beautiful.”
“For me?” I took the bunch in my arms. “You shouldn’t have.”
He caught my hand and pressed the tops of my fingers to his lips. “I could listen to you sing all night.”
“Mr. Lovel, you’re too kind,” I said, gazing into his gray eyes.
His cheeks colored and he looked down at the black top hat he clutched in his other hand. “Please call me Freddie,” he said.
“Then you must call me Hale.” I searched for something large enough to hold the huge bouquet.
“I’ll have to borrow a vase.”
“I’ll buy you one.” Freddie jumped, suddenly inspired. “I’d buy you anything…”
My heart rose at his words. It was obvious I was the first cabaret performer Freddie Lovel had ever courted, but that increased my hope. Freddie could be our ticket out of this place for good.
I widened my eyes and filled my voice with amazement. “But you hardly know me! Surely you’re just overcome by art or the music—”
“Oh, Hale,” he sighed, moving closer and taking my hand again. “If only you knew how I felt. I can never repay Gavin for introducing us.”
“But you’re not saying you’d think of me, a cabaret singer, as worthy of your affections.”
Freddie’s dark brow creased. “It’s not like you could help your circumstance. Reconstruction forced many gentle people to do what they had to for survival.”
Very Bad Things
Copyright 2013 © by Ilsa Madden-Mills
It was time for the dog and pony show.
Mr. Cairn politely moved aside and took a nearby seat on the stage, along with our second headmaster and various esteemed, contributing alumni who helped make BA one of the top private schools in Texas. I nodded, giving them my practiced fake smile and turned to face the audience. With the glare of the bright spotlight in my face, it was hard to see much past the first row, but I saw my parents and my best friend Mila, along with her parents.
I also made out Drew Mansfield, my once secret crush since seventh grade—may he rot in hell for screwing me and then dumping me last year. He’d shattered my heart, and I dreaded seeing him and his crooked smile at school, day in and day out. In the cafeteria. In class. At debate.
The rest of the audience sat in darkness. Waiting.
Watching the perfect girl.
I’ve stood in front of the podium too long because I can see Mother glaring at me, covertly motioning with her hands for me to start. Dad’s lips have thinned, and I can see the impatience settling on his face. He probably had an important meeting at the courthouse to get to. Was that my future? To follow in his footsteps, blindly doing whatever society expected? Or would I turn out like Mother? Clawing my way to the top of the network ladder, reaching for stardom on national television.
Is that what it took to be happy?
The audience began murmuring, becoming antsy. After all, they expected me to deliver a rousing speech about the merits of BA, proving to them that the forty-two thousand dollars a year they paid was worth it. I couldn’t disappoint them, yet my mind went blank as I stared into that dark abyss, that giant hole of emptiness. Maybe I could have stood there all day, refusing to face my future, but it wasn’t permitted.
I commanded myself to smile again and turn on the charm, but my body rebelled. Shit. That had never happened before. And stage fright wasn’t a possibility, not when I’d been in front of people and on display my entire life, just like Mother’s precious china. No, my body’s unwillingness to perform was entirely new. On edge, I tried again, digging deep inside the core of me, searching for the Nora they expected to see, for the girl people claimed was brilliant. Nothing. I licked my sudden dry lips, shocked by my body’s refusal to obey. Where was the girl who could win an Academy Award for her depiction of a well-adjusted person?
I couldn’t let them see the real me, the one that was obscene and gross. They’d hate me; they’d be disgusted by me. As they say here in Texas, they’d ride me out of town on a rail.
Panicked, I fiddled with my note cards, shuffling them around on the podium. I had to give this speech flawlessly, and if it wasn’t dazzling and worthy of the Blakely name, Mother would be mortified. She would punish me.
I tried to smile for the third time but got nothing. Just nothing. Not even a facial tic. I began to wonder if I could move at all. I felt frozen in place, like someone had zapped me with a ray gun.
Is this where it would all end? Was I going to break down and let this audience see my shame? God, please no. I hung my head, remembering my sins. My ruin.
My now sweaty hands gripped the note cards as my heart pounded, so loud that I would swear the people sitting on the front row could hear the blood whooshing through my veins. They were all staring at me like I’d lost it. I had. I’d finally stepped off the razor’s edge I’d been walking for years.
I closed my eyes and thought of Weissnichtwo, rolling the word around in my head, letting the syllables soothe me. My words always made me feel better. Only it didn’t work this time because I’d broken wide open. Like a cake that’s been baked too long, I was done.
Finished.
I released my note cards to the floor and watched as they fluttered down like frightened little birds, escaping at last. I raised my head and faced the audience. Clearing my throat, I leaned over the podium until my lips were right on the microphone and delivered my new opening remarks, “Fuck Briarcrest Academy, and fuck you all.”
Finally, some of the pain and darkness that had been wrapped around my soul fell away.
I smiled for real this time without even trying.
It felt good to be bad.
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Published by C.P. Writes, LLC Copyright 2013 © Selena Laurence All rights reserved.ISBN-13: 978-0-9895391-2-8
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