The Love Curse of Melody McIntyre

“I thought it already wreaked its vengeance when the computer ate half my sound files during midterms.” Dom drums his fingers on his chin and winks at me. “Are we positive no one said the real name of the Scottish Play in that production meeting when we kept talking about getting fries at McDonald’s?”

“It’s fine, everyone.” I glare at Dom again. We don’t have time for jokes, or curses either. Not with the fastest light cues in the show only a few lines away. “Just please make sure Michael and Caroline get it cleared out so it’s not a trip hazard.”

“Maybe the curse only hit us mildly this time,” Fatima offers. “It could be saving up the real goods for the musical.”

“Ooh, don’t even go there,” Bryce says.

“I wouldn’t call it mild,” Jasmin adds. “I was within inches of a concussion when I fell off that ladder last week.”

“You mean when you fell on me,” Gabby says. “I came within inches of breaking both wrists.”

“Only because you were standing right—”

“Quiet, please,” I say, and the giggling cuts off immediately. The crew knows I don’t say quiet without good reason. “Stand by, lights fifty-three to sixty-four.”

There’s no point in me calling each individual light cue out loud, since I’m the one running them anyway, but I need the crew to be in standby so I can concentrate. I press the button for the first cue in the series, and the light goes out over the chorus side of the stage just as a new one comes on above the scaffold.

“Juuuuuu-liet!” Beth sings from offstage. The audience laughs. Beth’s always funny, even when she’s hiding in the wing. I stay away from actors as a general rule—us crew types prefer to stick together—but there’s no denying some of them are good at what they do.

I hover my finger over the button for the next cue. Two lines from now, Christina’s going to exit and I’ll need to make sure the audience can see the Greek chorus judging her and Liam even more harshly than they already were. And another round of ominous non-band music needs to play, to emphasize it even more. “Stand by, sound O.”

Dom dutifully holds his finger over the button as Christina steps into the wing.

“Sound, go.”

Dom hits his key and I press my button at exactly the same time. The lights and the sound come on at once, and the mood onstage shifts exactly like it’s supposed to.

Dom holds out his hand without looking up, and we high five with silent smiles.

Liam has a short speech while he’s waiting for Christina to come back on, so I get ready for the next light cue. I can’t see Christina from here, but I’ve been backstage enough in rehearsals that I can easily picture her anxiously tugging on her hair.

I’ve never understood it. Why would anyone want to go out there in front of everyone? Why put yourself through that when you could be back here with us, making the real magic happen?

Don’t get me wrong. I love theater more than life itself. I just don’t get why you’d choose to stand in a spotlight saying the same words over and over with everyone you’ve ever known watching and gleefully hoping to catch a mistake. Sure, people will clap for you in the curtain call, but I’ve been to enough shows to know that audiences will clap for anyone who runs out and bows.

It’s like they all think they’re going to be the Next Big Thing. Sure, our performing arts department is the real deal—some of our shows have won awards, and there’s even a senior at our school, Odile Rose, who’s already semi-famous. She got to skip school for a month and fly off to Iceland to film a three-episode arc on the Game of Thrones prequel.

But it’s not like that’s going to happen for everyone. The high point of most of my classmates’ acting careers will consist of trying and failing to make Shakespearean dialogue sound natural right here in the BHS auditorium.

Up in the booth, though, no one’s looking at us. We have the best seats in the house—at the back, far above the stage, where we can see the movements of every actor, every prop, and every piece of scenery. We can open our wide glass window when we need to hear the sound clearly and close it when we want people to stop bothering us. We’ve got our own secret stash of junk food and soda, and there’s a row of beanbag chairs for when we have to crash after twelve-hour tech days. If it weren’t for us running the lights and sound and sets—not to mention the dozens of crew people who built the awesome plywood castle set everybody’s standing on, sewed Beth into her floppy white headpiece, and shouted lines to Liam every time he forgot them in rehearsal—no one in the audience would understand any of this witty Elizabethan banter.

“I do beseech thee . . .” Christina says, and I sit forward to listen. Beth’s about to interrupt her mid-sentence, which makes cues like this especially tricky for me. The light needs to change at the exact moment Beth comes in. If I get it right, people will laugh. If I screw up, there’ll be awkward silence.

I press the button, and the light shifts just as Beth singsongs her line. “Maaaaa-dam!”

The audience laughs. So far, so good.

But I’m coming up on a bunch of other short, quick cues, all in a row. Christina and Liam are done with their speeches and they’re going back and forth now, almost like normal dialogue. Meanwhile, the Greek chorus is eyeballing them ever more viciously.

My next cue comes on a joke, but it’s, you know, a Shakespeare joke, so once again we kind of have to tell the audience it’s funny. I flex my finger and lean in to hang on Liam’s every word.

“Mel?” Rachel’s voice from backstage is sudden and sharp in my ear.

That’s weird. We’re still in standby for all the light cues. Rachel’s mic should be on mute.

For her to get my attention right now, there must be a serious emergency. But what? Gabby’s right near the wardrobe area. If there was an emergency with a costume, Rachel should’ve quietly gotten her attention, not called out to me. “What is it, Rachel?”

There’s a sharp tap on my shoulder. “Ms. McIntyre!”

It’s Will—uh, Mr. Green—gesturing frantically at the light board. Crap, I nearly missed the cue.

I press the button, half a second too late. A few people laugh half-heartedly as the far side of the stage lights up. Behind us, the house manager steps into the booth and whispers something in Will’s ear.

Well, the show must go on. It’ll be a little while before the next cue, so at least I can find out what’s happening with the costumes.

Dealing with clothes is my least favorite part of theater, after actors. Come to think of it, costumes and actors have a lot in common. They both take up a lot of space, and they both give us constant headaches.

“Okay, your turn, Rachel,” I say.

“Oh, so I get a turn.” There’s sarcasm in her voice, which is weird. She doesn’t sound at all worried about whatever emergency is happening. “Thanks for allowing me to speak.”

Dom shoots me a confused look across the sound board. I shrug, trying to push past my worry. I still have to follow along with the script, but I try to listen to the headset at the same time. “What’s wrong?”

“A lot of things are wrong.” Her words come out clipped. Abrupt. “Which you’d know if you’d ever talk to me when we aren’t in the middle of a show.”

What?

My eyes zoom across the stage to what little I can see of the wings. Beth’s feet are visible under the curtain where she’s hiding to call out her offstage lines, but there’s no sign of Rachel.

That’s when I remember—she texted me right before the show. I forgot all about it the instant the curtain went up, but the memory’s surging back now. The way her texts kept popping up on my screen, one after another.

I didn’t have time to open them then. We were already two minutes late for places by the time I even saw them on my phone.

Dread pools in my stomach, and with it, a new certainty:

This is the disaster I’ve been waiting for.

I look over my shoulder for Will, but he’s stepped out of the booth with the house manager. His headset is down around his neck, and they’re both gesturing to the lobby. A moment later they’re moving down the hall, leaving the booth door open behind them.

“Maaaaaa-dam!” Beth calls out. The audience laughs again.

“Rachel, let’s talk after curtain call.” I try to sound as smooth and professional as always, but there’s a tiny tremor in my voice. I pray the others can’t hear it.

“No, let’s talk now. It’s the one time I can count on you to pay attention.”

Footsteps sound behind us. I turn around, ready to beg Will for help, but it’s not him.

It’s Rachel.

She switches off her mic and steps into the booth. Dom’s eyes widen and he whips around to face the stage, probably trying to turn himself invisible.

It’s not as if either of us can leave. The next light cue is seconds away, and there are more sound cues not long after. Besides, an SM can never abandon the booth during a show, not without an earthquake, zombie apocalypse, or equivalent disaster.

But Rachel doesn’t even seem to register Dom’s presence. She’s staring straight at me, panting. She must’ve run here from backstage.

She’s wearing show blacks like the rest of us—a nondescript black long-sleeved shirt, black leggings, and black sneakers, designed for going unnoticed by the audience in case she needs to step onstage—but unlike most of us on the crew, whose primary goal is to disappear into the background, Rachel always looks stunning. She has piercing blue eyes and long black hair that she wears in a thick braid during shows. It’s currently coiled forward over her shoulder, the tail hovering above her crossed arms like a snake ready to pounce.

Next to her, I look completely inadequate. My skin is white bordering on pasty thanks to spending the past week effectively locked in a windowless tech booth, and my rumpled show blacks are spattered with crumbs from my potato-chip dinner. Not to mention the dark circles under my eyes, the complete lack of makeup, and the messily-pulled-back, not-recently-washed frizz of hair that’s my standard look during performance weekends.

“You’re supposed to be backstage,” I tell Rachel, keenly aware that our friends can hear every word I’m saying. SMs aren’t supposed to switch off their mics during shows.

Should I break that rule now that this—whatever this is—is happening?

“Costumes are fine. Liam’s doublet is fixed.” Rachel stares down at me, and I slowly rise from my seat to face her. It feels like facing a guillotine. “Mel, we have to talk.”

“This isn’t the right—”

“It’ll never be the right time. If I wait until after curtain call, you’ll be consumed with your postshow to-do list, and then you’ll be dead to the world for the rest of the night until you get up at the crack of dawn to come back here and start the whole thing all over again.”

She’s not wrong—show weeks are hell, everyone knows that—but I still don’t understand what’s going on.

Plus, the ear that’s attached to my headset is registering a lot of coughs and cleared throats from the other crew members. Rachel switched off her own mic, but she’s close enough that my headset is transmitting her voice loud and clear.

“Mel,” Dom whispers.

I turn back just in time to hear Christina say, “A thousand times, good night!”

Shit.

I lunge down and press the button just in time.

When I turn around again, Rachel is drumming her fingers on her arm. “Are you ready to talk to me?”

Not really, I want to say. We’re still in standby for the next batch of light cues.

But Rachel knows that. She knows this show backward and forward, just like all of us. And she’s standing here anyway, clearly expecting something from me.

Whatever it is, I should be able to give it to her. Stage managers are experts at multitasking. There’s no reason I can’t put on a perfect show and be a perfect girlfriend at the same time.

Right?

“Mel!” Dom whispers again, louder this time. Shit.

“Stand by, sound, um . . .” I look frantically down at my prompt script, but the words swim.

“P,” Dom mutters, pressing the button before I’ve managed to say go. Another dog bark pipes out, louder than the last one.

“What’s going on, Rachel?” I ask, frustration seeping into my Stage Manager Calm.

“Do you seriously not know?” She stares at me. “Or are you just acting innocent? Jesus, I don’t even know which would be worse.”

Oh, God. I must’ve really screwed up.

Dom’s eyes are locked on the stage, his face impassive. The rest of the crew’s got to be listening, too, but none of them are so much as breathing into their mics anymore.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you about Hannah since yesterday, but you keep ignoring me.” Rachel shakes her head. “And you know what? It isn’t even about her. It’s about how you didn’t listen to me. I told you I didn’t want her there, and you called her anyway. Obviously, what I thought never really mattered.”

“This is because I called Hannah? Don’t be ridiculous, I did that to help you—”

“I told you not to, and you did it anyway. How was that helping?”

“Come on! You needed to get the costumes finished, and you did!”

“We could’ve gotten them finished without her. I told you that, but you didn’t care. All you were thinking about was how much you love being in charge. Like always.”

Someone on the headset sucks in a breath. I shut my eyes and try not to think about how many people just heard what Rachel said.

Yesterday was our invited dress rehearsal. A few of the costumes for the party scene needed last-minute fixes, and some of the girls in the cast wound up having to go on in their jeans while the costume crew sewed frantically backstage.

It was clear they needed more hands, so I called a few people who I knew could sew. One of whom happened to be Hannah, who happens to be my ex.

It wasn’t a big deal. As SM, it’s my job to make sure everything gets done. I wanted opening night to be as perfect as it could possibly be. We all wanted that.

And yeah, I knew Rachel didn’t exactly love the idea, but it’s not as if there was any risk of Hannah and me getting back together. She was on the costume crew freshman year, but now she’s gotten super popular and started going out with some basketball player. Rachel had absolutely nothing to worry about, and I told her that.

Or at least . . . I meant to tell her that. Come to think of it . . . I was really busy practicing the light cues, so maybe I didn’t actually . . .

Hmm.

“I have forgot why I did call thee back.” Christina giggles. Crap—I missed Liam’s lines. I whirl around and press the button, and the light comes up over the Greek chorus so Alejandra and Malik and the others can look alternately amused and/or offended at Romeo and Juliet’s preteen-level flirting.

The cue coming up next is the fastest in the whole show. I have to switch the light back again before Liam says his next line or the audience will lose track of what’s going on. I hover my finger over the key.

“It’s not like I’m surprised.” Rachel drops into the empty chair next to mine. I don’t dare meet her gaze, but I can see her in my peripheral vision, staring down at the stage vacantly. “People warned me. They said you’d rather be everybody’s boss than somebody’s girlfriend. I should’ve known there was a reason you go through exes so fast. Relationships with Melody McIntyre never make it for long.”

Rachel pauses. It’s dead silent. On the headset, and on the stage too.

Damn it! I missed the cue. I have to put the light back on Liam so the audience knows to pay attention, and—

I hit the button just as he finishes saying, “Let me stand here till thou remember it.”

Now the light’s on him, but he’s already done talking. There’s supposed to be another pause in the dialogue while the Greek chorus reacts, but their side of the stage is totally dark.

None of the actors move—no one knows if they’re supposed to—but a few laughs bubble up from the house. Even the audience has noticed that the cues aren’t lining up.

Damn it! I hit the button again and the light shines on the chorus, their expressions looking slightly pained. I press it again as Christina takes a breath and starts her line. She’s out of the moment now, though, and she garbles her words.

And—what the hell is Rachel talking about? I haven’t gone out with that many people.

I try to catch Dom’s eye. He’s still looking straight ahead, like he’s totally absorbed in the play, but there’s a slight red tinge creeping in around the base of his neck.

“I . . .” I swallow. My hands are trembling as hard as my voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. What’s embarrassing is, I told them they were wrong. Everyone was saying, you know, ‘Oh, be careful with Mel, she’s got somebody new every week,’ but I told them things were different with you and me. Only now it’s—”

“No one would’ve said that!” I’m not following along with the script at all anymore. “I haven’t gone out with anyone all year except for you! And last year it was just, like, three people—or maybe, I don’t know, unless you count prom, but—”

Now Dom’s looking my way. He shakes his head slightly.

“’Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone,” Christina calls from the stage. There’s another lightning-fast cue coming up. Another single-line delivery from Liam.

I get ready to press the button. I can’t let Rachel take over my head.

But I can’t just let this go, either.

“There’s nothing between me and Hannah.” I speak quietly, even though it’s pointless. Our mics are designed to be sensitive. The crew can hear me, whether I’m whispering or shouting. “I’ve never cheated on anyone. I would never.”

“It isn’t about that. I told you what I wanted, and you didn’t even bother to tell me you disagreed. You just overruled me, like you always do. Everything has to be your call, regardless of how anybody else feels. God, Mel, I didn’t even know she was coming until she showed up and I stood there stammering like a complete fool.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to—”

“Did you know I had a crush on you all last spring during Joseph?” She’s stumbling over her words now. “When you used to come sew after rehearsals, I kept trying to work up the nerve to tell you.”

No. I hadn’t known.

I’d been putting in time in the costume closet last spring because I needed to learn more about wardrobe if I wanted to get promoted to SM. I was strong on set design and construction, but my costume skills were sorely lacking, and a stage manager needs to be proficient in every department.

But that was when I started liking Rachel, too. She was hilarious, and incredibly talented, and so much fun to hang out with. When we wound up at the same drama camp over the summer, it was easy to slip from flirting over sewing machines into sneaking kisses behind bolts of brocade.

“Mel?” Rachel twists to face me. I fight to keep my eyes on the stage. “Are you even listening?”

Christina finishes her line, and I press the cue for the light to shine on Liam. He just has to deliver a few words, and then I’ll wait a fraction of a second so the audience can feel the full weight of them—it’s another one of those cues where the timing has to be precisely right, or else the meaning of the moment won’t come through—and then . . .

“Well, you don’t seem to care what I’m saying, so whatever.” Rachel’s talking fast now. She almost sounds like she’s choking. “I guess this is it.”

My finger falters. Did Liam finish his line?

I hit the button, too hard, and it clicks twice. The lights flash onto the chorus side of the stage, then back to Liam and Christina again before anyone’s had time to say anything.

More laughs from the audience.

“Damn it!” I say, not even caring who hears as I slam the button down again.

Too late, I realize I shouldn’t have done that. The light board is programmed. Every cue in the show is in the system, in order. It’s supposed to be easy—all I have to do is hit the button when the cue is supposed to go up and the lights will come on, like clockwork.

But now the board is two cues ahead of where it’s supposed to be. Or is it three?

Oh, God.

Onstage, the actors are trying to keep the scene going, but I’ve completely lost track of what’s happening. The worst possible thing that can happen to a stage manager.

The lights are all wrong. The audience won’t have a clue what they’re supposed to be looking at.

Ms. Marcus will demote me for sure. I won’t get to SM the spring musical. I’ll be lucky if she even lets me on the run crew.

“So I guess we’re broken up now.” Rachel’s voice is thick and heavy as she rises from the seat beside me. “That’s what you wanted anyway, right? You’ve probably already got your next hookup planned. Have fun hanging all over whoever it is at the cast party. I just hope they know they’re disposable.”

No, this isn’t what I wanted! And—disposable?

Oh my God.

I’ve had bad breakups before. Isabelle dumped me in the middle of the dance floor at homecoming freshman year. Jess and I shouted at each other over video chat so loudly the night before the Steel Magnolias opening that my dads came running into the room thinking I was being murdered. Tyler and I got in a huge fight when we were painting scenery for the winter showcase and spent the next week getting side-eyed by the rest of the set crew every time we got within thirty feet of each other.

But nothing like this has ever happened. No one’s ever made me feel so . . . small.

“You know what? Screw you, Rachel.” The sound of Gabby’s voice shocks me out of my stupor. She sounds shaky, too—but even more than that, she sounds pissed.

Rachel’s already halfway toward the booth door, but she freezes. Even with her headset down around her neck, she can hear Gabby too.

“Sorry, Mel,” Gabby’s saying in a rush. “I know we aren’t supposed to talk during standby, but it doesn’t matter what happened between you and her—she can’t pull this crap in the middle of a show. Shut up and go away, Rachel, you’re messing things up for everybody. Mel, the actors kept going, so just hit G-O and let’s see where we are.”

My reflexes kick in and I hit the button automatically—and somehow, it works. The lights go up exactly where they’re supposed to, and in exactly the right moment.

I turn around. Rachel’s gone.

“Breathe, Mel.” Dom leans in and looks at the monitor. “You’re on LQ sixty-two, and sixty-three is on the next line. We’re all good. Breathe.”

I nod and exhale, slow and steady.

The rest of the show flows normally. I get the next cue right, and the one after that, too. Will comes back into the booth, whatever crisis was happening in the lobby having apparently been resolved. As far as I can tell he doesn’t know about what happened earlier, but he’ll find out soon enough. There’s no such thing as keeping secrets from the technical director.

The actors run through their lines, and they flub a few words here and there, but I’m the only one who notices. Liam’s doublet stays intact, Malik and Julio get stabbed to death, Liam and Christina make out and kill themselves, and finally it’s curtain call. We get a standing ovation, and everyone on the stage and on the headsets is crying because they’re happy, and I’m just crying because I’m crying.

I screwed up. I screwed up everything. The show, Rachel . . .

And all my friends witnessed my complete failure.