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When he finally arrives at the campsite, I’m dressed and have everything back in the truck. I considered leaving the tent up for Blake to change in, but I’m anxious to get going. He’ll have to trek down to the bathroom instead.
“Why’d you walk?” I throw his backpack at him.
He shrugs and winces. “I must have pulled something. I didn’t think swimming was a good idea. But walking barefoot and wet sucked.” He looks around the barren campsite. “You packed up already? Why are you in such a hurry?”
“You’re welcome. And I have a show to do, remember? I was hoping to get a shower at home before.”
“Sorry for the delay. The bathhouse here has pretty nice showers.”
“Yeah, when I realized you were lollygagging around gazing at the sky and picking wild flowers, I made use of them. Hurry up. I need to get back.” I point my phone at him, so he can see the time.
“Oops. Yeah, I’ll be right back.” He slides his feet into his abandoned flip flops and shuffles away.
I retrieve one of the loungers from the truck and settle in to wait, resigning myself to going directly to the festplatz. I should have insisted he take me back first—he could shower and change at home. I am way too nice to my little brother.
When we get to town, he takes me to the parking lot we left only twenty hours ago. Showtime is five p.m. for the leads, and it’s four forty-five. I hesitate before getting out of the truck, but if I ride home with him, I’ll have to turn around and come right back. No point.
“Break a leg, old man.” Blake claps me on the shoulder. “I’ll be in the audience cheering you on. And good luck with the plan.”
“What plan?” I slide down from the tall vehicle and turn around to peer back inside.
“I mean with coming up with one.”
I slap the seat. “You’re a big help. But thanks for the trip. It was a good distraction.”
He gives a thumbs-up and flashes his famous grin. I slam the door shut and strike out across the scrubby grass to the dressing rooms.
Chapter 30
NICA
“Nica, what’s taking so long?” Maddie whisper-yells from outside the women’s dressing room. “Matt just arrived!”
My arms are pinned overhead as I struggle into my costume. Black fabric envelops me, and all I can see are my feet. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I’d gained weight—I can’t get the stupid top over my shoulders. “Come help me! I’m stuck!”
The curtain rings rattle, and Maddie’s pink sandals appear beside my black shoes. “What did you do?”
“I don’t know. I unzipped it, but I can’t get it on!”
Maddie laughs and pulls the costume from my head. The dim light inside the tent-like space is bright after the darkness of my fabric prison. She shakes out the dress and holds it up. “If this is yours, it shrank a few sizes.”
“That must belong to Marta.” The actress who plays the seven-year-old is actually nine but small for her age. She’s also kind of a diva and frequently leaves her costumes on the floor in a pile. Someone else must have hung it in my corner by mistake.
“Why does she have a black dress? Aren’t these for the nuns?”
“Everyone has multiple roles—there aren’t enough actors. She’s an extra in the convent scenes, too.” I chuckle as I sort through the racks of clothing, looking for mine. “She’s probably got her mother tearing her hair out looking for that, since she’s in the opening scene.” Marta’s mom is a textbook stage mother.
As if on cue, we hear an aggrieved woman call out, “Where is Amber’s costume? The costume mistress should be fired!”
“I’ll be right back.” Maddie tucks the dress under her arm and slips between the curtains that act as a door.
I finally find my costume hidden between Elsa’s evening gown and a clearly misplaced pair of lederhosen. They should be in the men’s dressing room. Maybe Amber’s mother is right—except the show is all-volunteer, so “firing” people is problematic.
I get into the dress and grab the head dress looped over the hanger. When I emerge from the dressing room, Maddie grabs my arm. “Come on! You don’t want to miss your entrance.”
“I have plenty of time, but you’d better get to your seat.” But my heart pounds in my chest, as if this is opening night on Broadway, not Locals’ Night at an outdoor community theater. My anxiety has nothing to do with the show. Tonight, I’m making the grand gesture, and I’m terrified. Maddie, Eva, and my mother have helped me set it up, with the assistance of half the town. Sure, I could just talk to him—tell him I made a mistake. That we should try for a real relationship. In fact, cornering him and telling him how I feel would probably be as effective, in the long run, and more mature. But I want to prove to him that I’m not just blowing smoke. That I want to tell the world how much he means to me.
Besides, I’m an actress. I love drama.
