Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [22]
“That’s prudent, but it sure happened fast.”
“She’s always been good with money,” Grace said as Thomas slid the new number to her. “But I wish she didn’t have to do this.”
Thomas sat, waiting his turn to talk to his daughter.
“No answer,” Grace whispered, then, “Oh, wait.” She squinted, then opened her mouth as if to speak before quickly hanging up. “Oh no.”
“What?”
She stood and moved toward the bedroom.
“Grace! What?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Of course I do; now what?”
“Call her yourself,” she said, shutting the bedroom door.
Thomas dialed, his fingers shaking. The number rang four times; then came his daughter’s cheerfully recorded voice: “You’ve reached Dirk and Rav. Leave a message after the beep and . . .”
Thomas found Grace curled on the bed, sobbing. “It may not be as bad as it sounds,” he said.
“Oh, Thomas, it’s one thing for us to be old-fashioned, but let’s not be naive.”
9
Forest View High School
Brady seemed to move in slow motion, such was his dread on the way to the Little Theater. All around him fresh-scrubbed preppies bustled, laughing, gossiping, seeming eager to get to the sheets taped to the door, listing parts already cast. A few girls glanced at Brady, clearly wondering what he was doing there. Another held her nose and leaned to whisper something to a friend, but she quickly straightened when Brady glared.
He recognized none of the names on the sheet and again considered forgetting the whole crazy idea, until he noticed “Alex North*” on the Conrad Birdie line. At the bottom he found “*Pending.” So Nabertowitz was withholding his final decision until he’d seen Brady onstage.
No pressure there. As Brady headed toward his suit and guitar, kids were saying, “Did you see that? North’s not in for sure.”
“No way.”
“Why?”
“C’mon—he’s automatic.”
A small wicker basket lay on a table in the music room adjoining the stage. Kids were drawing numbers from it. Brady hesitated. He could just grab his stuff and still make the bus. This was crazy. Nobody would look at him straight on, but he felt everyone’s eyes. He had as much business here as a linebacker in an antique store.
Brady made up his mind to go home. He marched to the closet and grabbed the garment bag and guitar case.
“Hey!” a girl squealed. “Is he stealing something?”
Brady whirled. “Who, me?” Everyone froze. “These yours?”
“No, I just—”
“Then shut your mouth!”
Nabertowitz entered and seemed to quickly detect the awkwardness. “Hi, Brady,” he said. “Did you get a number?”
“No.”
“Grab one.”
If Brady hadn’t been stopped, he’d have been out of there by now. With everyone staring, he put his stuff back in the closet and grabbed a slip from the basket: 38. Oh, great. If he didn’t get this over soon, he was going to explode.
His eyes found the girl again, a cheerleader type.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, flushed. “I just thought—”
“I know what you thought,” he said and moved to the wing of the stage, where he could watch.
“I’m really sorry,” she said, grabbing a sheaf of papers off a table and moving past him. “That was stupid of me.”
Brady wasn’t sure why, but she had somehow made him feel sorry for her. She had assumed a guy like him could only be up to no good in the music room, and worse, she must have considered him stupid enough to try to steal something in front of dozens of people. Well, he wouldn’t berate her anymore, but he’d show her.
To Brady’s surprise, the girl strode directly to a spinet piano just offstage and arranged her music. From the darkened seats, where Clancy Nabertowitz sat surrounded by kids who had apparently been cast the day before, the director called out, “First sixteen girls, town chorus!”
From both sides of the stage they came, some looking eager, others petrified. Brady could identify. He knew that by now he was the talk of the place. But these girls had a job to do, and within minutes, Cheerleader was whaling away on the piano as the others cavorted all over the stage.
A girl stepped up behind Brady. “Is it true you’re trying out for Birdie?”
He turned.