Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical. Karen Cantwell
play. “Why do I have to be old Captain Kirk? Can’t I at least be Jean-Luc Picard?”
“It works better with the story,” I said. “Snow White needs to be woken up by someone who likes to kiss women, and —”
“Jean-Luc Picard likes to kiss women.”
“—and old Captain Kirk, as you call him, was that kind of guy,” I said. “A ladies’ man.”
“What’s a ladies’ man?” asked Amelia, the youngest in the group.
“It’s a man who likes to wear ladies’ clothes,” said Rylan (eleven and big for his age).
“No, that’s—”
“That’s a transvestite,” said Chloe (big eyes and a great singing voice).
“I think we’re getting off track here,” I said.
“Is a trainsvestite like a trainsexual?” asked Amelia.
“Okay. Time to get back to the pla—”
“Captain Kirk is, I mean, I’m a trains-sexual?” Henry had a devilish look in his eye. “Does that mean I get to have sex on a trai—”
“No sex!” I shouted
A couple of the girls got wide-eyed. Nice, Ivy, scaring them like that. “I mean… sex is fine. At least between two consenting adults.”
“What about three?” asked Rylan. “Is sex between three consenting adults okay?”
“Um…”
“Ivy, can I see you outside?” Lupe, the summer programs director, must have come in to the room unbeknownst to me. Henry smiled like the devil he was.
“Now,” said Lupe.
“Of course,” I said, wishing Henry wasn’t twelve so I could plot revenge. “Mia,” I said to the teen volunteer who acted as my stage manager. “Why don’t you play ‘Character Bus’ with the kids until I get back?”
After a dressing down about inappropriate subject matter (which I didn’t deserve) and an admonition about not allowing kids to undermine my authority (which I did deserve), Lupe sent me back to the auditorium. “It went pretty well,” Mia said. “So I let them go to lunch a few minutes early.”
Good, I’d have time to chill a little. It was stupid, how much I let Henry get to me. He was just a twelve-year-old kid, for God’s sake and I was an adult, a theatre professional. I should be able to—
“Miss Ivy! Miss Ivy!” Chloe ran onto the stage from the left wing, her big eyes wide with fear. “Come quick! Rylan’s hurt, real bad!”
I jumped the three feet onto the stage, Mia right behind me. We ran across the stage and followed Chloe to a dressing room backstage. A clump of kids stood near the entrance, staring into the room and blocking the door. “Let us through!” I shouted. Little Amelia turned as I passed, her face streaming with tears.
Oh no. Oh no.
Henry stood in the middle of the small room, shaking, his hands covered in blood. More blood—lots of blood—pooled around the prone Rylan’s head. “Mia!” My assistant looked like she might be sick. “Call 911 and run to the office, tell them what happened.” She turned on her heel and ran.
Oh my God, oh my God. Rylan. He was just a kid.
“I didn’t mean to.” Henry’s voice came out in gulps. “We were just messing around, and then he shoved me, so I shoved him back and he fell and hit his head on the counter… I didn’t mean to hurt him.” He began to cry, big heaving sobs.
“It’s okay,” I said to Henry, though it was anything but. “I’m sure he’ll be okay.”
There was no way this still and bloody boy was okay. Omigod, what was I going to tell his parents?
I crouched down beside Rylan, on the floor sticky with blood. Henry’s crying escalated into a wail. Several kids joined him in a hellish chorus. “Quiet!” I yelled. Was Rylan breathing? I couldn’t tell. A familiar, sweet smell assaulted my nostrils as I put my face close to his, to see if I could feel his breath or—
Stage blood. The smell I recognized was stage blood. This was all a hoax. Yes, Rylan’s eyelids fluttered just a bit. No. No way. I was going to kill the little—wait.
Ha.
“Omigod, omigod,” I said, crumpling into the pool of blood and clawing at my throat. “My inhaler. I can’t breathe,” I wheezed. I learned to make that noise when I was trying to learn to yodel. It’s a long story. “Help. Get my inhal—” I collapsed, eyes closed, still clutching at my throat, wishing I had thought about my shortish skirt before sprawling on the floor.
Silence for a moment. Then a jumble of voices:
“Her inhaler?”
“Oh no!”
“She has asthma?”
“Omigod, did we kill Miss Ivy?”
Footsteps pounded down the hall, probably to search my backpack for the nonexistent inhaler or to get someone from the office. The light behind my eyelids got darker as someone came close, blocking out the overhead light. It was Henry—I could tell by the scent of the Bubble Yum he always chewed. I waited until he was kneeling next to me, then…
“BOO!” I sat up, spattering fake gore everywhere.
“Aah!” Henry fell back into the pool of blood. Then he laughed. “Perfect!” he shouted. “Cut! Did you get that?” he asked a tall kid I recognized as Henry’s older brother. He was standing with the group at the door, using his iPhone as a camera. “Got it,” he said.
“Nice job, everyone,” Henry said. “Great crying, especially you, Amelia.”
“Thank you,” she said modestly.
“And Miss Ivy,” Henry said, “It wasn’t in the script, but you were awesome. I should have known you could act.”
Should have known his theatre teacher could act? Little turd.
So that’s how me and my bright pink underwear ended up on the big screen at the Phoenix Film Festival Summer Camp. Henry later explained how he and the kids had been planning the, uh, event for weeks, rehearsing the kids’ reactions, making their own stage blood, and setting up the scene in the dressing room, which is why Henry was late that morning. “The sling and the hoodie were character development,” he said. “You know, so you’d think I was especially troubled that day.” Like I said, a super criminal or a star.
And yes, I signed a release so Henry and his brother could use the scene in Blood Eaters. After all, it’s my job as a theatre teacher to encourage creativity, right?
I still want to kill that kid.
IT’S NOT O.K. CORRAL, by M. E. Browning
The Wild West comes to life at the Stagecoach Guest Ranch, but when reality intrudes and takes center stage, the show becomes anything but make-believe.
Cassidy Bailey had shot eight men during the past two weeks. The first one had been fun; after that, it just got monotonous.
She locked the washroom door behind her and balanced the small leather satchel on the pedestal sink. No sense hurrying. No matter how early she was, when they divvied out the weapons, she always got the pearl-handled revolver with the jammed cylinder. Maybe they figured as the sole woman surrounded by a crew of outlaws, she’d know enough to make her single shot count. So far, they’d been right.
She opened her traveling valise. It was a bit of authenticity she brought to a production that sadly lacked much in the way of realism, but she loved being part of the cast of the frontier show, and the guests of the Stagecoach Guest Ranch lapped it up. But Cassidy