The Last Scene

By Alydia Rackham

All of a sudden, Anne is caught between the fear that this venture may ruin all her plans for the future—and the knowledge that trying to save Peter Wren may be the role of a lifetime.
Anne studied to be a speech therapist, and she lives in a little apartment in New York, actively searching for a job in a non-scary school system. She has a steady, reliable boyfriend named Jim. She also has premonitions. She secretly calls them "Pictures," and she's never been able to stop even one from coming true. Now, her dad has suggested she try out for a role in a play written by his old college friend—a play about a time-traveling, mad scientist. And the last scene is always improvised. Battling her doubts and inexperience, Anne tries out, and is stunned when she gets the part of the female lead. As production begins, Anne is pulled into the orbit of a luminous, fiendishly innocent young actor named Peter Wren, who teaches her how to fire her own imagination, and leads the show into mind-blowing popularity. But what happens when Anne begins to care deeply for Peter and the show, at the expense of her relationship with Jim? And what does she do when she begins to have Pictures of Peter's reckless drug abuse?
"The Last Scene" is unlike any of Alydia Rackham's other books—grounded and realistic, yet incandescent and hilarious. If you enjoy the drama of the theatre (both onstage and offstage), the adventure of trying completely new things, the hum of the big city, and intimate looks into the hearts of characters you love, you will adore this book.
Step into the limelight today and experience "The Last Scene.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alydia Rackham
• Release date: Mar 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224742691

Alydia Rackham

Alydia Rackham is a daughter of Jesus Christ. She has written more than thirty original novels of many genres, including fantasy, time-travel, steampunk, modern romance, historical fiction, science fiction, and allegory. She is also a singer, actress, avid traveler, artist, and animal lover. 

Book preview

Chapter One

Friday, April 5th, 1985

H i, Anne!

Hi, Dad, I croakily answered the bright voice on the other end of the phone, frowning as I rubbed my eyes. What time is it?

It’s six-thirty, sorry, he answered. I was just excited about this and wanted to call you right away.

What’s going on? I asked, turning over in by bed and stretching the phone cord, eyeing the minimal light leaking through my drapes.

How did that interview go yesterday? Dad said instead.

Um...Fine, I sighed, adjusting my pillow and trying to make myself think straight. "Well...sort of not fine. I mean, I interviewed okay, they just told me they needed someone with more experience."

More experience? my dad protested. Isn’t a degree in speech therapy enough experience? I mean, what did I pay for, anyway?

I know, right? I sighed again. I’m not sure how you’re supposed to get any experience if nobody will hire you in the first place... I wound the cord around my fingers, shooting a dark look at the window again. The roar of the Manhattan traffic reached me even up here—a constant dull growl, occasionally punctuated by angry car horns.  I’m probably going to have to move out as soon as this month’s lease is up. I’ll come home and see if I can get my job back at the library.

Well, let’s hold off on that for a second, my dad said. I sat up a little and frowned.

What? What do you mean?

You remember Aaron Highgate, my friend from college?

Yeah...? I said, fully awake now. Doesn’t he live here?

Yeah, he does, and he’s a playwright, Dad said. A pretty good one. He’s written at least ten plays that have debuted on and off Broadway, and all of them got good reviews. They’ve been relatively small, but yeah, people liked them.

Okay...? I waited.

Well, he’s premiering another little play at the Quadrant Theatre, and I think you should audition.

I stared at the wall. My mouth fell open. I didn’t say anything.

Honey? Dad called. You still there?

Um, yeah, I managed. "Audition? For a Broadway play?"

It’s not Broadway, Dad corrected. What I mean is, it’s small. You did plays and musicals in high school and college!

"Those weren’t...I mean, yeah, but—this is New York!" I cried.

You’d be great for the part, though! Dad answered. Aaron gave me a copy of the script to read for fun, and the female lead practically just screamed ‘Annie!’ at me from the page.

Oh, Dad, you’re biased! I moaned.

No, I’m not, he insisted. You won, what, three awards for playing different parts in school?

Yes, I muttered.

And besides, he went on. When I talked to Aaron about it, telling him how brilliant the story was, he was just beside himself with frustration. Said that they’ve cast his nephew in the male lead, but they’ve been having a dickens of a time casting a female lead because nobody who tried out got along with his nephew, or seemed to fit, or whatever.

What’s wrong with his nephew? My eyes narrowed.

I don’t know, I think he’s just particular about getting it right, Dad said. I think he helped with a lot of the ideas for the script, and he has a particular type in mind.

And you think that type is me? I raised my eyebrows.

It actually sounds like it, Dad told me. From what Aaron described, anyway. He paused. What do you think? Can I send you my copy of the script?

I sighed and put my hand over my face—fighting back the strange, jumpy sensation in my stomach.

Sure, okay, I conceded. Can’t hurt anything, right?

That’s my girl. I could hear my dad’s grin. I’ll overnight it so you’ll have it tomorrow morning. And after you read it, you can call me and tell me what you think, and if you like it, I’ll tell you when and where the auditions are.

Okay, I tried to smile. Thanks, Dad.

After we hung up, I laid there in bed for a while, turning that thought over in my mind. The air in my apartment was chilly—even though it was April, the weather still hadn’t really warmed up much after one of the coldest winters in the history of the universe. I pulled the blankets up over myself, almost covering my face, hoping I could get a little more sleep...

Flash.

Right in front of my eyes. A mostly-empty stage, painted black, with red curtains open. I was sitting on the stage, facing stage left. And through the back rooms, a dancing, crowing laugh resounded up and down.

I blinked.

It vanished.

I sat up straight, flinging off my covers, my heart pounding.

A Picture.

Of a stage. With red curtains.

And a laugh that still echoed through my mind.

A

The next morning, I climbed out of bed, stretched, and pushed open the curtains to look down on the streets. Since it was Saturday, the traffic wasn’t as thick as during the week, and the noise had calmed. Though, in the Upper East Side of Manhattan, it was never as hectic as other places on the island.

Dad had initially come with me to pick out an apartment to start, and insisted on paying for it until I got a steady job that was good enough that I could pay for it myself. Neither of my parents wanted me living anywhere dangerous or seedy—and I hadn’t argued much. I didn’t want to live anywhere dangerous or seedy, either.

After three days of searching, we’d come across an apartment building on 88th street, made of red brick, its front covered in tall, narrow windows and fire escapes. We’d investigated, and found an available apartment on the fourth floor. Dad said the rent was reasonable—for New York.

It was little, compared to my childhood home out in the country, of course. There was a short hallway connecting the bedroom and the sitting room, and in that hall they’d crammed the kitchen, which is just a stove and microwave with a tiny bit of counter space and some cupboards. My bedroom was a nice size, but I couldn’t bring my dark-wood dresser—I had to bring the white one from when I was little, because the big one wouldn’t fit. The bathroom was right next to the bedroom. I had a table in the sitting room, and a couch and a chair, and a TV set.

I like light, floral print things, though not as garish as other people like them nowadays. I’m partial to lace, so that’s my curtains. Roses on my comforter and pillows. Blue couch, rose pillows. I had a rug on my floor in the bedroom and the living room because this wood floor was freezing in the winter.

I sighed, folding my arms and looking around at everything, feeling my heart sink.

I’d just gotten used to it here.

Forcing myself to stop thinking about it, I pulled off my pajamas and got dressed in jeans, boots, and a plaid tuck-in shirt. In the bathroom, I brushed out my straight, dark-brown hair and put half of it up in a ponytail, to keep it out of my face. I had bangs, and decided I didn’t want to mess with curling them today.

I’m a slender person, not very curvy. I have bright green eyes, and people say I look like my mom. She’s very pretty, with dark eyelashes and eyebrows, so I suppose I have a little beauty, too. At the time, I didn’t like wearing makeup—just a little mascara, so I put that on.

Tap, tap, tap.

I quickly screwed on the lid to my mascara, put it away, and hurried out through my bedroom, into the hall, across the sitting room to the front door. My cat Milo—a striped orange kitty—meowed loudly at me as I whooshed past him.

I’ll feed you in a minute, just wait! I called back at him. I threw the three locks on the door and pulled it open.

Hi! I found a FedEx man standing there, smiling back at me.

I’ve got a package here for Anne Maple, he said, checking the thick envelope.

That’s me, I said.

Okay, can you just sign here? he asked, holding out a clipboard. I took the pen and signed my name on the line, then gave it back. He passed off the package to me. I could feel a thick stack of papers inside—and when I looked at the envelope, it confirmed what I’d suspected it was.

Thank you! I told the delivery man.

Have a good day, he answered, and left. I shut the door after him, and automatically flipped the deadbolt again. Grinning crookedly, I turned the envelope over, tore it open...

And pulled out a typed script, spiral-bound. On the front page, it read:

The Ripple Experiment

A Play in Two Acts

by

Aaron Highgate and Peter Wrenn

Raaawr! my cat complained as he came and stood on my feet. I laughed out loud.

Okay, okay, I said. We’ll both get breakfast, and then I’ll make some tea and cuddle with you on the couch while I read this thing.

B

Hey, Dad!

Hey, sweetie! Dad answered at the other end of the phone. Did you get the script?

I did, thanks, I answered. Just finished reading it.

I sat on my blue couch with my legs tucked under me, a patchwork quilt over my lap—and a purring cat keeping me warm. My cup of tea on the coffee table however, had gone cold. And the last page of the script lay open in front of me.

Well, what did you think of it? Dad asked.

It’s really interesting! I admitted. The premise is kind of funny—a man from a hundred years in the future trying to fix the problems there by changing things that happen in the past, and that the problems the entire future world is facing actually all stem out from one house and one woman’s life!

Haha, yeah, you wouldn’t want to see the statistics on that, probably, Dad chuckled.

But the story convinces me, I said, gesturing as I talked. At least, it does if I understand half of Dr. Ripple’s techno-babble—the stuff that isn’t made-up, anyway.

Dad laughed out loud now.

I know, isn’t that great? I’d love to know how they came up with all of those technical-sounding nonsense words.

Me too, I said, scratching Milo on the back so his purring thundered. "This show could do well if it’s still running when that movie Back to the Future comes out this summer. And I like Wendy James. She’s sensible and down to earth and a scientist too, but she’s still fun, and pretty brave, and she can at least halfway keep up with Dr. Ripple when he’s trying all those ridiculous things."

Mhm, I agree. A pretty nifty gal, Dad said pointedly. I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile.

But, this um... I flicked the edge of the last page, making a face. This last part...

What? Dad asked.

The last scene! I cried. "I mean, am I reading this right? It just says ‘Act Two, Scene 10: actors will ad-lib to achieve a conclusion.’ What is that about?"

Well, I suppose it means the ending will be different every night, depending upon what the actors feel like, Dad guessed. But you’ll have to ask them more about it at the audition.

I’ve never done any improv stuff before! I protested. I hate that! Like when somebody forgets a line and just stares at me, expecting me to save them from themselves and get the scene rolling again—that’s terrifying!

"It’s exciting," Dad offered. 

Oh, how would you know? I shot back.

Athletes do it all the time, he said lightly. They practice a certain set of skills, and then whoever they play throws different scenarios at them that they have to deal with, based on the set of skills they’ve already learned.

I groaned.

Look, just ask them more about it at the audition, Dad suggested. I’ve set it up for two o’clock tomorrow at the Quadrant Theatre.   

Wait—you set it up? I sat up so fast that Milo tumbled off my lap. I thought it was an open audition!

No, they started with those, but couldn’t find anybody, Dad said. I called Aaron and arranged this for you so you can meet with him and the director, and with Aaron’s nephew, if he’s around.

Oh, Dad... I whispered, my heart hammering.

This is far better than a cattle call, honey, Dad insisted. They’ll get to hear you, and you’ll get to find out everything you want to know about the play, the people in it, and whether or not it’s something you want to do. If it doesn’t work out, then sure, you can come home when your lease is up and work at the library. That’s fine. But don’t you want to just give this a shot and see what happens?

I hesitated, winding the phone cord around my forefinger again. I heaved a sigh.

Okay, okay, I said. I’ll give it a shot.

Sounds good! he said. Be sure to call me after the audition—and Mom wants to hear about it, too!

Chapter Two

Sunday, April 7th

I SHUT THE DOOR TO the phonebooth behind me with a clatter, shoved the clanking money into the pay phone, picked up the receiver and dialed. I waited, tapping my feet while it rang, watching the traffic whizz by on the street outside the grimy glass.

Hello? came a brisk, male voice at the other end.

Hi, Jim! I instantly broke into a smile at the sound of my boyfriend’s familiar tones.  

Hi, Anne! he answered cheerfully. How are you, what’s going on?

Is it okay to talk for a second? I asked.

Sure, I was just taking a break in the middle of typing this editorial. What are you doing?

Oh, I’m...I’m standing about a block away from the theatre and decided to call you, I said, folding my free arm around myself and shifting my weight.

The theatre where you have that audition?

Yeah, for the play I told you about yesterday, I answered. The one about the time-traveler.

What time is the audition? he asked. I looked down at my watch and winced.

In about five minutes.

Won’t you be late?

I heaved a sigh.

That’s why I wanted to call you, I confessed. I’m getting cold feet.

Well...I can understand that, he said.

I blinked.

You can?

Sure, he said. You’re afraid that if you do this, it might be a waste of your time, but you will have tied yourself down. And you might miss a really great opportunity to work in your field.

My heart sank.

Yeah. Maybe you’re right.

You’re such a brilliant therapist, Anne, he said gently. "I’ve seen you work. Are you sure there are no schools around there that need a speech councilor?"

Only scary ones, I muttered.

Well, you can always come across to Jersey where I am, he suggested. I’ve been keeping my eyes open for something for you. And the rent is a little cheaper here. Or, you could move home with your folks and save money till you land the kind of job you want.

Yeah, I know, I said, rubbing my forehead. Dad and I talked about that second option.

His sigh came as a hiss of static in my ear.

"I know your Dad’s excited about this play and everything...I just don’t want you to miss something, Anne. I have this really strong feeling that, really soon, you’ll have a serious chance to truly help somebody who desperately needs it. I mean, you could get a callback tomorrow from any number of the schools where you’ve applied—but if you commit to this play, you won’t be able to accept any of them. And how long could this play last, anyway?"

I don’t know. I really don’t, I shook my head. Depends on if it’s successful.

Or if it even gets off the ground, Jim added. And besides—

I didn’t hear the rest of what he said.

Right in the middle of his sentence, that Picture came. Again. The same one from the other morning: me, on a black stage, open curtains—and that laugh.

It overpowered me, blanking out all my vision. And the tenor of that disembodied laugh shot a thrill down my spine.

And then it disappeared.

Sorry, Jim, I have to go, I muttered absently, my eyes fixed on the glass in front of me. Dad set this up and it’d look really bad for him if I don’t show up. And without waiting for a reply, I hung up the phone, pushed out of the booth...

Cold wind hit my face.

I sucked in a breath and shook myself, almost feeling like I’d just woken up.

I stood on a dirty sidewalk in the theatre district, grey clouds looming over the skyscrapers. The traffic howled all around, people passed me, their shoes clattering on the pavement. I lifted my eyes and looked at the small brick theatre just ahead of me, its blank marquee sticking out over the sidewalk. Above that, a neon sign, unlit, read: The Quadrant Theatre.

My heart hammered again. This morning, I’d put on black dress pants, heels, a red silk blouse and black jacket over that, and tied my hair up in a ponytail. I desperately hoped I looked professional, but not too uptight.

And I hoped I could get this over with as quickly as possible.

Setting my teeth and taking a deep breath, I headed for the theatre door.

C

I PUSHED THROUGH THE one front door of the theatre that I found open, made my way through the silent, red-carpeted lobby, and leaned cautiously through the open door to the hall.

It wasn’t large—could maybe hold three-hundred people on the lower floor, and a small balcony hung above. It smelled dusty, and the house lights were dimmed low. On past the rows of seats, down a gentle slope, the stage itself stood in lights, with red curtains pushed off to either side.

I swallowed.

Two men sat on chairs center stage, and an empty, funky-patterned couch stood near them, stage left. One man was thin with faded red hair, wearing black dress pants and a white collared shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had a serious, angular face and a penetrating look. He had a booklet on his knee, and gestured delicately with a pencil between his fingers as he talked to the other man. I recognized him—and suddenly remembered the calm, regulated lilt of his upper-class British accent.

The other man was fat, with a round face, and his chortling laughter echoed out into the hall toward me. He had greying, combed hair and little eyes, and wore a grey suit and vest, with no tie.

Bracing myself, I started down the aisle, my feet silent on the thin carpet. Then, all of a sudden, they saw me.

Miss Maple? the fat one called, his voice booming out. He sat forward and shielded his eyes from the lights. Is that you?

Yes, it’s me, I called back. How do I get up there?

See, there’s a door off to the side, there, house left, he pointed. Take the set of stairs up and turn right, you’ll come out on the stage.

Okay, thanks, I managed, headed to my left, pushed through the curtains—tried not to fall down in the dark—and turned toward the bright light coming from between the hanging stage curtains. Finally, I emerged out there with them, the lights flashing in my right eye.

They both turned to smile at me, and the thin man stood up and nodded.

How are you, Miss Maple? he asked. Do you remember me?

I do! I said, taking his proffered hand. You’re my dad’s friend, Aaron Highgate—I think we met at a football game once.

He smiled broadly, now, and it did wonders for his appearance.

Yes, I remember that, he said, then waved to the other man. "This is my friend, and The Ripple Experiment’s director, Mr. Sam Everhart."

Forgive me for not standing up, Mr. Everhart chuckled, extending his hand. I just had knee surgery.

Oh, then don’t get up, I said quickly, leaning in to shake his hand.

Will you please sit down? Aaron asked, indicating the empty couch.

Yes, thank you, I said, maneuvering around and then easing down on the couch in front of them, clutching my purse in my lap and trying to keep my hands from shaking. Both men rested their gazes on me, and I could practically feel them thinking.

I seem to remember you participated in theatre in high school and college? Aaron prompted, crossing his legs and gracefully letting his hands rest on the note pad.

Yes, I answered quickly. "In high school I played Alice Sycamore in You Can’t Take it With You, um...I was Laurey in Oklahoma!, and Titania in Midsummer Night’s Dream. In college they did a lot of Shakespeare, which I loved—so I played Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, Cordelia in King Lear, and Lady MacBeth in Mac— I instantly stopped myself with a nervous giggle. I mean, The Scottish Play."

This made the men across from me laugh, and something in my chest loosened a little.

And you won a few awards? Mr. Everhart asked.

Yes, for playing Alice, Laurey and Lady MacBeth.

And that success made you want to pursue acting? Aaron wondered.

Um...Well, no, I confessed, feeling my face get hot. I actually got my degree in speech therapy. I want to help people with speech and reading impediments like stammering, lisping, dyslexia, things like that.

A noble cause, Aaron mused. He raised his eyebrows. But you’ve had no luck so far getting a job in that field?

No, not yet, I sighed, trying to smile. It’s tough, in the city!

Yes, it is, Mr. Everhart agreed, exchanging a look with Aaron. "But you’re willing to try this, instead?"

Well, yes—if it’s agreeable to everyone. Including me, I said, feeling my face get hotter, but saying it anyway. I’d want to make sure it would be worthwhile, and that the people involved are good to work with.

Sounds wise, Aaron said, suppressing a smile. Have you had a chance to read the script?

Yes, I read it yesterday, I replied quickly.

What did you think of it? Mr. Everhart asked. Can you summarize it for us, and give us your impressions?

Well... My brow furrowed and my fingers curled on the top of my purse. "It’s about a sort of a mad, but endearing, scientist who comes back in time a hundred years on an experiment. About half of earth’s population in the future where he comes from is robots, and the other half lives in a very sterile, dark environment. And he thinks that’s wrong, and something’s gone wrong. He’s trying to figure out if something can be changed in the past that will change the future—he’s narrowed it down to this particular house at this exact time. He does various science and social experiments while he’s living in the present—some of which are pretty funny—in an effort to impact the future the way he wants. And, um... I shifted in my seat. The last scene is always completely improvised."

"Do you know why it’s improvised?" Aaron asked, watching me carefully.

Well...I’ve been considering that, I admitted. I think...I think it leaves the entire play up to different interpretations, and a chance for it to evolve and take on a life of its own.

All right, keep going, Mr. Everhart urged, leaning forward. I shifted again.

Well... I said again. "The scientist’s focus is all on global—or at least national—events, but almost accidentally, he does things to change the life of the woman living in this house, and that could ultimately be what makes a difference in the future. Small things, like fixing a leak or throwing away a faulty toaster, to saving her from a bus, discouraging a bad relationship, protecting her from a creepy neighbor. And it could be any of those things. It’s why it’s called The Ripple Experiment. One, it’s his name; two, he is causing a ‘ripple’ effect; and three, those ripples impact everything else that comes after them. Because, in the scene before the last, he goes into his time machine again, and the last scene is the result of whatever discovery he decides to make about the future. Nothing changed, something changed, or everything changed—he can literally pull from any scene in the show."

The two men smiled at each other.

"Yes, the people playing Mr. Ripple and Wendy would pull it from any scene in the show," Aaron reminded me.

That’s...actually what scares me, I said, now feeling my cheeks burning. They both frowned at me.

Scares you? Mr. Everhart repeated.

Mhm, I said, gripping my purse. I never did any improv. Everything was very memorized, very blocked out. And I mean—well, a lot of it was Shakespeare! You don’t improvise Shakespeare!

No, you don’t, Mr. Everhart chuckled.

And...you don’t think you can do that part of it? Aaron pressed.

I honestly don’t know, I said. I really don’t.

Do you think you might try? Mr. Everhart peered at me. I bit my lip.

She should!

I nearly hit the ceiling when a bright, young male voice shot through the silence behind me.

The next second, someone leaped over the back of the couch and landed sitting right next to me. My breath caught and I gaped at him.

He looked about my age, maybe a couple years older. He wore a short sleeved maroon polo shirt with the top buttons undone, baggy khaki pants, and yellow socks. No shoes.  

He had a bright, clever face, with a smattering of freckles across his nose; dark, expressive eyebrows and lashes, and an impish smile. His features might be oddly handsome if he allowed a cloud of seriousness to pass over them. Actually, he probably could be dashing at the right angle. But right now, his vivid blue eyes—like lightning—lit his whole being with an almost wild brilliance. He had brown, reckless curls that caught the stage lights, and, as if in compliment, the lights illuminated them in a flame-red halo. In a ridiculous instant of memory—though the next instant, it didn’t seem so ridiculous—I remembered Shakespeare’s description of Puck in Midsummer Night’s Dream: the shrewd and knavish sprite, that merry wanderer of the night.

Um, hi! I giggled breathlessly.

Hi, don’t mind me, I just dropped in, the stranger beamed, sticking out his right hand. Cautiously, I took it—and he suddenly brought mine up and kissed it.

Enchanté! he said crisply.

Ha! I laughed.

Miss Maple, this is my nephew, Peter Wren. He’s playing Dr. Edward Ripple. Mr. Everhart motioned to him. Peter, this is—

Anne Maple, yes, I know, I’ve been listening the whole time, he said, turning toward me eagerly, fixing me with those sky-bright eyes. Are you going to do the show?

I suddenly sensed Aaron and Mr. Everhart go completely still.

Well, I’d...I’d like to, I stammered—surprising myself. I was just telling them about how I don’t know how to improv.

Oh, shoot, it isn’t that hard, Peter waved it off. You’re improv-ing right now, aren’t you?

Ha, well... I rolled my eyes. I guess so?

You can walk, talk and chew gum at the same time? he pressed narrowly.

Um—well, sure—

You’re not deaf, blind, have a third eye somewhere?

I burst out laughing.

Peter’s eyes suddenly twinkled with an almost fiendish light, and he slapped his knee.

Yep, he said. I like her. And with that, he leaned over, kissed my cheek—

Shot up, headed around the couch toward stage left, ramming his hands in his pockets and whistling Everything’s Up to Date in Kansas City. 

Baffled, I twisted in my seat to watch him stride toward backstage like he was strolling through the park. The shadows of the curtains swallowed him.

I hope this means you have your part memorized already, Peter, Aaron called after him, arcing an eyebrow.

And Peter laughed.

That ringing, thrilling, innocently-delighted sound straight from my Picture.

My lips parted, and I couldn’t speak.

Well, Miss Maple, if we could, Mr. Everhart called me back—and I had to struggle to turn around and face him.

Could we hear you read a little bit? Mr. Everhart finished. Aaron can read Dr. Ripple for you.

Oh! Okay, sure, I nodded, taking the script they handed me.

Why don’t we start with act two, scene two? Aaron asked, pulling reading glasses out of his breast pocket and slipping them on.

Okay, I said again, flipping to that page.

We started the read, and I did my very best. The written dialogue was lively and natural, and of course I’d read it already, so it wasn’t all that difficult once my fingers stopped trembling.

But all the while, though I never turned to look, I kept wondering if Peter was watching us from the wings.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, April 10th

I BOUNCED UP AND OUT of the subway and emerged in front of the dark, solemn, jagged edifice of Trinity Church. I immediately opened my umbrella, humming to myself, hardly noticing the rain pounding on the top of the canvas.

The crowds all around me ducked and hurried through the downpour, and the hundreds of noisy cars and cabs splashed through the puddles in the street.

I dashed across Broadway, hopping over the flowing puddles in the gutter, and headed into the narrow canyon of Broad Street. The traffic roar echoed here, and the shadows of the buildings made it even dimmer. I whistled to myself, forcibly calming my urge to start skipping.

I came to where the Stock Exchange and Federal Hall stood cattycorner to each other, and grinned up at the serene, noble statue of George Washington towering atop the stairs of Federal Hall, his shoulders and head shining with water.

Hullo, sir! I said to him. Sorry I don’t have an extra umbrella! I giggled at myself, and turned right down Wall Street.

I followed Wall Street, down three long blocks, smiling at the historic buildings, until I spotted my favorite place to eat in the whole world: Frauces Tavern.

It’s where George Washington said goodbye to his troops at the end of the Revolutionary War, so you can imagine what it looks like: Georgian architecture, only three-and-a-half stories, light-red brick with decorative stonework around all the edges. On its front face, it has exactly fourteen tall, small-paned windows bordered in white.  It has a street-side chimney, and an inset door with pillars right in the front, and another door and a lot more windows on that side. There’s also cute windows to the attic room, and a wooden railing all around he top of the square roof. It is one of several Revolutionary-era buildings in this block that have been preserved for their historical significance, and the skyscrapers loom like surrounding giants. The little buildings are so utterly out of place—and yet, they seem to be part of the very ground itself. Impervious to the tumult of the city all around them. As if to say, in the most dignified and unruffled tone: We were here first; you uppity youngsters maintain your distance. So whenever I walk up to Fraunces, at any time of year, I feel like I’m stepping back in time.

I hopped up the stairs, folded my umbrella and shook it out, then pushed through the front door. I was instantly surrounded by old wood walls and floors, and the clatter and clamor of the pub through the door to my left. I turned right and ducked through another door into a tiny front hallway, at the far end of which waited a narrow white staircase that lead up to the George Washington-themed museum above. I smiled at the waitress who stood behind the podium.

I think my dad and boyfriend are already here.

All right, go on ahead, then! the dark-haired girl said in a lovely Irish accent, and motioned me through. I passed through a wider door, down a couple steps, and into the long dining room.

Broad wood floors, and a row of large street-facing windows in the far wall, with lamps standing in them. Long, tavern-style tables and high backed benches marched down the length of the space, all filled with New Yorkers eating and drinking and talking. At the far left stood a fireplace, with an antique map of the island hanging above the hearth. In the far corner of the room stood a round table, and I spotted my dad and Jim sitting there. They sat up and waved at me—I grinned and waved back, and headed across to them.

My dad is about six feet tall, enjoys wearing tweed suits and driving caps, and always has a smile ready for me. He’s clean-shaven, mostly bald, but he had dark hair when he was younger. He has dark, mischievous eyes—he’s very creative. A good artist, and also has an eye for classic cars. He loves driving a rumbling 1930’s roadster down the country lanes around our house. He’s one of the co-owners of an oil company my grandpa started.

Jim Tucker looks exactly the opposite of my dad. He’s six-three, muscular, blond hair, likes wearing stylish business suits—and somehow gets them to look comfortable. He’s extremely handsome, I think. Brown eyes, dimples, a great laugh. His smile makes me go weak. He has long lashes and a boyish aspect that can change to rugged if he just lets his beard grow a few days.

As soon as I came up to the table, Jim stood up and pulled out my chair for me. 

Hello, sweetheart, he said, and kissed my cheek.

Hi, everybody! I said breathlessly, taking off my coat as I sat down, and draping it over the back of my chair.

Hi, honey! Dad greeted me. Did you get wet?

Oh, only a little. Not bad, I said, setting my umbrella under my chair. It’s really pouring!

Yes, it is—the grass in Central Park will be happy to get it, Jim noted as he sat back down.

We ordered you a hot tea, Dad told me.

Oh, thank you, I said, shaking out my hands. I need that today. My fingers are frozen!

Okay, so—what did you want to tell us? Jim asked, pinning me with his dark gaze and folding his hands on the table. I’m too curious to wait any more. Your dad is too!

I couldn’t suppress my smile any more.

Welllll... I said, canting my head and sliding my napkin.

Hey, I knew it, Jim said, a delighted grin spreading across his face. You got a callback from one of the private schools. They want to hire you?

My eyes flashed up to his, and I suddenly frowned. My smiled failed me.

I...Well, no...

My dad raised his eyebrows, and gave me an entirely different—playful—look.

You got the part.

I let out a nervous laugh, turning to him—but his eyes sparkled at me.

Yeah, I nodded. Yeah...I got the part!

"That’s amazing, sweetheart! he cried, grabbing my wrist and shaking it back and forth. Congratulations!"

I relaxed into another laugh, and it felt better this time.

Really? Jim said, his smile gone now. They picked you? Even though you’ve never had any professional experience?

Well, I... I looked at him for a second, then tried to gather my thoughts. I went in and sat with Aaron and the director, Mr. Everhart, and we talked about the show, and its themes, and its potential to evolve and grow over several performances...and then Aaron’s nephew, Peter Wrenn, just sort of...popped in from nowhere. I chuckled remembering it. He just hopped over the couch and plopped down right next to me! He’s playing the scientist, I said to Jim.

Yeah, Frank told me, Jim nodded to my dad.

"What was he like?" Dad asked, watching me.

Well, he... I frowned, then laughed. He’s hard to describe! Kind of...wild or something. Really enthusiastic, silly, just jumping in and out when he feels like it. He asked me a bunch of ridiculous questions and then just left!

Mhm, Dad murmured, glancing down at his folded hands. My attention sharpened.

What? I asked. What is it?

Well, he took a deep breath. "Aaron’s mentioned him before to me. He had to raise him after Peter’s mother left, and Aaron had some trouble with him. But, Dad looked at me. He also said Peter’s a heck of an actor. A genius of both dramatic and comedic timing. And I’m sure this show will sink or swim because of whatever Peter decides to do with it. Dad chuckled. I think you’re in for a ride!"

So—this guy is kind of unpredictable? Jim asked him. Or...unreliable?

Aaron didn’t go into detail, Dad shook his head. He did tell me that he’s classically trained. So he must have finished college.

How long has one of Aaron Highgate’s shows ever run? Jim pressed.

Hmm, well, one of his ran for three years, Dad replied. But that was a few years ago. His most recent show only lasted six months. But he wrote the others on his own, he held up a finger. This is the first one that Peter has helped with.

Six months, though, that’s not too long, Jim said, brightening up. That’s what, about here to the end of the summer? He looked at me. So while you’re doing this play, you can keep applying to schools and then step into a job around September!

Yeah, I made myself smile, suddenly off balance. Yeah, that’s a good idea.

"Well, I hope it runs for a while longer, Dad countered. Since I’m sure you will all be putting a great deal of time and effort into it. When do you start rehearsal?"

Oh, tomorrow, I answered, shaking myself. We’ll rehearse all the rest of this month and then open Friday, May tenth. I pointed at him and Jim with narrow eyes. Everyone is coming to opening night.

Yes, Mom and Grandma and Lily and Janie will all be there. I’ll call Aaron and have him reserve us some good seats, Dad assured me.

And I’ll bring my mom and sister, Jim smiled, reaching around to take my hand. This could be fun. You’ll be great.

Warmth spread through me at his touch, and that sinking feeling dissipated. But before I could say anything more, the waitress came, and I was forced to decide between at least a dozen delicious hot teas.    

Chapter Four

Thursday, April 11th

THURSDAY MORNING, I saw a Picture of a man’s hand grabbing mine, and pulling me forward. From the look of it, it belonged to a young man, wearing long, fitted red sleeves. I lay there in bed for a long time after I saw it, turning it over and over in my mind. Then, finally, I got up, showered, got dressed in a white blouse and tweed jacket with a broomstick skirt and high boots, fed Milo, snatched up the copy of the script my dad had sent me, and headed out the door.

As soon as I hit the street, I took a deep breath of the cool air. The morning was crisp and bright, and I could tell that the sun’s position in the sky had shifted. Its light glinted differently against the windows, and filled the canyons between the buildings at a changed angle. It wasn’t winter anymore.

As I rode the subway, the metallic whizzing of the train’s speed surrounding me as it gently rocked side to side, I sat near the rail by the door and read over the script for the fourth time since getting it in the mail. I tried to imagine the blocking, the arrangement of the set, and how I ought to say each one of my lines. But every time the realization hit me that I was actually doing this, a weird wave of excited nausea passed through my whole body. I fought to shake it off, and concentrate on the lines.

At last, the subway lurched to a stop, and I gathered up my things and bustled out with ten thousand of my closest friends, the roar of the trains and the foot-traffic of hundreds of people ricocheting off the cement walls. Ducking my head and concentrating on where to put my feet, I worked my way up the stairs and into the daylight again.

I emerged just a couple of short blocks from the theatre, so I walked briskly, maneuvering through the crowds of people, the noise of the traffic and car horns sending a never-ending echo up and down the walls of looming buildings.

New York has a particular smell—a mix of stinky scents like exhaust and garbage; and good scents like cooking food, and gusts of sea air. The city hums with activity, never letting your mind rest whilst you’re walking, lest you run into a light pole or a person.

Finally, I spotted the sign for the Quadrant Theatre, smiled weakly, fought back the shivers, and pushed through the front door. It squeaked.

I maneuvered through the silent lobby, as I had before, and entered the theatre. House lights were up this time, and the stage was fully lit. Chairs sat in a circle on the stage, all occupied except for two. I immediately spotted Aaron and Mr. Everhart sitting next to each other, scripts and pencils in their laps. Aaron wore a white dress shirt and black slacks and shoes, with the top buttons of his shirt undone. Mr. Everhart wore a black suit and red tie. Then, as I cautiously and silently made my way forward, I studied the other three in the circle.

Next to Mr. Everhart sat a middle-aged woman with beautifully quaffed, rather large blonde hair, wearing a flowing white blouse and vibrant blue skirt, and white high heels. She had large eyes, a pretty, distinguished face, and she smiled as she talked to the director. She had a script in her lap, too. Beside her sat a thin, slightly-balding middle-aged man with big, watery eyes and a weak chin, wearing a grey suit and blue tie.

Next to him sat a tall, extremely good-looking young man with neatly-combed black hair, wearing a collared shirt with a blue sweater over it, jeans and hiking boots. He instantly struck me as looking very like Christopher Reeve’s Superman. The five people talked quietly and easily to each other. All of them calm, confident. As if they belonged there.

I slowed to a halt, feeling my blood turn cold. I took half a step back.

She’s here!

A shout like a rooster crowing. It shot through the theatre, jerking my attention house right—

Where Peter Wrenn had appeared on stage as if by magic. He stood in those baggy khakis again, with a long-sleeved, fitted red shirt, and white tennis shoes. I could see the vibrancy of his eyes even from where I stood, and his hair looked windblown, like he’d just come in to land.

He trotted across the stage and then leaped off, hitting the carpet like a cat and then bounding up the aisle toward me. Funny—I suddenly realized that he could only be an inch or two taller than me. I almost looked directly into his eyes.

Hi, how are you? he asked, beaming at me.

I’m good, how are you? I managed to answer.

Fantastic, now that you’re here, he said. We were sure your subway had crashed or something.

I laughed and shook my head.

Nope, everything’s okay. I... I stopped. Wait, am I late?

No, not at all, Anne, Aaron interjected from up on stage.

Yes you are, I was here at seven this morning, Peter countered. My mouth fell open.

"I—Was I supposed to be here at seven?"

Hey, don’t worry about it, hon, Peter winked at me. That’s just me—I couldn’t sleep, I was too excited. Then, he reached out and grabbed my left hand, and tugged on me.

Gasping—having an instant flashback to my Picture—I managed to keep myself from tripping as I followed his eager pace toward the stage. As if in reflex, he interlaced our fingers and squeezed, and pulled me through the curtains at the stage door. We swerved, hopped up the stairs, and burst out onto the stage as if we were coming out for an encore.

Everybody, this is Anne Maple, playing Wendy James, Peter announced, waving to me with his free hand.

Hi! they all said, their expressions open and agreeable.  

Uncle Aaron and Mr. Everhart you know already, Peter said. This stunning and vivacious beauty is Nancy Bennet, playing Janet James, your mother.

Hi, sweetheart! Nancy, the lovely blonde woman, waved at me.

Hello! I gestured back at her with my script. Peter swung my hand back and forth once, then pointed to the man next to Nancy.

This diamond in the rough is Walter Emmet, playing your neighbor, Allen.

Howdy, Walter grinned at me, and gave me a lazy salute, then shifted back and forth in his seat as if pleased with himself. I tried not to laugh, and nodded to him.

Good morning.

And this dashing young man, Peter said grandly. Is Stephen Tell, playing your truly-fickle true love, Eric Schultz.

Haha, how do you do? Stephen chuckled, standing up and sticking his hand out to me. Peter let go of me so I could shift my script to my left hand and shake Stephen’s. As Stephen took my hand and gave me a warm smile, I saw the flash of a wedding ring on his left hand.

You’re married, Stephen? I asked him as he sat back down.

Yes, two little girls, too, he chuckled. They’re a handful!

Here, Peter said, drawing a chair into place for me.

Thank you, I smiled at him, and sat down. He sat down immediately on my left, set his right ankle on his left knee, and folded his hands. He didn’t have a script.

All right! Aaron said in a bright—but still measured—tone, looking round at all of us. "Welcome to the premiere production of The Ripple Experiment. Of course, this is a small cast, so I anticipate we and the crew will become rather like family as the show goes on. Mr. Everhart wanted to conduct a quick read-through of the first act today, and discuss any thoughts on character and soforth. So, Everhart, take it away."

Mr. Everhart cleared his throat.

Good morning, everyone! I should also make you aware that our producer, Mr. Charles Flintheiman, is up in the balcony today, just listening.

I couldn’t stop myself—I instantly looked up to my right to search...

Through the nearly-opaque glare of the stage lights, I glimpsed a single large figure of shadow sitting in the center of the balcony, all alone.

I froze. Chills crawled down my spine.

That moment, I felt a light nudge on my arm, and turned to the left to see Peter give me a quiet smile, another wink, and then shake his head. My chills dissipated.

So, erm...Let’s start with the first scene, then, Mr. Everhart cut into my thoughts, and I mentally came back to the stage. I flipped open my script, hearing everyone but Peter do the same.

So, we’ve just got Wendy center stage, in front of the curtain, in a spot, Mr. Everhart went on. Take it away, Anne.

That sickly-nervous sensation swept through my whole body again. It gripped my gut, sending a freakish pain into my chest. My throat locked, and my heart bashed against my ribs. I glanced up. Everyone was looking down at his or her script...

Except I could sense Peter watching me. And his gaze felt warm against my side, like summer sunshine.

I took a deep breath, clutched my hands together in my lap, stared down at the page, and read out loud.

‘I lead a little life,’ I began. "‘I’m alone in a big, Victorian house that I restored myself; I work, I cook, I garden, I study for my master’s degree in plant biology. I keep to routine. I’m friendly enough with my neighbors, but I keep mostly to myself. Which isn’t particularly unique, I’m sure lots of people lead similar if not identical lives to my own. And I’m content with that. I’ve never had any desire to have my name splashed across newspapers or written in flashing in lights. And yet, sometimes late at night, when I can’t sleep, I wonder...Do the small, everyday actions and decisions of any of us make a difference to the future? Will our small town election for mayor affect the face of our city a hundred years from now? Will what we drive, what we eat, what we plant, how we treat people, prove to be any more important than a billboard you pass on the highway? Don’t we all think to ourselves: will my life, even if it is little, pass by without making any sort of splash? Will I always just live within routine, touching many people, but none of them deeply? Will anyone remember me after I’m gone? And in the end, long after I’ve vanished from the earth...will it even matter that once, Wendy James lived?’"

Very good. Moving on, Mr. Everhart said—and I accidentally let out a shaking sigh. I caught Peter shooting me a brief, twinkling look. My face got hot, and I tried not to smile.

Now, we’re in Wendy’s front sitting room, Everhart said over the noise of pages flipping. And it’s she and her mother having tea or coffee or whatever while her mother is visiting.

Ahem, Nancy sat up and adjusted the way she held her script. ‘I love what you’ve done with the wallpaper, darling.’

‘Thanks, Mom,’ I read, keeping up with her. ‘It’s almost exactly like the original pattern from 1910. It took me ages to find it.’

‘This house has really been an investment for you!’ Nancy kept going, sounding supremely natural. ‘It doesn’t look anything like it did when we first bought it. It was really a fixer-upper.’

‘Yes, it’s taken what, five years?’ I continued. ‘And now I’ve finally got it the way I want it.’

‘And so now you’re ready to sell it?’

I felt Nancy glance up at me. Mustering my own confidence, I met her blue eyes and gave her an indignant look before going on with my next line.

‘Sell it? Mom, I just spent all that time and money making it exactly the way I always dreamed—why would I turn around and sell it now?’

‘Because that’s what I thought the plan was, honey!’ Nancy replied, her voice and