Courage Beneath the Open Sky

I woke with a paper star stuck to my cheek and the auditorium's emergency lights blinking red above me. A cable tightened around my ankle when I sat up. I looked down at my hand, small and unlined, then at the silver cape spread across the stage floor. The last time I'd been seventeen, I'd worn that cape to school every day for three months and introduced myself as the Star Regent of the Ninth Dawn. In my first life, I'd been thirty-one, good at repairing a soundboard, negotiating a contract, swimming a mile, and making three different kinds of soup. I had also died alone in an apartment with a half-finished grocery list on the counter. Now I was back in Ashgrove Academy's auditorium on the morning the spring showcase was supposed to go on sale. The double doors opened. June Park stepped inside with a coil of cable over one arm. Her dark hair was tucked behind her ears, and her eyes went straight to the cape. "I told Ms. Kline you'd be here," she said. "She wants us in the main office." "Us?" "You and the student crew. The showcase is canceled." The words struck harder than the stage floor had. June set the cable down. She didn't ask why I was on the floor or why I'd apparently dressed for a moonlit coronation. She had already learned not to ask. In my old teenage life, I'd made an art of turning every question into a performance. I got to my feet. "Canceled by whom?" "Ms. Kline. The auditorium is closed until the fire door passes inspection. The donor council needs the gym for its spring reception, too." June's mouth tightened. "So there isn't anywhere else." The showcase was more than a school talent night. It was the one event that let students from music, theater, and the art program share a stage without having to audition for an adult's idea of what counted as impressive. June had spent a year booking acts and arranging volunteers. I remembered this week. In my first life, I'd responded to the cancellation with a dramatic speech, accused the administration of fearing student brilliance, and posted it on the school forum under the name Star Regent. The post had gotten laughs. It hadn't saved the show. June had stopped speaking to me soon afterward. "I'll talk to Ms. Kline," I said. "You can talk to her," June replied. "It won't change the inspection." "No. But perhaps there's another venue." June looked at the cape, then at me. "Please don't make this into one of your proclamations." I gathered the silver fabric off the floor. "I can try not to." "That would be new." She headed for the office, and I followed. Every step down the corridor felt like a door opening onto something I had already lost once. My old life had been full of useful skills and efficient goodbyes. I could rebuild almost anything except the friendships I'd treated like an audience. Ms. Kline was waiting with the principal, Mr. Ellison, and Grant Mercer, the student council president. A printed notice lay on the desk. The auditorium's fire door did not close properly, and an inspector had ordered it shut until repairs were complete. The gym, meanwhile, was reserved for a donor reception that would help fund next year's arts scholarships. "Does the donor reception have to be in the gym?" I asked. Grant adjusted his tie. He had the polished calm of someone who had been preparing to say no. "The reception has two hundred guests, a catering contract, and a presentation from the scholarship board. Moving it would cost money the school doesn't have." "Then could the showcase move to the courtyard?" "If we had a weather plan, electrical approval, and enough staff to supervise it," Ms. Kline said. "We have six days. We do not." "I can make a plan." "Wren," June murmured. I glanced at her. "A real plan." Mr. Ellison folded his hands. "If you can deliver a written proposal by tomorrow afternoon, with a safe site layout, a budget, and named adult supervisors, I'll consider it. I am not promising approval." Grant leaned back. "The council can't assign its volunteers to an event that might not happen. They're already committed to the reception." "I'll find volunteers." "And equipment?" Ms. Kline asked. "And a rain plan?" "I'll find those too." June looked down at the desk. Her silence was fair. I'd promised things before. I had promised the world, in fact. It was a habit I'd once mistaken for courage. I picked up the printed cancellation notice. "I'll bring you the plan tomorrow." Grant's gaze lingered on me. "You understand this isn't a challenge in one of your school plays." "I understand that a fire door is not a metaphor." For the first time, he almost smiled. "Good. Then start with the actual building code." I left the office with June beside me and my cape folded over one arm. The challenge in front of me was plain: find a safe place, enough people, and a way to make an event that adults would approve of. The harder challenge walked beside me without saying a word. "June," I began. She stopped outside the music room. "If you're about to call me your trusted moon-sentinel, don't." "I wasn't." "You were thinking it." I could hardly deny it. "I'm sorry." "For what part?" There were so many parts that a quick answer would be another performance. "For making you do the work and then acting like I was the reason it mattered." She studied my face, looking for the joke or the flourish. I gave her neither. "Bring me a plan," she said at last. "Not another speech." "I will." June picked up her cable and went into the music room. I stayed in the corridor, holding the ridiculous cape and the first honest promise I'd made in years.