Get Even (Don’t Get Mad)

“YOUR MASTER QUITS YOU,” LOGAN SAID, TAKING OLIVIA’S character by the hand. “And for your service done him, so much against the mettle of your sex . . .”

Margot didn’t need to look at the script during Orsino’s penultimate speech. Logan had never so much as stumbled over a line, let alone forgotten one, which meant she got to pay close attention to his performance, instead of hovering over the lines in the prompter’s corner.

He looked down at Olivia during that speech with so much love and tenderness it made Margot’s heart ache. Logan was amazing: smart, funny, talented. Margot still didn’t understand what he saw in her.

She flipped to the last page of the play as the actors prepared for the final musical number. Opening night was almost over, and no one had been attacked. Perhaps their bluff had worked?

Now they just had to figure out who they were dealing with, and gather enough evidence to turn him over to the police. She wondered what Ed had found out about Christopher Beeman that had made him so excited. Margot’s eyes drifted to Logan onstage, leading Olivia through the final dance sequence, smiling out at the audience. Suddenly, his face clouded, the smile replaced by a cross between confusion and fear, as if he’d seen something in the house that disturbed him.

The choreography shifted and Logan disappeared from her view. That nagging doubt about Logan flared up. Was it her logical brain telling her that Logan was the best candidate to be Christopher Beeman? Or was it her insecurity trying to sabotage her new relationship?

A creak from behind her broke Margot’s concentration. She spun around in her stool, but there was no one behind her. Clearly, thinking about a killer had made her paranoid, jumping at each and every sound.

She turned back to the stage. The play was almost finished and no one had been attacked. DGM had won.

Another creak. Closer this time.

Margot turned her head in time to see a dark shadow lunge at her.

As the final strains of the last Bangers and Mosh song faded into the heights of the theater, the applause washed over Olivia like sunshine piercing through the grayness on a cloudy day. She and Logan held their final pose from the dance finale for a count of three, then along with the rest of the cast, they lined up, hand in hand, across the stage for a group bow before breaking in the center and opening the stage for their individual curtain calls.

Olivia felt as if she’d emerged from a dream. From her first entrance until the final applause exploded throughout the house, Olivia’s memories were hazy and indistinct, as if they’d passed by her eyes on the opposite side of a foggy lens.

The band jammed on a reprise of the final song as one by one the cast members cycled through their individual bows. It had been a bone of contention at the final dress rehearsal as to who got the last bow. Usually it was reserved for the character with the largest role in the play, in the case of Twelfth Precinct, clearly Violent. But as with everything else in this production, Amber had pulled a variety of strings, and with a rambling explanation that no one quite understood, Mr. Cunningham had informed the cast that Amber would be getting the final bow, with Olivia directly preceding.

The audience was clapping along with the beat of the music, crescendoing politely as each cast member took their turn. Logan got a nice round of cheers and whistles, which made Olivia smile. He’d given a tremendous performance, one that actually made Olivia’s better, and she was glad the crowd recognized it.

Then it was her turn.

There was always a part of Olivia that expected crickets when she took center stage under the spotlight, that never assumed she’d touched the audience in the way that she’d hoped and would therefore be booed off the stage for her lackluster performance.

So when the audience vaulted to their feet for Olivia’s curtain call, her eyes welled up with tears. She bowed as a boy, since she was still in her boy’s costume, and took the opportunity to wipe the tear streaks from her cheeks.

Then she relinquished the stage to Amber, who swept in like an opera diva at the Met, and brandished her arm over her head before sinking into a deep curtsy.

Olivia noticed right away that though the crowd remained standing, their reception was politely enthusiastic at best.

Mr. Cunningham glided onto the stage, taking Amber and Olivia each by the hand to present them for one last bow. He led Amber forward first; the nasty look she shot him over her shoulder adequately expressed how she felt about that. Then with a wink, he brought Olivia forward.

The reaction was instantaneous. The applause, the whistles. In that moment it didn’t matter if Fitzgerald Conroy chose to work with her or not.

Olivia had already won.

Bree almost felt bad for Amber. She’d given a good performance, based on what Bree had seen in rehearsals, especially considering her notorious inability to remember her lines. Olivia, on the other hand, had literally stolen the show. Bree didn’t know shit about acting, but she knew watching Olivia under the lights that she was in the presence of something special. Whatever damage had gone down between them, Bree could say without prejudice that Olivia was an amazing actress.

As Olivia finished her second bow, a short older guy, dressed all in black with blindingly white hair, took the stage. This must have been the British director everyone had been drooling over since the start of production. He approached Olivia and took her hand, pressing it to his lips.

Even from Bree’s vantage point way up in the spotlight crow’s nest, she could see Amber turning bright red, a mix of embarrassment and rage. She stormed off the stage, much to the amazement of the rest of the cast, but Mr. Cunningham didn’t even bat an eyelash. He joined hands with Olivia and brought the cast together for another group bow, then gestured to the band.

Shane’s fist shot into the air, while Bangers and Mosh continued to jam. John didn’t look up, just focused on his Fender, but even he couldn’t ignore the riotous applause. His songs had been perfect, his performance immaculate.

Mr. Cunningham now started throwing nonverbal shout-outs to the crew, pointing to the stage manager, the lighting booth, even Bree in the crow’s nest, while the music and applause continued. In the end, Olivia, Shane, and John had all gotten what they wanted. Even Bree, in her way. She’d managed to keep their anonymous friend from ruining opening night. Now she just had to make sure—

A scream ripped through the theater.