The Ghost Runner (10 page)

S
uspension of disbelief is an implicit agreement between the actors and the audience. It's an understanding that once the lights go down and the curtain rises, the audience will let go of reality and let the actors take them somewhere else. Without suspension of disbelief, you would see actors on a stage—college students reciting lines instead living, breathing Venetians from the fifteenth century, as in
Measure for Measure
. Take suspension of disbelief and add costumes, accents, and skilled actors, and the audience will see a duke or, in my case, a nun.

That is, if I am skilled enough.

While the sets, costumes, and lighting all contribute to the suspension of disbelief, the actors ultimately make it happen. And as I sit with my fellow actors on the stage of the Lithia College theater, I'm still wondering whether I've got what it takes.

As Nate talks about schedules and staging and tech rehearsals, I realize that in addition to learning my lines, I need to learn a new language to make it through this play. The ornately decorated arch high above the stage that hides the overhead curtain and rows of lights is the
proscenium
.
Downstage
is where I am seated, on the
thrust
of the stage, which is the part that extends out into the house.
Stage left
is to my left when I'm facing the audience. Not only do I need to speak like an Elizabethan, I need to understand Nate's strange new theater language, too.

I think I have to undergo my own suspension of disbelief—I have to let go of the reality that I've never acted formally before. I have to let go of my fears, my inhibitions. I have to let go of who I am and put myself entirely into the character of Isabella.

My legs dangle over the
pit
, the recessed area in front of the seats and below the front of the stage. In theory, a small orchestra would be located here, but not for our performance. Fortunately I wasn't crazy enough to audition for a musical.

Lucy's sitting next to me, with Tyler on the other side. He'd finally called me back that day I fell into the cave, but we haven't met to rehearse yet. I'm starting to regret having asked—despite everything, I'd still much rather be with Alex—but on the other hand, I need to learn these lines, and Tyler and I do have a lot of scenes together.

Lucy keeps giving me winks when she sees Tyler. Between our class and the play, Lucy and I have become good friends, as good as we can be given I can't share everything with her. She doesn't know about the vampires and the ghosts in my life—I don't want her to think I'm completely insane. Not yet, at least. But she's listened to all my fears about my dad, all my confusion over losing Alex. I've let her believe he cheated on me because I can't tell her the real reason.
I just don't trust him anymore
, I told her.

Then it's no good
, she said.
You gotta have trust
.

Do you think I should give him a second chance?

He's only human
, she said, and I couldn't help but smile at that.
People make mistakes,
she continued
. I wouldn't forgive his cheating ass, but then I'm not you.

Actually, I'm not sure I can forgive him either
, I said.

Well, then
, she said,
how about you and Tyler?

I shook my head.
I'll rehearse with him, maybe. But
I'm not ready for another boyfriend.

The best way to get over someone
, she said
, is to get under someone
.

I punched her in the arm.

I look over at her now, and she gives me a half smile, then faces forward again. Tyler, too, is concentrating on Nate, as I should be. Maybe David is right—maybe it is time to focus on other things. To let go of the world of vampires and ghosts. To enter into the make-believe world of the stage.

And, as Nate asks Tyler and me to stand up together to rehearse a scene, I think maybe Lucy is right—maybe it is time for me to let go of Alex, too.

T
he good thing about the chaotic turn my life has tak
e
n is that it leaves me with little time to think about Alex. Or Roman. Or the ghosts in the hills.

On a typical day I'm up at first light, cracking open my already dog-eared copy of
Measure for Measure
. Then, if I have the time before work or school, I squeeze in a short run. Just around town. I don't make it up into the hills much anymore. Then it's off to work or class, and then rehearsals.

But while I don't have time to think about Alex, I have plenty of time to think about Tyler. We see each other every day at rehearsal. We have plans to get together this week to practice together, but I'm not sure how useful this will be—the way he looks at me at rehearsals has caused me to forget my lines twice already.

I have to admit that David was right to hire Kendra. If I had to be at Lithia Runners every single day, as usual, I would never be able to memorize my lines. I've been speaking to David “in Shakespeare,” as Lucy calls it, to try to stay connected to the play even when I'm not actively rehearsing it. I pepper my language with
Good sir
and
Pray thee
, causing David to grimace each time.

This morning, I'm standing behind the counter trying to catch up on reading for my environmental class. Lately I feel as though I'm always behind in one thing or another, but fortunately it's slow in the store today, giving me a chance to read.

I hear the door open, and without looking up, I say, “Hark!”

I can feel David, who is going through receipts at the register, look over at me.

“Sorry,” I say. “Just trying to stay in character.”

“Try playing the character of salesperson,” he suggests.

But when I look at the door, I see that it's not a customer—it's my dad.

I haven't seen him in a while. He has been busy with work, and that's been fine with me. He is another thing I'm glad to be too busy to think about.

“Howdy, guys,” he says. “How's the shoe biz?”

“Not bad,” David says. “You've got a day off, I see. Hope you're enjoying the good weather.”

I study my dad. David brings up a good point: Why is he here at 11:30 on a Tuesday morning? And why is he dressed in shorts and a T-shirt instead of work clothes? I wonder if what I suspected is actually true—that he's been fired or that he's quit.

“Hey, Scooter,” he says to me. “You want to grab lunch? My treat.”

“Only if you'll stop calling me Scooter.”

“Deal.”

David lets me take off early, and my dad takes me to the vegetarian café that Alex and I used to visit all the time. I can tell Dad is not enjoying his tempeh sandwich, but he's not complaining. And though I should let his surprise appearance slide and just enjoy it, a part of me can't.

“Did you take a day off work?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “I figured I could use a little me-time.”

“But you've only been there a few weeks.”

He looks at me and smiles. “Good point.”

“You didn't lose your job, did you?” It may not be the most supportive question, but when I was growing up, there were countless times when Dad would celebrate getting a new job, only to lose that same job a week or two later. This was followed by much drinking and many hours spent staring blankly at the television.

“I still have the job,” he says. “I just have a new position. The hours are more flexible.”

“Oh?” This is interesting. I've never known my father to have been promoted at anything—he usually can't hang in there long enough. “What are you doing now?”

“It's a sort of planning position. Working on sites for the new homes. Lots of architect meetings, permits, stuff that would bore the hell out of you.”

There's nothing suspicious about what he's saying, but for some reason I'm hearing Alex's dubious voice in my head. Alex isn't around to ask these nosy questions—but that doesn't mean I don't want to know the answers.

“Dad, this is going to sound odd, but why didn't the police come looking for me after the shooting?”

“Whoa,” he says. “Where's this coming from?”

“I just always wondered why the police weren't after me.”

“Because I told them it was an accident,” he says. “Simple as that.”

“It wasn't in the papers either. Almost like it didn't happen.”

“Of course it happened—you were there, weren't you?”

I nod. It's impossible to forget.

“I don't know why it didn't make the news—probably too many accidental shootings to count, that's all. I told the cops that I shot myself by mistake. I didn't want you involved at all, Scoot—” He corrects himself. “Katie. I wanted to protect you.”

Then he holds up a small box, wrapped in pink paper. “I got something for you,” he says.

“What's with all the gifts? It's not my birthday, you know.”

“I know that,” he says, though I'm not sure he actually does know when my birthday is. It's not that I mind—I've long since given up celebrating such milestones. “I've got a lot of lost time to make up for,” he says. “Go ahead, open it.”

I unwrap the box and find inside a Timex watch. It's got a large black face and a burgundy nylon band. It's nicer than any watch I've ever had, and I'm pleased that he remembered that I don't wear anything with leather. “Wow,” I say. “This is great.”

“It's got a powerful light, too,” he says. “You can practically use it as a flashlight. I figured you needed something to help you get to class on time.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I put it on, and as he reaches over to adjust it on my wrist, I notice a glittering watch on his.

“You got a new watch yourself.”

“Yeah, why not?”

“I guess the job is going really well,” I say.

“Sure is. I even had it monogrammed on the clasp here.” He flips his wrist over and shows me the initials, carved into the gold band: JH, for Jack Healy. “Something I always wanted, never could afford. And I'm glad I could get you something, too. I know you and Alex don't have a lot of money for that sort of stuff.”

“Um … I broke up with Alex.”

“Oh.” He looks surprised. “I'm sorry to hear that.”

I shrug. “It's okay.” I try to pretend I'm over it, though I am still anything but. As we finish our lunch, I change the subject. “By the way, I got a part in a play.”

“No kidding.”

“I'm Isabella in
Measure for Measure
.”

“That's Shakespeare, right?”

“Have you seen it?”

“Me? Not unless they made a movie out of it. But I'll tell you this—I'll see it when you're in it.”

“You don't have to. It'll just make me nervous.”

“Your mom would be thrilled. You know, she was an actress when I met her.”

“I didn't know that.”

“Just high school stuff, nothing professional. But she was good. Real good. That's one reason she wanted to stick around here. She volunteered at the Lithia Theater off and on, even auditioned a few times.”

“Really?”

“Yep. I guess you've got the acting gene in you.”

“We'll see about that.”

He laughed. “You'll do fine, Katie. You'll do fine.”

I
t's not until the next morning, when I see the rock on my dresser in the cottage, that I realize I forgot to ask my father about it, whether he thinks it might be gold. Then I begin to think that maybe it's for the best that I forgot.

I'm still conflicted. My dad is someone who'd know gold when he sees it, and he'd certainly love a little extra cash. But I can't ever forget about the dark side of his personality, the addictive side. He'd see that tiny piece of gold, and his eyes would glow, and the next thing I know he'd quit his job and go racing into the hills in search of more. He's always been one get-rich-quick scheme away from getting rich, or at least he's always thought so—he definitely prefers the idea of quick money to regular work. Or he used to. I'm not sure about anything anymore.

Before I decide whether to tell anyone, I should find out whether it's gold. Later, on my lunch break, I head toward the railroad tracks, where there's a small strip mall with a pawn shop advertising:
We Buy Gold
.

The store is open. A harsh beep goes off, announcing my entrance. It's an ugly space, with dirty linoleum tiles and all types of junk scattered across metal shelves. There are no customers, just a large tattooed man with a beard seated behind a glass counter, smoking a cigarette. Inside the glass display case is an array of old coins and knives and silverware. The man is watching a TV program on a tiny set and doesn't seem to notice me as I stand there in front of him.

“Excuse me,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Do you buy gold?”

“That's what the sign says.” He stands and leers at me.

I've got to make this quick so I can get out of here. I reach into my pocket and display the rock. “Can you tell me if this is gold?”

He takes the rock and studies it with a magnifying glass. He looks back at me.

“Where'd you find this?”

“Up on the Lost Mine Trail.”

“Whereabouts exactly?”

“A few miles back,” I say, then stop, wondering whether I've already said too much. “It is real gold, isn't it?”

He pauses before answering, as if he is enjoying withholding this bit of information from me.

“Isn't it?” I ask again, annoyed.

He shakes his head slowly. “Nope. Sorry. What you got here is fool's gold, otherwise known as pyrite. Looks like the real thing but ain't.”

“Oh.”

“Makes a nice paperweight though. I'll buy it from you for a buck.”

“That's okay.” I hold out my hand, but he doesn't give it back to me.

“Five bucks, then.”

“Why five, if it's only worth one?”

“I hate for you to leave without any money in your pocket, that's all.”

“I'll live. And I'll take my fool's gold back, please.”

He gives me a disgusted look and tosses it at me, but I'm too slow to catch it, and the rock falls onto the hard floor and skitters across it. I snatch it up and put it back in my pocket and get out of there as quickly as I can.

I'm relieved, in a way, to know that it's not gold. Gold makes people do crazy things. Besides, I don't want to sell it—I'll use it as a good-luck token. I could certainly use one these days. I like this chunky little piece of metallic rock. It reminds me of Stacey and our jogs together. It reminds me of the wildness of the land.