1992

Mr. Nicola hated our play. I knew because I heard him talking to the assistant director. He had wanted to do Jack in the Beanstalk, with a smaller cast—no little girls, just a boy—So much easier, he said, his hands rising up to his shoulders. The board of directors insisted he do Madeline instead because they could sell books and trinkets in the gift shop. The summer children's show had to be popular for all the kids. Jack in the Beanstalk was only for the pre-K set. With Madeline it would be like Christmas in July and balance the budget for the entire season—more than pay for the live animals he had on stage when he directed Twelfth Night. Once Mr. Nicola finished complaining, he called out, 'Get the little heifers out here,' and the assistant director corralled the twelve of us girls and ushered us on stage.

It was the second week of rehearsals.

Mr. Nicola stood center stage. 'I want you girls to wear skirts on stage,' he announced when we assembled. 'You have to get used to the idea that you are living in Paris in 1880. No more jeans and t-shirts. I want neat blouses, tucked in, and long rehearsal skirts from now on.' The assistant director handed out ugly, navy blue skirts with elastic waists. We pulled them on and sluffed off our jeans. ' Now show me a curtsey,' Mr. Nicola said.

We did our best, bobbing and bowing. One girl did a few ballet moves, and then another girl copied her until we were all showing off. Mr. Nicola got mad. With his short little hands cupped over his mouth, he demanded we line up in pairs, the two shortest in front up to the two tallest—which were Candace and me.

We were to enter in two straight lines from upstage right, led by the Nun, headmistress of the Parisian orphanage where we lived.  For the next twenty minutes, Mr. Nicola strutted around. He stood beside us, then between us, then behind us. Candace stood taller than me by a quarter of an inch, but we were both fourteen and short for our age. Neither of us had any lines to say, except for a single song all of us orphans sang while brushing our teeth and going to bed under the great eaves of our orphanage. That's why I got the part at Gobbo Theatre, because I have a strong voice and I can sing harmony. The littlest girls kind of shouted the song and Mr. Nicola depended on us older girls to carry it.

'Try your entrance again,' Mr. Nicola commanded. He wore red pants and a long, flowing black jacket that covered the hump on his back. He looked funny and walked pigeon-toed as he bleated out the rhythm, but not one of us dared to laugh.

'Think of yourselves as animals in a circus,' he told us. 'You do what I want, when I want. That's what theatre is all about.' This went on for another half hour. 'Step it up,' he said. 'March in like soldiers. One-two, one-two.' We did what he said. 'Again. Do it again from up-right. Stand up straight, pay attention. No, no, no. Stop. Don't swing your arms. Start from the beginning.' Rehearsals were like that. 'Un-deux, un-deux,' he barked and clapped his hands.

I clap my hands the same way Mr. Nicola did, 'Un-deux, Un-deux,' I say. The police inspector leans against the wall. He looks like my slacker math teacher, with crew cut hair and a baggy sport coat. He told my mother he was with the Vice Squad. The policewoman who sits across the table from me is dressed like in a TV show: she wears a blue uniform, a badge and a gun. Her drab hair is pulled back, no make-up. If I were her, I'd get a dye job and at least wear some cherry lip gloss.

The downtown police headquarters looks like an old castle on the outside. The elevator my mother and I rode up on is the oldest piece of machinery I've ever been in—with a folding brass door. But the room I am in now is all white and uncomfortable, with a white table, four chairs, one door. Mom promised she'd stay with me while I told my story, but when we got here, they wouldn't let her in the room with us. They are recording everything I say; a black box sits in the middle of the table. I want to do this right but they don't give me any direction.

'Should I tell you about Gary now?' I ask. The policewoman nods.

I first met Gary when my mom drove me to the theatre right after school because she had to take my younger sister to the dentist. No one expected me at the theatre for another hour. I wandered around checking out the rooms behind the stage. I poked my head in the scene shop. Someone was in there pounding on a flat, making a lot of noise. I kept going down the hall to the farthest part of the building. I found a door that wasn't locked. I thought it was probably a janitor's closet like at school, but when I flipped on the light, I saw shelves all the way around, floor to ceiling, filled with props, stuff used in plays. Feather quills sat next to parchment scrolls, a row of swords, knives and daggers, goblets, pewter plates, settings for eight or even the whole cast of Macbeth.  It was weird, though, because it was all make-believe: fake fruit, a fake turkey, fake money, fake body parts. Even fake babies. I ran my hand across some yellow furry stuff and blocks of grey foam. In the corner stood a dented, green metal cabinet with a skull and crossbones drawn on the outside with a marking pen. Inside, it reeked of glue and paint and chemicals. Everything had its place, with a label below it, waiting for someone who needed it to make something or fix something or dream something up. In the middle of the room, on the workbench, there was a soldering iron, a couple of hot glue guns and scissors. Audience people never saw this. It was so cool—like catacombs under the streets of Paris.

I slid onto a chair, put my backpack on the workbench and pulled out my French grammar book. That's another reason I got the part in the play by the way—at least I think I did—because I knew French. I studied. The room was totally quiet, only the buzz of the fluorescent lights above my head. Something rattled the door. The door wasn't locked or anything, but I heard a soft knock.

'Lancelot?' a sing-song voice called. I didn't say anything and hoped they'd go away, but the door opened very slowly. A man in a buttoned shirt and tight jeans glanced around. 'Where's Lance?' he asked me.

'Who?'

'Lance—Mr. Nicola.'

I shook my head. He stared at me.

'I'm sorry if I shouldn't be in here,' I managed to say.

He leaned into the door, in a cute way, and smiled just a tiny bit, like he wanted me to take a picture of him or something. 'Are you in Madeleine?' he asked.

'My mom dropped me off early.' Then to make myself sound responsible I added, 'I needed a place to study.'

He twisted the doorknob. It made a squeaky sound, like a duckling peeping after its mother. 'How old are you?' he asked.

'I'm ten in the play.'

'How old are you really?'

'Thirteen.'

He made the door handle squeak again. 'You like being in the play?'

'It's really cool. I like it a lot.'

He gave me a look. 'I do too,' he said. 'I'd do anything for this theatre,' he said. 'Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you do anything?'

I didn't know what to say to him. Of course, I liked being in the play. I owned all four colors of Gobbo Theatre t-shirts and wore them to school regularly. I got to be popular because of my part in the play. Before that, I was just another ninth grader with stringy hair. 'Skinny as a pencil,' as my Dad said.

'I'm Gary,' he told me. 'Get backstage now. It's almost time.' He watched me while I picked up my stuff. He didn't move out of the doorway. I had to walk past him, brush against his clothes. I smelled something on his yellow shirt, a hot, dry cleaner's smell or maybe it was sweat. I don't know. 'Don't come back here again,' he said.

I started to run down the hall. 'Oui, Monsieur,' I called back to him and darted away.

The inspector, still slouching, says, 'You were caught where you weren't supposed to be, is that right? '

'Yes.'

The policewoman at the table—Schmidt the tag on her uniform says—glances at the inspector. He raises his hand, just a little. She writes something down. She asks me, 'Amy, do you want some water?'

'Not right now,' I say because I don't want to have to go pee.

'Keep going,' police officer Schmidt says.

At the next rehearsal, before we got started, the assistant director had us all sit on the stage in a half circle. She held a clipboard full of notes, but she didn't tell us what was going on. We waited. Mr. Nicola scuttled down the aisle from the back of the auditorium, his head bobbing up and down, his long robe flowing behind him.

He shouted up to us, 'You all need to learn something,'

Once on stage, he gave us a long talk about the Gobbo: how it started in a warehouse and what it means to the community and how important it is that we do our part to keep the tradition going. He opened a copy of the New York Times he'd brought tucked under his arm. He read to us an article about Gobbo Theatre and how it started twenty years ago 'virtually in a cornfield,' he read. 'If the Twin Cities can have a first-class theatre that does a children's production every year, why can't we?'

'Did you hear that? They're jealous of the Gobbo," Mr. Nicola said. "You must uphold this tradition.' I know he said that because I'd never heard anyone use the word 'uphold' before. Then he said that if any one of us was found in an area where we did not belong, or if we were found doing something we were not supposed to do, we would be let go. That's what he called it—'Let Go,' like the theatre had a grip on us. 'Remember all the kids who auditioned for the play? Any one of those kids would be happy to take your place.'

The inspector leans over the table, 'Did you ever go back to the prop shop? '

'Never. I couldn't stand it if I was taken out of the play.'

'What about the others? The Little Boy? Anybody?'

'I don't know. I don't think so.'

The room feels hot. I push up my shirt sleeves. The policewoman's hair is starting to frizz out, escape its tight bun. She says, 'Tell us about the other kids in the play. Jeremy and Candace, for example.'

Jeremy—the boy who had the part of Little Boy, the street urchin, in the play—kept us entertained backstage while we waited for our scenes to start. He could juggle—he had to for the play—he also did a Pepe Le Pew imitation. With his dark hair and his fake French accent, he'd say, 'Come away, ma chérie. Let me make zi love to you,' and the little girls giggled, begged him to do it again. Then he'd juggle a few oranges or something. It was fun to watch him.

Candace liked showing off too; we all did. One time we all piled onto the old couches in the greenroom because Madeline and Little Boy were on stage rehearsing a scene they had together. We had a long wait before we were on stage again, so Candace taught us how to play what she called Swish. We took turns walking through the green room, each more outrageous than the next, swaying our bottoms and flouncing our hair acting like MTV stars. Us girls all tried to outdo the other. When it was my turn, I hunched over to imitate Mr. Nicola's scoliosis and his wimpy walk. They all went crazy laughing. But then everything went quiet; I took a bow but no one clapped or said anything. When I turned around I saw Gary. He was there, watching me. He reached into the fridge for a can of pop. All the young girls took off to the backstage wings, afraid of being caught doing something wrong.

'You girls looked pretty good tonight from the light booth,' he said. He turned his head to drink, the label showing, like in an advertisement.

Candace held on to my arm. We didn't leave. The rehearsal skirt I was wearing didn't fit very well. The elastic was loose around my waist.

'Go on run backstage, Mademoiselles,' Gary said.

'We're going Gary,' Candace said, but when I turned to go I felt something tugging at my waist. My skirt slipped down over my underpants. Gary was stepping on my skirt; I grabbed it in both hands. Gary picked up his foot. 'Behave yourself, girls,' he said. 'Don't get Mr. Nicola upset.'

Once Gary was gone, Candace leaned in close beside me as we stood in the wings waiting for our cue. She had been in two other summer shows at Gobbo Theatre and knew a lot more about the theatre than I did. We watched Mr. Nicola trying to juggle with Jeremy, playing with him. Candace said to me, 'Gary's so handsome.' Then she whispered that she knew what it meant to go down on someone.

'How did you feel about this incident with Gary?' the inspector wants to know.

'I don't know. It was all mixed-up together, being in the play, having new friends, being popular.'

'Did Candace have a crush on Gary?' he asks.

'I guess.'

Schmidt asks if I know what going down on someone means.

'No,' I say. 'Not then.'

'How do you feel about Candace talking to you about that?' she asks.

'Kind of grown up,' I say. I can feel my face burning. I wish they would turn on a fan or something.

Schmidt makes a note on her pad. I can't see what she writes; it looks like she scribbles on purpose so I can't read it. The questions they ask me seem like the wrong questions. I think I might say something more, something like how I felt when Gary made my skirt fall down over my underpants and how embarrassed I was when he laughed, but Schmidt says, 'Go on,' and the intercom on the wall buzzes.

'Bob, we need you outside for a minute,' a distorted voice comes over the squawk box.

The inspector flips the switch on the intercom. 'I'll be right there,' he says and leaves, limping as he goes out the door.

Schmidt offers to show me to the washroom. I look flaming red. I splash cool water on my face and dry it with brown paper towels that scratch my face and smell funny. I feel nervous but I look sad. I know what's coming when I go back into the room. I decide I will say everything looking down at the table, not at the wall, not at the inspector. Schmidt is right outside the door waiting for me. I look up and down the hall. The elevator clanks when it opens. A policeman gets out.

'Where's my mom?' I feel dumb asking for my mommy, but she said she'd stay with me. She took the day off from work to come with me.

'Downstairs in the lobby. She can't wait up here,' Schmidt says. 'We need you to tell us your story in your own words.' The gun at her waist bumps into my arm as we walk back to the room. The hall is dark, with old woodwork, old doors, but back in the room it's hard to tell the ceiling from the walls. Everything white. I feel weightless, like being in a spaceship. The inspector rumbles back in. I wonder if he limps because he got wounded in the line of duty. Maybe that's why he's a plainclothesman. Maybe he's in pain, leaning over to one side when he limps.

He wants to know if Candace and I are good friends.

We were together a lot. When school let out for the summer, we had long rehearsals that lasted almost all day. We got haircuts and costume fittings, and Mr. Nicola added a dance number in the middle of the show that we had to learn really fast. We practiced it over and over. I spent an overnight at Candace's house. She asked me if I ever had a crush on anyone. A few, I said. She told me she'd had a crush on the same boy for four years, since fifth grade. He was nice but she didn't care about him anymore. Now she had a crush on Gary. Gary told her she'd be a great actress someday.  That night we watched the movie Blue Lagoon over and over until it was four in the morning. We could say the lines out loud with the actors. My mother liked Candace. She called her rambunctious. She said she was good for me.

'Why?' the inspector asks.

'Mom thinks I'm too quiet sometimes.'

The inspector snorts through his nose. 'You're in a play, aren't you? You can't be that quiet.'

I say being in a play is easy because someone tells you everything to do, where to go, what to say. He puckers his lips. I don't think he believes me. He taps the notebook in front of Schmidt; she writes a short note and tells me to skip ahead.

I swallow a thirsty, dry swallow.

After opening night, Mr. Nicola had a party at his house. I was sleeping over at Candace's because she lived close by the theatre and Mr. Nicola. We had to be at the theatre early in the morning. There were loads of people in Mr. Nicola's house—but not people in the play. Only Candace and I and Jeremy, the Little Boy, were members of the cast—and the Nun, who had on a tight tiger-striped dress and high heels. I didn't recognize her at first. She was smoking and laughing in the front room of Mr. Nicola's huge house. The people at the party were mostly people who came backstage after the opening to congratulate Mr. Nicola on his great work and watch us kids take off our make-up like they were at the zoo or something. My parents told me that most actors don't make much money, but Mr. Nicola lived like a millionaire. He was wearing red harem pants with a turban and pointed shoes with bells on the toes where they curled up. I heard him say, 'I can't wear this to the theatre. I don't want to scare the patrons.'

The Nun told Candace and me to go in the next room where there was a table with about fifty candles stuck in holders in the center of the table and tons of food. I put cheese slices on a napkin with some crackers. Candace disappeared somewhere. I started to look around on my own. The house looked like a real play, not two dimensional like at the theatre where plywood is cut out and painted to look like a tree. I felt like I was living a very different life, like Princess Diana. In the next room, there were people near a grand piano covered in a Persian rug with a silver chandelier hanging down over it. Everyone was talking at once in loud voices. Someone played the piano and a man said to me, 'Hey kid, what are you doing here?' I found another room filled with bookcases. There were only a few people in there huddled in the corner talking. They didn't notice me. There were some books on the shelves but mostly fancy things—stuff you'd find in an antique store. A statue of a man half-naked, with goat feet. A picture in a gold frame of a boy in a sailor suit—Mr. Nicola? In the corner a long, coiled thing—like a snake—braided leather with a stiff handle. Next to it was a whip made of rope and five tails. And next to that was another whip made of satin ribbon with metallic silver and gold balls. I reached out to touch it and Candace popped up beside me. "Isn't this the coolest?" she said. A blue shirt slid in between me and the bookshelf. "That's what happens to bad actors," he said and took my hand away. From the shelf. Gary said the whip was from a play that Lance did years ago. Candace wrapped her arms around his arm and leaned in on him. He ignored her and watched me take a drink of cola.

'Come on, I'll show you around,' he said to me. 'Bring your drink.' He was much friendlier than at the theatre.

Candace followed after us. We went through a long narrow room with marble counters and wood cabinets. Gary said it was called a Butler's Pantry. 'Give me that cola.'

Gary poured it into a glass and took a bottle out of the cupboard. He poured in some alcohol, stuck his finger in, swirled it around. 'Mmmm good,' he said when he put his finger in his mouth and tasted it, then handed the glass back to me. 'Drink up,' he said.

I tried it—the drink was cold and burned at the same time. I took another drink.

'Did Mr. Nicola see Gary give you the alcohol?' the inspector asks.

'He was in the other room.'

Gary led the two of us to a door that went to the basement. The steps were wood with chipped paint; at the bottom was a low ceiling and a cement floor. Gary turned on a light. There was a furnace and a laundry area.

'Are we supposed to be down here?' I asked, but Candace grinned and Gary produced a key. 'There's an apartment down here.' He unlocked another door.

'Do you live here?' I asked.

'Sometimes.'

There was a stiff chair, a sofa, blank walls and bare floor, a wall of mirrors. Nothing fancy like upstairs except for rows of foam heads with different styled wigs sitting on the coffee table, eight or nine of them. Blond, brunette, redhead, black. They looked weird lined up like that on the low table. Candace touched one of them, a blond one with curls. Gary motioned me into another room. When I followed, he shut the door and locked it. It was a bedroom. Candace started to pound on the door and yelled, 'Let me in. You guys, let me come in!'

I told Gary I wanted to go, but he had to tell me a few things—things Candace shouldn't hear. 'We don't want to make her jealous.' He turned on a lamp. Candace stopped pounding.

'Lance, Mr. Nicola, likes you, you know—he told me so. That's why I turned you in for being in the prop shop so he'd notice you. It was a favor. He needs a girl who looks young, who can play a young girl but who is old enough, with enough maturity, to handle the demands of a leading role.'  He reached up and touched my hair the same way Candace had touched the wig. 'They might do The Snow Queen next year. If you do what you are told and don't complain, we—Gobbo Theatre—can make you a real actress.' He put his hand on my shoulder, 'You'd like that wouldn't you?' I said yes and he slid his hand down to my breast and at the same time, his other hand went between my legs.

'You said, yes,' says the inspector.

'I said yes about the play.'

'Did you resist? Did you say no?'

'Yes, I did say no.' I don't look up. I look at the white table.

'First you said yes, then you said no.'

I don't like him—this Bob man. I don't feel sorry for him anymore.

The policewoman hands me a box of tissues. 'That's OK, Amy, take your time,' she says. They wait for me. The inspector walks to the door, opens it, and calls Schmidt over. The two of them stand in the hall with the door open so they can watch me but I can't hear what Bob says. Maybe he's mad, but he’s always like that. They come back. He pulls a chair out that scrapes across the floor and echoes in the room and sits down next to Schmidt.

They are both at the table looking at me and the pile of used tissues in front of me. I ask if my mother can please come in. But they say I need to tell them my story without coaching. I feel I might faint.

'Amy, are you a virgin?' Schmidt asks.

Schmidt and the inspector begin to fade out. I know they are there but I don't see them. I just hear their voices.

'Yes,' I say. I don't look up.

Schmidt's voice says, 'What happened next in the bedroom with Gary?'

Gary wanted to know why I never come up to the light booth to visit him. 'You have time—I know you do. You can come up during the second act when you don't have to be on stage until the final scene. Will you do that? Will you?'

Inspector's voice: 'What did you say?'

'I didn't say anything. We aren't allowed in the light booth or the offices. I couldn't just go up there, especially not during a performance, but I wanted him to stop, take his hands away so I said I would, I'd find him in the light booth.'

Inspector: 'Are you sure you said yes.'

'I'm sure.'

Inspector: 'You said yes.’

I feel small. 'I said yes to get away from him, to get out of that room.' My tissue is in little balls in front of me. I take my hands off the table and put them on my lap.

Schmidt's voice: 'Did you get leave then?'

Gary opened the door. Outside the bedroom Candace was jumping up and down on the sofa, waving her arms. When she saw us she yelled, 'I hate you!' and dashed up the steps, knocking over the heads. They rolled on the floor and their wigs flew off. Upstairs I couldn't find Candace. I went through the kitchen, pantry, dining room, library. The place was nearly empty: glasses, greasy plates all over. Mr. Nicola was still there talking to some people near the piano. Jeremy sat slumped on the piano bench with a fat bowl of ice cream. Chocolate sauce dribbled down his chin. I started to feel panic. Where was Candace? I was staying with her overnight. I knew she was mad at me but I didn't think she'd just leave me there. I crawled under a little table, in the front entry, to wait in the shadow so I could catch Candace when she left. So I could see her first and she couldn't run away.

Inspector: 'Why didn't you call your parents?'

'I didn't want to go back into that creepy house. I thought Gary was still there, downstairs or somewhere. I didn't see a phone anywhere in there and I never talked to Mr. Nicola. I know it seems funny but we didn't talk to him; he talked to us. He told us what to do.'

My legs go numb, and my arms. When other people come into this room and get asked questions, they must confess to something. That must be what the room is for. Tomorrow Gary will be here talking to Bob and Schmidt, being recorded, confessing.

One of them raps on the table.

Schmidt: 'You have to keep going.'

I stayed under the table, watching. The tiger print Nun and her husband finally left, and then everything was quiet. I curled up. Mr. Nicola in his red, tinkly shoes came by. I was going to ask him if I could call my parents, but I could see his arm draped over Jeremy's shoulders. Mr. Nicola said, 'Let's go upstairs now.' They turned and went up the steps. He said, 'It's all right, Little Man. It's all right.'

The inspector leans over the table like a dog asking for a treat. His face is very close to mine. He seems excited. 'Did he say anything to you?'

'Who?'

Inspector: 'Mr. Nicola or the boy, either one of them say anything to you?'

'They didn't see me.'

Inspector: 'Speak a little louder.'

'They didn't see me.'

Inspector: 'What did you hear after they went upstairs?'

A door shut. Then nothing. After a while, I fell asleep. I left the house before anyone was up. Stiff and groggy, I crept into the dining room and took some stale food and left. That day—the morning after opening night—we had three performances including a morning show, an afternoon matinee and an evening one. I poked around the outside of the theatre until I saw some of the cast members going in. I was so tired I lay down on one of the couches and there he was, Jeremy, crying. He was at the make-up table trying to put his pancake make-up on but tears were running down his cheeks and the make-up ran in streaks. The Nun lady came in—her name was Maggie—she patted Little Boy on the head. She told him what a good job he was doing in the show.

Inspector: 'Did she know he was crying?'

'She had to know he was crying. I could see from the other side of the room that he was crying.'

'Settle down,' Schmidt says. I look at her. I see her hair like a frizzed-up wig around her head. 'We have to ask, it's our job,' she says to me.

I figured out why Mr. Nicola wanted us to rehearse everything until it was perfect.  We were all so tired we did our parts automatically. 'Un-Deux, Un-Deux,' like robots. Backstage Candace never asked where I spent the night or what happened to me. She wouldn't talk to me. I tried but she wouldn't. She announced to everyone backstage that she was heading to New York right after high school. I had no one to talk to.

That afternoon, during the matinee I went up the light booth, where Gary was, like he told me I should. I wanted to ask him about Candace and why she wouldn't talk to me. I knocked on the door. He seemed kind of surprised to see me. With both hands he pushed up the slides to bring up the house lights, for intermission, when the audience went to buy things in the lobby. I asked him about Candace, why she was acting funny. Gary shrugged, said he didn't know anything about it. He started to tell me the same things he said at the party. How good I looked on stage and how much Lance liked me. Then when he got to the part about if I am good and do as I am told, he kissed me on the lips and put his hand this time under my skirt, under my costume. 'No' I said. This time when he slid his fingers up, I tried to back away, but the light booth was so small that I was up against the door. His hand was there. I tried to say 'Stop' but his mouth was on mine. He jerked his hand out, it had blood on it, you know—I had my period.

He just looked at his hand. His buttoned-down shirt had blood on it. He couldn't yell, not in the light booth, so he said in my ear, 'You filthy cow—get away from me.' I left. I ran out.

The room goes blurry, like we're in the middle of a hot blizzard. They don't say anything. I thought they'd act like my mother did when I told her. I thought they'd find where Gary lives and Schmidt would go and arrest him. But this wasn't anything like when I sat on my daisy bedspread and told my mother. I sit in a fog until the inspector taps the table again: 'What happened next?'

'What do you think happened next?' I want to yell at him. I sit very still as if I just need to say a few more things and they will understand.

I got out of the light booth. I pushed myself around to face the door and ran out. The assistant director saw me run around some audience people coming back to their seats. She was furious. 'What was I doing?' she wanted to know. I was too fast for her. I went into the girls' dressing room and stayed until everything was quiet and I was sure the second act had started.

The fog goes away. The room is stark as ever. The inspector's rumpled suit looks like a pile of dirty laundry sitting in a chair.

Inspector: 'Anything else? That's it?'

I don't answer.

Inspector: 'That's what you told your mother?'

'Yes.'

Inspector: 'Did you have anything more to do with Gary after that?'

'No.'

Schmidt with her fuzzy hair and bad complexion says, 'Tell us about the last show, Amy.'

Mr. Nicola came backstage after the matinee and told Little Boy how well he was doing on stage. How he always did the right thing. Gary came in after that and said almost the same thing, like they all knew, like they were all in on it. But it wasn't true that Jeremy was doing a good job. He fumbled his juggling in the afternoon matinee. The balls went all over the stage, and one bounced into the audience. Everyone laughed. When he came backstage, he was crying again. We had a break between the afternoon and the night shows. They brought in pizza for us and cartons of spaghetti. I couldn't eat. I was so tired I had a cola. I didn't want to be there, around Gary or Candace or Mr. Nicola. The assistant director whisked through. She wanted to know where Jeremy was.  The pizza boxes were all spread out, kids were eating. The Nun, and the man who played the policeman, came through, one by one, and asked if we knew where Jeremy was. He'd disappeared. They went out on stage and called. They came back and looked some more. The dressing rooms were searched, the washrooms, the balcony seats, and the lobby.

The empty pizza boxes got tossed. The assistant director told us to wash our hands and faces and put on fresh make-up. The audience was beginning to arrive. There was a kid who was an understudy for Jeremy. I heard them try to call his parents to see if he could come in. That’s when the fire alarm went off. It sounded terrible. I didn't know what it was at first. The Nun, Maggie, lined us up like we were in the play and marched us out the door. We had to leave our real clothes and bookbags behind and stand out in the front of the theatre with its long walkway and cement retaining wall. Audience people were there, the cast and crew. Sirens screamed down the street. Three firetrucks pulled up. People cheered. I felt sick about Gary and how Candace hated me. I leaned against the wall by the parking lot. I made myself feel OK as long as I thought we had a show to do, but being outside I started to feel nauseous. When the firemen got out they were in full gear, hats, coats, boots. People applauded as they marched into the theatre like it was a performance. Then we waited. Candace and all the others were as close to the front doors as they were allowed, not wanting to miss anything. The fire chief with his walkie-talkie pushed them back. Someone said they smelled smoke but there wasn’t any smoke, just wisps of clouds up in the sky. And no Jeremy anywhere either; I thought he must have run away because that's what I wanted to do—run away.

The alarm from inside stopped. An ambulance pulled up. Everyone got quiet.

I was the first one to see two firemen come out the side door. They looked like huge black crows in dark coats flapping like wings and peeked helmets. Between them, they held some beastly prey. It didn't look like Jeremy, his head down, most of his hair chopped off. He was covered with hot glue, patches of it all over his skin and clothes. Glue hung like cobwebs. It dangled from red blotches on his almost bald head and hands and arms, long ropey strings of it poured from burned red blotches on his skin. One of the orphan girls laughed but it wasn't funny. Little Boy stepped up into the back of the ambulance. The light went on and the siren started.

Mr. Nicola came up to the fire chief near where I was standing. He said Jeremy was obviously mentally unstable. He told the chief the department had the full cooperation of the Gobbo.

My hands are folded on my lap. I look at my thumbs. I put one on top of the other, the nails chewed down. I put the other one on top. One after the other, left-right, left-right.

'That's all,' I tell them. 'I know they canceled the shows that day and the rest of that weekend. Dad picked me up. I told Mom what happened, with Gary I mean, when I got home.'

'What do you think happened to Jeremy?'

'I think he burned himself and cut off his hair so he couldn't be in the play anymore. Why else would he do it?'

'OK,' the inspector says. I can tell he wants the interrogation to be over almost as much as I do. 'We're done here,' he says. 'Go get her mother.'

Schmidt leaves.

'You did OK, kid. You could be a big help.'

I put all my tissues in my jean pocket so Mom won't see them. I am so glad to see her—probably the most since I was five years old and she came home from the hospital with my baby sister. She walks in wearing her yellow dress and cherry earrings, sits down on my side of the table, and puts her arm across my shoulders.

The inspector takes over. 'I don't mean to rush through this, Mrs. Ramirez, but I have another case hanging fire down the hall so I won't take too much of your time.'

'She told you about what happened to her—what this Gary did to her?' my mother asks.

'She did,' says the inspector, pulling his suit coat over his belly and sitting up straight. 'Your daughter did a good job. We need to get Lancelot Nicola. She can help us build a case against him. Gary is kind of secondary.'

'What does that mean—secondary?'

'I don't want to get too far into it, but what happened to your daughter is nothing new. The predator is Nicola and we have a good chance of getting him this time.'

'This has happened before?'

'We had a complaint a few years back.'

'And this Gary? Have there been complaints about him?'

The inspector points at the black box on the table and tells Schmidt, 'Turn that thing off.' Schmidt fumbles around, finally gets the thing turned off. 'This sort of thing happens every day,' the inspector says. 'Some young girl gets starry-eyed over a guy and the next thing you know she agrees to things she shouldn't be agreeing to. It would be very difficult to prove anything against Gary Hill.'

'She didn't agree to anything.' Mom has that intense sound in her voice like when she is upset and about to let everyone know it.

'We have it all on tape. It isn't a strong case.'

'He's a child molester.' Her earrings flash in the overhead light. I can tell she's angry. 'He molested my daughter.'

The inspector stands up, scrapes his chair in. He makes himself look big even though he's not much taller than my mother with her slides on and her red painted toes pointing out.

'Ma'am, listen to me,' he says. 'If you're going to let your daughter run around with people she shouldn't, go to adult parties in the middle of the night and be encouraged by inappropriate friends, what can you expect?'

She walks after him. She's going to keep saying the same thing over and over, that's what she does. She doesn't give up.

'He molested my daughter. It's against the law.'

We're in the hallway. He stands close to Mom and pulls his suit coat around his stomach again.    'Mrs. Ramirez, nothing happened. If we can trust what she told us, she's still intact. So no big deal. Nicola is the real pervert here. Your daughter is a witness against him. We need her for the case.'

People in the office across from us look up, watch us.

'The same thing that Nicola did to Jeremy happened to my daughter and Candace, the only difference is who did it.'

He drops his voice and stands very close. 'I'm in a difficult situation here. The community is against us. Theatre is a big draw for the city. Nicola is considered a kind of genius—he gets write-ups across the country. This time I have a chance—a good chance—of getting him. The department can't afford to go off on a witch-hunt, rounding everyone up. If Nicola falls, the whole house crumbles. Can you understand that? Sometimes sacrifices have to be made.'

I look down at Mom's red toenails and my old tennis shoes. Mom squeezes my hand so hard it hurts as the inspector adds, 'Besides it's only her story against his.'

'Candance,' Mom says, 'ask Candace.'

'Candace got sent up north, to summer camp. Her parents aren't interested in pressing charges.'

For the first time, I look hard at the inspector's face.

'We'll be in touch,' he says. 'We can use your daughter.'

A strangled sound comes out of Mother's throat. 'You can use her?' she says. It sounds more like a growl or snarl than a question. 'We won't let her help you unless you charge Gary too.'

The inspector looks tired. 'Ma'am, we have her on tape, and we will subpoena you if we need to.'

I have to do something. I swing my foot back—One. Swing it forward—Two. I land a hard kick on the inspector's shin. I stare at him. His thick cheeks stay soft and flabby. His lips don't move. Not a flicker behind his dead, dull eyes.

'Get them out of here,' the inspector says to Schmidt. The goat-footed inspector, limps away into the office where people go back to work and pretend they didn't see us.

The elevator door clanks open.

'You're free to go,' says Schmidt.

Mom and I get in; the old machinery jerks to start its descent.

'Nobody's going to use you,' Mom says, but I am only half listening. I count inside my head. 'One-Two, One-Two, One-Two'. I am on a long march. I keep on counting.