Read Servants of the Storm for Free Online

seems larger and more real. But his mischievous grin is the same. Puck would have been the perfect part for him, but Caliban will do.
    “Your makeup’s great,” he says. “Are you the hoodie fairy?”
    “My old leotard’s too small,” I say, holding my chin up and daring him to laugh.
    He looks down, chokes a little, coughs, and opens his mouth to say something.
    “Places, y’all!” It’s Mrs. Rosewater, her voice harsh and already frustrated.
    Half stammering, Baker and I dance around each other and separate. I step into line with Ariel’s other fairies, ready for the goofy dance our drama teacher has slapped on the front of oneof Shakespeare’s most magical plays. We’re supposed to look like the storm that wrecks the ship, but I guess Mrs. Rosewater didn’t want to evoke the actual fear and fury of Josephine in her twisted little homage. Leaping around on the familiar stage to the plucked strings of a guitar, joining hands with Nikki and Jade and Ella and fluttering my piece of blue gauze like a gust of wind, I start to feel alive. I had forgotten how hotly the lights shine onstage, the thrill of performing. Even if there’s no one in the audience, I take joy in bursting through the air and galloping around. I wonder if anyone around me notices the difference. When I was on the meds, did I shuffle around like a zombie? I don’t remember feeling this sort of energy.
    The song ends, and we flit to our hiding places. Mine is behind a ridiculous red-and-white plywood mushroom. I curl my fingers around the wood and peek back and forth, giggling on cue with Nikki, who’s behind a fake boulder.
    There’s a long interlude where I’m supposed to pop in and out around my mushroom, rolling my eyes and making silly faces. I take the chance to look past the stage and into the audience of empty chairs. Their red velvet is faded and patched, and lots of the footlights are out or winking like peculiar constellations in the darkness of the theater. Mrs. Rosewater stands in the orchestra pit, furiously scribbling notes to herself or growling at her assistant.
    I find the seats where my parents sit for every performance. Right there, stage left. Up close, so my nearsighted dad can see,and by the aisle so my ultra-busy mom can leave if she gets an urgent call. Carly’s mom used to sit with them. Now that she has moved away and Carly is gone, I wonder who they’ll joke with, who will go outside to smoke with my mom during intermission and complain about the casting. And I wonder who sat in those spots last spring, for the last play, which I missed completely. They said the seats were still damp from the flooding, but the show had to go on. They handed out garbage bags with the programs.
    Something in the back of the house catches my eye, and I lean around the other side of my mushroom. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I strain to see past the white-hot lights and into the back left corner of the balcony. We rarely fill the theater, and that section is usually closed. It’s so dark up there that teachers have to monitor it during performances to keep kids from sneaking up and making out. But there’s something moving in the shadows where something definitely shouldn’t be, not with the theater closed for rehearsal.
    It moves again, and I see the barest outline of a body. Smallish, folded over another lump. Another person? Two kids about to get it on? But the thing on the bottom isn’t moving. And the one on top is jerky, intent, and shaped wrong.
    I swear it’s a person with fox ears. She leans forward, just barely out of the shadow, and I see a slim girl wearing an orange knitted hat shaped like a fox head, with black-tipped orange ears and long ties that hang down. Her mouth is drawn back in a snarlwith red smears over pale skin and sharp teeth. All the hairs rise up on my arms, and I suddenly know how a rabbit feels seconds before claws settle into the skin of its neck. I gulp, my throat dry. I try to look away, but