Free Servants of the Storm by Delilah S. Dawson Page A

on his shoulders and make a big deal about how the Liberty ghost chose him, and then that kid will totally freak out. Even as a freshman I didn’t fall for that line of crap, and Carly just laughed and brought a bottle of Head & Shoulders as a joke offering to the ghost. But crouchedhere, watching the skeletal catwalk shift in a breeze that isn’t there, I almost believe the legend is true.
    Something moves in the shadows far overhead, and the catwalk creaks. I start to rise from my crouch. Someone’s there. I have to find out who it is. Maybe it’s the fox-eared girl. Maybe it’s Carly. All the strange things I’m seeing and dreaming have to be connected somehow—I just feel it.
    “Dovey! You missed your cue!” Mrs. Rosewater shouts.
    I apologize and dance out onto the stage, blinded by the lights yet completely at home. Someone feeds me my line, and I zip into my dialogue with Baker. He’s gazing at me, his eyes bright in the spotlights and his every move perfect. I feel like he’s saying something that isn’t actually in the script. He’s captivating and strange, and trading barbs with him brings out the wildness and passion of my Ariel. I finish the scene with a new kind of energy and twirl back behind my mushroom. It feels colder now, in the shadows outside the stage lights. I watch Baker for a few moments, and it’s hard to separate the boy from the character he’s playing.
    When he’s finally offstage, I exhale. I guess I was holding my breath, enjoying his performance. I suddenly remember that it felt like there was someone watching me from the catwalk before, someone aiming for me. But I don’t feel a presence there anymore. Everything beyond the stage lights feels cold, dead.
    Whoever it was, they’re gone now, and the catwalk sways in the darkness.

    After rehearsal I’m careful to wipe off my makeup with baby wipes and pull my unruly hair back into a low ponytail. I was always jealous of Carly’s ’fro, which was just like my mom’s, and she was always jealous of my light skin and eyes and freckles. I tried getting braids like hers once, but my ears stuck out too much.
    “It’s so easy for you,” she said one time, watching me pull my hair back in a rubber band. “Your hair behaves, and your skin’s light. This old-timer city’s just as racist as it used to be.”
    “It’s not easy for me,” I argued, putting my hands on my hips and sassing her right back. “At least you know who you are. I got the worst of a pasty white nerd and a feisty black bitch. Half the city hates you, but all the city hates me.”
    And then her eyes turned up at the corners, and she tried not to laugh. But she couldn’t help it. We ended up teasing my hair as high as it would go and putting my mama’s white clay mask all over her face, then taking pictures of ourselves together, acting like fools. Together we could make anything hilarious.
    She had the strangest mix of ridiculousness and pride. I remember with a mingled sense of warmth and loss the day Baker was talking about earlier. For just a few moments I really thought Carly had made herself disappear. And when she finally burst out of the closet, Baker and I both screamed bloody murder.
    “I told you I was a wizard!” she shouted.
    But there were cobwebs in her hair and cracker crumbs on her shirt. She always loved to play pranks like that. No wonder Bakerand I both keep expecting to see her again, like it’s been some elaborate joke. Except that I actually have seen her. The idea is half-hilarious, half-insane. And completely terrifying. I check the dressing room broom closet on a whim, but it’s just full of mops and crap, and I hurry out the door before I freak myself out more.
    Baker is waiting for me in the hall, and I stifle a giggle as I hand him a baby wipe.
    “I am not going out with a monster,” I say, and his grin tells me he only heard the words “going out.”
    “I’m really more of a disenfranchised nature spirit,” he says,