Page 108 of Faultlines

The usual boisterous energy is absent.

I set my tools near the scenery workshop. I’m halfway through organizing materials when the Principal steps onto the stage. The microphone squeals, a high-pitched shriek that makes everyone wince. The reaction is so universal that, even in the midst of the uncertainty, it feels normal.

“Alright, everybody settle down,” he says into the microphone. The room quiets as students take their seats. He clears his throat, adjusts the microphone again, and begins. “I know many of you have questions about the future of this production.”

Behind me, someone mutters, “That’s one way of putting it.”

He waits for the room to settle, his gaze sweeping over the expectant faces, before continuing. “The production will continue as scheduled.”

Students burst into applause.

He raises a hand to quell the chatter. “Even better news, we’ve found someone willing to step in and oversee the rest of the production.”

I’m certain he’s about to introduce a substitute, or someone from the nearby high school theater department, when movement catches my eye. That’s when I see her.

Claire.

She steps through the double doors with a binder tucked beneath one arm. She pauses as the door clicks shut realizing the entire room is looking at her.

He gestures toward her. “Most of you know Claire Bennett, Ellie’s mom. She has graciously agreed to help us get this production across the finish line.”

Students’ shoulders visibly loosen, parents settle back in their seats, and even Mr. Harrington looks relieved.

Claire offers a tight smile.

For the next hour, I find myself watching her more than I should. She takes control of the room with an ease that doesn’t surprise me. Within minutes, she’s reviewing schedules, answering questions, and reorganizing problem areas.

At one point, I glance toward the stage and see Ellie laughing at something Claire says, and it fills me with both joy and regret.

Later when I spot Claire near the stage, I steel myself, take a deep breath, and walk toward her. As soon as she notices me, her posture shifts.

“Claire.”

Her stare is cool and appraising. “Not now.” Her words are devoid of emotion.

I stop a few feet away and raise both hands in surrender. “I just want to talk.”

“I know. We can talk after rehearsal.”

I stiffly nod. “Okay.”

Her gaze drifts to the bruise beneath my eye. “What happened?”

A ghost of a smile touches my lips. “Jensen happened.”

Amusement flickers across her face. “After rehearsal,” she repeats, glancing over her shoulder as someone calls her name before looking back at me.

I nod.

The rest of the evening passes agonizingly slow. I mostly pretend to work, checking the clock every few minutes.

When rehearsal ends, Sloane appears in the doorway. She’s juggling an oversized water bottle and jingling car keys. “Alright, Your Majesty,” she calls toward the stage. “Your chariot has arrived.”

Ellie laughs and rolls her eyes.

I pretend to organize wrenches and hammers, while I wait for Claire. I look up when I hear her approach. She folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t have very long.” Her pronouncement puts me on edge.

I nod. I have yearned for this conversation, but now the words seem stuck.