The Mechanical Theater by Brooke Johnson Read Free Book Online Page A

them and tipped his hat. “Tomorrow, then.” He turned and strode down the empty street.
    Solomon and Dahlia followed him for a block and then turned down Brancaster toward the fourth quadrant. The narrow street was slick with creeping frost, and patches of snow hid in the nooks and crannies along the brick walls.
    Dahlia breathed in the winter air, her cheeks pink from the icy wind. “I should thank you, you know.”
    “What for?”
    She stared up at the smokestacks leering over the eaves of the buildings. “For practicing with me. It’s nice having someone to talk to, someone to laugh with.” She bowed her head, and a stray curl fell free of her scarf. “You know, for being a friend.” She glanced at him through her dark lashes, her gray scarf fluttering in the wintry breeze.
    “Yeah.” He smiled. “I guess it is.”
    They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the street for the Tuesenberry, Dahlia pulled her jacket more tightly around her shoulders and sighed. “This is me.”
    Solomon glanced at the faded green door to the old, run-­down building. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
    She stopped at the door and looked up at him. “Of course. I look forward to it,” she said with a smile. “ To seek new friends and stranger companies.
    Farewell sweet playfellow . . .”
    She bowed her head with a laugh, and Solomon opened the door.
    “After you, dear Hermia,” he said, gesturing inside.
    Dahlia hesitated at the door and arched her eyebrows at him. “You know A Midsummer Night’s Dream ?”
    He nodded. “It’s my favorite, the first play I ever saw.”
    “Is it really?” She grinned. “I always thought it was a little girl’s play—­the fairies, you know.” She stepped through the door and walked into the atrium. He followed her inside. “I think Mr. Niles wants to do that play for our next production.” She pulled her scarf away from her hair and glanced back at him. “Do you think you’ll audition?”
    “I don’t know,” he said, following her across the checkered floor. “I doubt I’ll be good enough by then.”
    “It’ll be a few months. Antony and Cleopatra will likely run through March, longer if the play is a success.” She removed her gloves and looked up at the arrow over the closed lift gates, slowly spinning toward the ground floor. The lift rattled above them as they waited. “I’d like to try for Titania,” she continued. “What about you?”
    Solomon stuck his hands in his coat pockets and shrugged. “Puck, maybe? But I doubt I’d get such a big part—­if I got a part at all.”
    Dahlia paused and touched his arm. “Don’t doubt yourself, Mr. Wade. You have months to improve.” She smiled. “You’ll get there.”
    He felt his cheeks warm, and he bowed his head. “Er . . . thanks, Miss Appleton,” he said quietly, distractedly rubbing the back of his neck.
    “Oh, please call me Dahlia.” She grinned more broadly, her rosewood lips framing the gap between her two front teeth. “You don’t have to be so formal now that we’re friends.”
    The lift clanged down the shaft and came to a halt at the end of the hall. The occupant slammed the gates open and strode across the checkered floor until he drew even with them.
    “Damien?” said Dahlia, her voice cracking. The color faded from her cheeks.
    Solomon bristled, his muscles tensing through his back and shoulders.
    Damien drew to his full height and stared down at her. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for over an hour. Your mother says you never came home after practice.”
    Dahlia swallowed. “Well, I was just—­I was at the theater, and I—­Well, I spoke with Mr. Niles, and I—­uh—­”
    “And they lost track of the time,” finished Solomon, stepping forward.
    He snapped his gaze to Solomon and narrowed his eyes. “Who asked you ?” he sneered, turning his attention back to Dahlia. “And what are you doing with him so late?”
    “Nothing,” she said