Olive and the Backstage Ghost by Michelle Schusterman

Author:Michelle Schusterman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2017-08-15T04:00:00+00:00

The curtains were drawn in Olive’s bedroom all weekend, cocooning her in the dark. She ventured out only for meals, forcing down watery soup or lumpy oatmeal while avoiding eye contact with her mother, then returning to her bed. Nighttime was the worst because Olive couldn’t sleep. She dreamed with her eyes open instead, watching glass globes and aerialists soar across her ceiling through rings of fire, dancing with puppets come to life. And every so often, she thought her door cracked open, just a bit, to reveal a pair of eyes glinting at her from the blackness of the hall. But when she turned on her lamp, her door was always closed.

Olive plotted her escape.

She plotted, but she didn’t act. Because her mother watched her like a hawk. And also because the longer Olive was away from the theater, the more she lost her nerve. At Maudeville, Olive was the kind of girl who dared to chase her dreams. But trapped at home, her mother fright had returned, and she was meek once again.

Until Monday morning, when Olive found courage through fury.

The movers arrived before breakfast, thumping and bumping down the hall. Olive, who had been awake-dreaming about the juggling act again, briefly thought it was the sound of glass globes plopping onto the carpet. She blinked several times, imagining tiny grains of glass scratching behind her heavy lids. Then she shuffled to her door and peered out to see a short, thick-armed man back out of her father’s study carrying one end of his desk, the telescope case balanced on top.

“What are you doing?” Olive croaked, but he didn’t hear. The other end of the desk appeared, supported by another burly man. Next came a dolly stacked with boxes labeled BOOKS, then the empty bookshelf. The leather chair followed, along with the now-uncovered mirror, a sheet draped over the mover’s shoulder. Olive caught a glimpse of her own horrified reflection and retreated into her room.

Her mother was selling her father’s belongings.

His messy study, all that wonderful clutter, the maps and books and History Haunts Us coffee mug and shiny silver telescope. Gone. Now there would be no trace of Olive’s father in the penthouse, no reminder of his existence, no reason for Olive to search the stars for stories.

The hole Olive had stitched up in her chest began to itch and burn. Panic seized her, and soon she was flying about her room, pulling clothes from her closet and socks and underwear from her dresser, shoving them unceremoniously into her satchel. She slipped out of her room and crept slowly down the hall, sticking close to the wall. Olive heard Mrs. Preiss’s voice in the kitchen, and a rush of hot anger swept over her from head to toe.

The desk sat near the front door, boxes of books piled on top. Olive thought of the doorman downstairs, of the movers coming up and going down in the elevator. And without giving herself a chance to second-guess her plan, she opened the door on the right side of the desk and tucked herself inside.

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