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Authors: Mary Jo Putney
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to know the part."
"Me? Appear onstage? No way!" he said, horrified. "My job is behind the camera. Even as a kid I was always a technogeek, never an actor. I’ll make a hash of your whole show."
"No, you won’t." She found his alarm rather endearing. He’d been as reliable as the Rock of Gibraltar ever since he’d arrived, and now he looked as if she had proposed to hang him by his thumbs. "You’ll be completely covered up by the dragon costume. You don’t even have to roar—the bellowing is prerecorded. All you have to do is flail about and kill Sir George."
"After all the work I put into filming the last few days, I was looking forward to loafing tonight."
"Think of George as the smug lad who was always captain of the football team," she said coaxingly. "Wouldn’t you like to slay someone like that? This being England, most of the audience is on the side of the poor hunted dragon."
"Since you put it like that..." Greg’s mouth quirked up. "The costume is pretty much the part, so I suppose I can manage. But are you sure? There must be others who could handle the role better."
"On one hour’s notice? Not likely." She reached for her coat, glad they’d had an early supper. "Come along, my lad. You’re about to make your stage debut!"
* * *
Greg stood rigid in the wings, thinking that tonight was karmic justice for all the times he’d silently scoffed at actors who were suffering from nerves. Will Davies didn’t have stomach flu, he’d become sick because he couldn’t stand to go onstage again. If Greg weren’t swathed in dragon, he might lose his supper himself.
All the performances had been sellouts, but tonight’s closing show was packed to the rafters, with every inch of standing room taken. The good news was that the community center would make more from ticket sales than anticipated. The bad news was that Greg would have to step out in front of all those staring eyes. Compared to the rest of the cast, he was a pathetic, terrified amateur. He would accidentally damage Sir George. He’d trip over his tail and George would accidentally kill him. He’d...
A hand came to rest on his scaly forearm. "You’ll do fine, Greg," Jenny said soothingly. "Just go out with the dragon walk I showed you. Once you’re onstage, you’ll have fun. Pretend you’re an egotistical actor."
In her flowing medieval gown, Jenny was hypnotically lovely. He would have kissed her if he wasn’t wearing a dragon head. He settled for patting her shoulder clumsily with one rubber-clawed paw.
Sir George and five admiring village girls finished a dance. The owner of the local dance studio, a retired prima ballerina, had done a splendid job with the choreography. The ancient music group was equally impressive. Jenny and her neighbors were far more than "community theater."
The village dancers spun off the stage. Fortified by their admiration, the knight set out on his dragon quest, singing magnificently. All too soon the song was over, which was Greg’s cue to enter.
He froze, unable to move until Jenny placed a hand on his spine and pushed him forward none too gently. Under the blazing lights, Greg was agonizingly aware of a packed audience of undifferentiated heads, all of them staring at him.
Sir George fell back, aghast. "The dragon comes!"
Pulling himself together, Greg swung into the dragon walk, a wide-legged stride that made him look massive and dangerous. A menacing growl rumbled through the theater. Barely in time he remembered to open his jaws as if he was the one roaring.
The knight drew his blunt sword and flourished it menacingly. They had done a quick practice fight earlier, so Greg had a general idea of how to proceed. He lunged forward, jaws open and tail lashing. The costume was complicated, and keeping its pieces straight required all his concentration.
The knight darted in and out, unable to plant a killing blow on the scaly dragon hide. Luckily, the tenor who played George was well trained in
"Me? Appear onstage? No way!" he said, horrified. "My job is behind the camera. Even as a kid I was always a technogeek, never an actor. I’ll make a hash of your whole show."
"No, you won’t." She found his alarm rather endearing. He’d been as reliable as the Rock of Gibraltar ever since he’d arrived, and now he looked as if she had proposed to hang him by his thumbs. "You’ll be completely covered up by the dragon costume. You don’t even have to roar—the bellowing is prerecorded. All you have to do is flail about and kill Sir George."
"After all the work I put into filming the last few days, I was looking forward to loafing tonight."
"Think of George as the smug lad who was always captain of the football team," she said coaxingly. "Wouldn’t you like to slay someone like that? This being England, most of the audience is on the side of the poor hunted dragon."
"Since you put it like that..." Greg’s mouth quirked up. "The costume is pretty much the part, so I suppose I can manage. But are you sure? There must be others who could handle the role better."
"On one hour’s notice? Not likely." She reached for her coat, glad they’d had an early supper. "Come along, my lad. You’re about to make your stage debut!"
* * *
Greg stood rigid in the wings, thinking that tonight was karmic justice for all the times he’d silently scoffed at actors who were suffering from nerves. Will Davies didn’t have stomach flu, he’d become sick because he couldn’t stand to go onstage again. If Greg weren’t swathed in dragon, he might lose his supper himself.
All the performances had been sellouts, but tonight’s closing show was packed to the rafters, with every inch of standing room taken. The good news was that the community center would make more from ticket sales than anticipated. The bad news was that Greg would have to step out in front of all those staring eyes. Compared to the rest of the cast, he was a pathetic, terrified amateur. He would accidentally damage Sir George. He’d trip over his tail and George would accidentally kill him. He’d...
A hand came to rest on his scaly forearm. "You’ll do fine, Greg," Jenny said soothingly. "Just go out with the dragon walk I showed you. Once you’re onstage, you’ll have fun. Pretend you’re an egotistical actor."
In her flowing medieval gown, Jenny was hypnotically lovely. He would have kissed her if he wasn’t wearing a dragon head. He settled for patting her shoulder clumsily with one rubber-clawed paw.
Sir George and five admiring village girls finished a dance. The owner of the local dance studio, a retired prima ballerina, had done a splendid job with the choreography. The ancient music group was equally impressive. Jenny and her neighbors were far more than "community theater."
The village dancers spun off the stage. Fortified by their admiration, the knight set out on his dragon quest, singing magnificently. All too soon the song was over, which was Greg’s cue to enter.
He froze, unable to move until Jenny placed a hand on his spine and pushed him forward none too gently. Under the blazing lights, Greg was agonizingly aware of a packed audience of undifferentiated heads, all of them staring at him.
Sir George fell back, aghast. "The dragon comes!"
Pulling himself together, Greg swung into the dragon walk, a wide-legged stride that made him look massive and dangerous. A menacing growl rumbled through the theater. Barely in time he remembered to open his jaws as if he was the one roaring.
The knight drew his blunt sword and flourished it menacingly. They had done a quick practice fight earlier, so Greg had a general idea of how to proceed. He lunged forward, jaws open and tail lashing. The costume was complicated, and keeping its pieces straight required all his concentration.
The knight darted in and out, unable to plant a killing blow on the scaly dragon hide. Luckily, the tenor who played George was well trained in
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