Chapter Text
Think of me––
Oh, no.
Think of me fondly,
Oh no, no, no.
When we’ve said good-bye,
Oh dear god, no, please.
Remember me, Dorothea sings, a pleading note in her voice, once in a while; please promise me you’ll try…
That’s it, Ingrid realizes as the high notes swell throughout the auditorium. She’s completely and utterly screwed. Dorothea’s voice is angelic, by turns commandingly loud and soft enough to entice an audience to listen from the edge of their seats. The soft piano of the rehearsal track, playing from small monitor speakers at the front of the stage, is like a wave for Dorothea to ride, a perfect supplement to her voice that smoothly slides between phrases as she takes another breath. The rich sound permeates the entire room without even a mic. She never misses a beat, never goes the slightest bit flat, just continues unabated and unaware of the effect she has on the girl atop the catwalk. It’s all Ingrid can do to stand blankly in place and follow the girl onstage with her spot, her hands swiveling it on its stand almost automatically, as if Dorothea’s voice is so compelling that even the lights in the room bend toward her.
...There will never be a day, when I don’t think of you, Dorothea croons, and Ingrid’s arms run cold with goosebumps as Dorothea’s crystal voice fades, her eyelids lowered and lips pursed gently.
Can it be? Can it be Christine? murmurs a boy Ingrid recognizes from history––Ferdinand, she thinks. The light seems to fade from Ingrid’s eyes as Dorothea stops singing, and she isn’t sure if it’s due to the rest of the stage being relit or to the loss of that haunting voice.
“Ingrid?” Ashe’s voice crackles in her ear.
“I’m here,” she replies, trying to keep her voice from stammering.
“Your spot is still on.”
Shit.
Ingrid’s eye starts to twitch slightly as she studies the preternaturally organized notes Lysithea had given her. Resetting the lighting console had sounded like an okay job when Linhardt had assigned it to her after rehearsal, but the sheer number of switches to slide to the correct spot, then check, recheck, and make sure weren’t playing a New Year’s Eve light show on stage was going to drive her insane. The complex drawing of the console and the incomprehensible script make it look like the plans for the damn Death Star, Ingrid notes wearily as she pushes another two switches into place, taps a couple buttons to reset whatever it is they do, and turns again to the paper crammed with tiny handwriting.
The resounding tong of shoes on metal stairs snaps Ingrid out of her reverie. Maybe the petite perfectionist herself had come to scoff at her for taking so long. “Lysithea,” she begins with a deep breath to keep her voice as free of venom as possible, stepping out of the control booth toward the stairwell door, “I’m thankful that you gave me these notes to help with the lighting, but I’m having just a little trouble…”
“Oh, sorry.” A girl’s voice, lower than Lysithea’s and only slightly taken aback, floats up the stairwell. “I thought tech was over, I just came to check up here.”
Dorothea steps forward with a light ringing of metal, green eyes peering up at Ingrid from under the brim of her black cap. “Lin likes to catch naps up there sometimes. Quieter away from the hubbub, you know. He’s not…” She nods toward the booth, hair swinging slightly.
“Ah––no.” Ingrid realizes too late her throat is again dry at the sound of Dorothea’s voice, a lilt that continues to nag at the back of her mind with a strange familiarity. She knows Dorothea’s not an athlete (she would remember seeing her face at tryouts) or a cheerleader (if so, Sylvain would probably have left theater when they were still freshmen), and racks her brain trying to think of how she knows her. “He left a- a while ago.”
“Oh, okay.” She begins to mount the steps, hands clasped behind her back. “And what about you? Too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave? ” Dorothea smiles widely, the line falling easy and practiced from her lips.
Ingrid laughs in spite of her nerves at seeing the actress again. The line jumps out at her, anachronous to Dorothea’s black skinny jeans and mid-calf boots and bizarre to hear in her curious, playful tones. No matter her dominating stage presence, her bewitching singing voice, it feels strange to imagine her as Christine, swooning onstage and dwelling on dreams. Stage presence–– Ingrid again reaches for snatches of memory–– why do I know her? Why do I remember her so strongly?
Slowly it comes back to her. Dorothea’s haunting voice floats up to her again, this time pinning her into her desk chair rather than to her light. She sits awestruck in the front row, watching her enthusiastically recite Shakespeare––
“You were in honors English with me.” Ingrid’s eyes widen in recollection. She remembers now, being stunned by Dorothea’s passionate recitals, how she carried the weight of all her groups when they were assigned to perform scenes, her energy turning the drab classroom into a shining stage for a couple minutes at a time.
Dorothea’s shoes clang to a stop on the stairs as her eyebrows rise in return. “That’s right! It’s Ingrid, isn’t it? I remember your essays always got used as examples.” She grins as the memories return to her. “No one thought you could turn in that kind of work in so little time. They said you were the best liar in the world––or that you psychoanalyzed the authors yourself.”
“Lying is just acting, and I’m no good as an actor.” Ingrid shakes her head, lips forming a smile.
“If that were all it took, Claude would be on Broadway by now,” Dorothea scoffs at their classmate’s name, climbing the rest of the way and leaning on the railing of the catwalk. “So anyway, what keeps you here so late?”
“Oh, I’m just making sure everything is set for tomorrow. Lighting cues and stuff.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Dorothea’s jade eyes look genuinely eager as she turns her head, and Ingrid remembers how she had frozen seeing her onstage for the first time.
“No,” Ingrid says with what she hopes is resolve, praying she can move past that, “but thanks. I just need a better look at Lysithea’s instructions for the console–”
“Oh, Lys…” Dorothea sighs. “I know the feeling. She just doesn’t understand that we weren’t all born with a silver report card in our hands. I've threatened to make Lin restrict her computer to using Comic Sans before, usually that works.”
Ingrid lets out a barking laugh. “If you can read her handwriting, I’d welcome the help.” She grabs the sheet of paper and offers it to Dorothea, who lifts it gently from her fingers. Dorothea squeezes past her into the control booth, Ingrid subconsciously pulling herself tighter against the doorframe to avoid brushing shoulders with her, and stares at the maze of slides and buttons before tapping four of them with the familiarity of a password.
She pushes the switches into place for the opening number within a minute. “I… think that’s done. How do I know if I got it right?”
“I don’t know. Let’s try turning it on for a second…” Ingrid reaches around Dorothea, pressing the large on button, and the stage comes to life.
Pools of gold and green light bloom onstage. In the silence, Ingrid can just hear the whine of the small spots in the rafters as they cast their lights about, and she watches as they cut bright white paths through the gentle glow. They spiral around one another before sweeping to the edges, and one large spotlight replaces them in the center, waiting expectantly for a singer to hit their mark. Ingrid manages to tear herself away and look at Dorothea, and she can tell that the girl next to her is filling in the gaps, just as she is, with actors and set pieces, fast-forwarding to opening night. Dorothea stands transfixed on the stage, with her lips moving gently as she mouths the lyrics to Think of Me once again , face suffused with light that manages to make her brilliant green eyes sparkle even more than they already do.
“Beautiful,” Ingrid blurts out in spite of herself.
“Hmm?” Dorothea turns to her, eyebrows raised.
Shit, shit, shit, she thinks as she regains control far too late. “Ah! The, uh, lights are, aren’t they? Beautiful? I couldn’t stop- watching them.” She trips over her words in an effort to make clear that no, she definitely wasn’t just staring at Dorothea’s far more interesting face.
“Ah–yeah, they are, of course.” Dorothea blinks for a second, caught off guard. “Well, I should go if that’s everything.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to keep you! Thanks for all your help with the lighting.”
“Any time, Ingrid,” she replies with a wide smile, crinkling eyes so much brighter than those spotlights. “I’ll be happy to come back up here if you ever need me.”
Ingrid watches Dorothea’s hair bounce through the door to the stairwell, waits for the clangs of her boots on the metal steps to fade away, and only once she hears the door at the bottom of the stairs slam shut does she let herself slump down into a chair.
Well, she’s absolutely screwed now, isn’t she.