I shut my eyes and imagined us in the close darkness of the attic, the toy theater tossing its phantom starlight on our bodies as we moved together, like some strange articulated toy. "What's going on?" We sat up so violently our jaws cracked. The copy of Twelfth Night spun across the floor, to where Rogan's mother stood in the doorway. She stared at us, mouth pursed between uncertainty and angry disapproval. "Why is this door closed?" she demanded. "We're rehearsing." I scrambled to pick up the book and showed it to her. "This play by Shakespeare, the auditions are Friday. We're going to try out for it." Aunt Pat barely glanced at the book. "Leave this door open," she said. "Rogan, you need to get ready for dinner." She stood and waited for me to leave. "I'll see you tomorrow," I said to Rogan, without meeting his eyes. "Yeah, see you." At the bottom of the steps, Aunt Pat stopped. She gave me an icy look. "You need to find other things to do with yourself, Madeline. You're too old for this.
