Chapter 6 - The Red Carpet and the Marquee
The historic art-house theater in downtown Riverdale looked like something out of a 1940s Hollywood postcard. Built in 1934, its towering neon marquee buzzed with bright red letters against the frigid January night sky:
RIVERDALE WINTER SHORTS FESTIVAL — TONIGHT: SOLD OUT.
Beneath the main title, glowing in slightly smaller letters:SPECIAL SCREENING: THE GIRL WHO LIT THE DARK.
When Evan pulled his sedan up to the curb, I saw a knot of people standing outside the entrance, holding programs and chatting beneath the glowing lights. A local cable access camera crew was set up near the brass-trimmed double doors, interviewing directors and actors as they arrived.
My palms suddenly felt slick with cold sweat. I turned to Anna in the backseat. She was wearing her red velvet dress and her glitter shoes, which she had insisted on polishing one more time before we left the house.
"Are you nervous, bug?" I asked, smoothing down the collar of her coat.
Anna shook her head, her dark eyes shining with fearless excitement. "I want to see the giant TV."
"It’s not a TV, sweetie. It’s a movie theater screen. It’s as big as a house."
"Even better," she declared with absolute confidence.
We stepped out of the car into the crisp night air. As we walked toward the entrance, a young woman holding a clipboard and wearing an official festival lanyard rushed over to us, her eyes widening as she took in Anna’s red dress and glowing expression.
"Oh, my gosh," the coordinator gasped, tapping her clipboard. "Are you... are you Anna Vance? The lead actor from The Girl Who Lit the Dark?"
Anna puffed out her chest just a little bit, nodding solemnly. "Yes. I brought my shoes."
The coordinator laughed, a bright, delighted sound that cut through the cold air. "Come right this way! The director and producer are already inside, but we saved front-row center seats for the star and her mom."
Walking through those theater doors felt like crossing an invisible boundary line between an old life that had tried to make us invisible, and a new life where we commanded the light.
The auditorium was breathtaking. Modeled after old European opera houses, it featured tiered velvet balconies, gilded plaster scrollwork on the ceiling, and a massive, heavy crimson curtain that draped across the proscenium arch. Every single one of the four hundred seats was packed to capacity. People were standing in the aisles, chatting quietly, holding paper cups of coffee and artisanal popcorn.
As the coordinator led us down the center aisle toward the front row, a few people turned to look. Murmurs rippled through the rows near the front.
"That’s her.""Is that the little girl from the short?""She looks exactly like she does on the poster."
We settled into our plush velvet seats. Evan was sitting three rows back, giving us a enthusiastic thumbs-up and a wide grin.
A moment later, the house lights began to dim. The low murmur of conversation faded away, replaced by the expectant rustle of coats and programs. The red velvet curtains slowly parted, sliding away into the shadows with a soft, mechanical hiss.
May you like
The projector whirred to life, casting a brilliant, blinding square of white light onto the massive screen.
Then, the music began.
