Alchemy of Secrets - 1

It started with a whisper you heard while in line at a coffee shop, a story you probably should have ignored. But the rumor stuck in your head like a song, it plagued you like an unsolved riddle. Until, at last, it led you here. A parking lot, which had clearly not paid attention to the weather report.

They said it would be all stars, no clouds tonight, but you feel the rain on your toes. The wet hits in eager droplets as you dash across the pavement in sandals. Around you, streetlamps flicker, a staticky chorus to your damp footfalls.

You’re not out of breath, but you slow, stopping under a marquee. The words COMING SOON sizzle in red block letters, throwing neon shadows on a retro cashier’s booth, covered in washed-out posters for attractions that have already come and gone. Veronica Lake’s name splashes across the top of one poster in faded yellow letters, while a black-and-white Loretta Young smiles at you from another. Loretta’s poster is for A Night to Remember , and you hope tonight will be one of those nights.

You don’t know for certain if the stories are true, but you half expect to fall through a rabbit hole as you step through the theater door into the lobby.

Your excitement varnishes everything in an extra layer of shine. On your right, there’s a bank of gleaming pay phones in neat wood and glass boxes. You’ve never seen a line of so many. You’re almost tempted to snap a photo, but you don’t. And you couldn’t have even if you’d tried. By now your phone is no longer working, though you don’t know that yet. You’re suddenly too distracted by the ancient concession stand to your left, where the dust looks like nostalgia and you barely notice the chips in the gold paint that make up the art deco border of geometric suns and jumping dolphins.

The sign above says:

10 cents for popcorn

15 cents for popcorn with butter

25 cents for cigarettes

You were unaware they used to sell cigarettes in theaters, but for a moment you can smell the smoke and the popcorn. You can almost taste the butter, too. But you don’t linger in the lobby. There’s only one theater—one attraction—that you wish to find, and you walk directly toward it.

Your chest is tight. Your heart is already racing. And you’re still hoping for the rabbit hole that will take you to another world. You’re starry-eyed and optimistic, an overexposed picture made of too much light, as you step through the double doors.

It still smells like smoke and popcorn, but there’s something else, too. Maybe it’s just the scent of old velvet mixed with lingering hints of petrichor, but it makes you think of Technicolor dreams as you stretch your neck to take in the impossibly tall ceiling. It’s all ivory and gold, and it’s covered in more art deco designs that look as if they could be cousins to the zodiac.

Beneath the elaborate dome, a fraction of the seats are already occupied. Twenty-five? Maybe fifty? You’re too nervous to properly count as you take a chair near the back. It rocks, and the worn velvet is soft, but it feels too far from the stage.

You decide to move closer, sneaking more looks at the others as you do. You want to see who else made it inside, if there’s anyone you rec ognize. But given the scant number of people you know at school, it’s unsurprising these faces are all strangers. Some are whispering, some are giggling, a few like you say nothing, but there’s a thread that ties you all together: expectation.

This has to be it. The curtains on the stage are deep, lush pink, and when they part you hold your breath.

Gentlemen, kindly remove your hats , flickers across the silver screen.

Then another slide replaces it: Loud whistles and talking are not allowed.

This, of course, elicits a number of whistles. But then it’s all quiet and hush as the image leaves the screen and a tiny star appears in the upper-right-hand corner. It blinks once, twice. Then every light in the theater goes out.

It’s darker than the night outside. You hear people pulling out their phones, but none of them are working, including yours. No signal. No light. No digital clock to tell you how much time is passing.

You don’t know how long you sit there before you hear the first person leave. They’ve decided this class is not for them, if it even is a class. A few others follow.

You hate that you’re tempted to do the same.

Your toes are no longer wet, but your skin is prickly with cold. You feel as if someone’s watching you, though it’s too dark for anyone to see.

More time ticks by, and you go over the stories you’ve heard, the rumors and the whispers about a very particular class that can’t be found in any online catalog, taught by a professor who’s not on any website. And suddenly you think it’s for a good reason. You think maybe you should go. You think—

A light flickers on the stage. Just a tiny thing, but the shine gets you. You close your eyes, then open them. And when you can see again, she’s there.

She’s sitting on a wooden stool in the center of the stage.

You don’t know how long she’s been there, but you have the impression she’s been waiting for hours, just like the two dozen or so of you who remain. She’s shorter than you’d imagined. The way people talked about her always made her sound tall, statuesque, literally larger than life. But she looks like someone’s grandmother. Bobbed silver hair frames a round, barely smiling face, as she says words that make you feel as if all the cold and the damp and the waiting have been worth it.

“You’re here because of a story,” she says. “Now I’m going to tell you another one.”