Curtain Up (12 page)

“ ‘Castle on a Cloud,' ” he said immediately.

Well, that was quick! It was as if he'd been thinking about what role to give Sophia since . . . since . . . since the minute he'd seen her in that flouncy little tennis dress! Maybe he'd been thinking about it
because
he'd seen her in that stupid tennis dress.

Eww. I pushed the thought out of my head.

“It's the last big solo in the show, and it's a crowd-pleaser,” Austin explained.

Deep down I knew Austin was right. She was perfect for
that song, even if she hadn't had to audition for it.

“We should probably give her a speaking scene too,” I said, resigned. “How about the
Wicked
one? If ever anyone was born to play a witch . . .”

Austin laughed. “Done!” He wrote Sophia's name in the two appropriate places. We spent the next hour debating which roles should go to whom. Mostly we agreed, but there were a few parts that tripped us up. For example, I thought Eddie would make an amazing Oliver, but Austin saw him more as Charlie Brown. I wanted the
Fantasticks
dance to be a solo for Mackenzie, but Austin suggested (now that we knew that Travis could dance) we make it a pas de deux—a dance performed by two people.

“I can get on board with that,” I said, watching as he added it to the list.

We went on making our casting choices without any more squabbling. Austin was just writing in the last name on the cast list when the clubhouse door swung open and our dusty, dirt-smeared but smiling troupe came out.

“Can we see the list yet?” Travis asked.

I smiled at him. “I'd rather unveil it officially tomorrow morning,” I said. Secretly, I wanted a little more time to think about it. Maybe I'd get a great idea for a casting change in the middle of the night.

Eddie frowned, but Mackenzie gave him a friendly elbow to the ribs. “Quit sulking,” she said. “The suspense makes it more exciting.”

“Thanks, everyone,” I called as the Random Farms actors began to disperse. “See you tomorrow. And please don't be late. We have a lot to do. This show goes up in three weeks.”

This stopped them in their tracks. Suddenly twelve astonished faces were staring at me. I felt my face turn red. “Uh . . . did I forget to mention that?”

“Yes, you did,” said Maddie. “Three weeks?”

“Seriously?” said Teddy.

“We can do it,” said Austin in a tone that was both confident and authoritative. “As long as we work hard and focus.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “If you say so.”

Again, the kids headed on their way.

“I'll e-mail them the rehearsal and performance schedules tonight,” Susan promised as she, Austin, and I headed back to our house. “How'd the casting go?”

“Excellent,” I said. “I think they'll all be happy with the roles we gave them. How'd the cleanup go?”

“It looks brand-new in there,” Susan announced. “Not a dust bunny or a cobweb in sight.”

“Better not tell Mom that,” I warned.

“Why not?”

“Because if she realizes you actually know how to clean, she's going to expect you to do something about that room of yours!”

Susan gave me a look. Then she burst into “It's the Hard Knock Life” and belted it out all the way home.

We arrived in our driveway to see our neighbors' garage door going up and revealing Mr. Quandt dressed in overalls and Mrs. Quandt in an old smock with a scarf tied over her hair.

“Hello, girls,” said Mrs. Quandt. “Your mother tells me you've taken on a theater project.”

“Not a project,” I corrected politely. “An actual theater.” I eyed her sloppy clothing, which was so unlike the crisp, tidy manner in which she usually dressed. “What are you up to?”

“Just a long overdue cleanup,” she said, picking up a bulging garment bag and dragging it down the driveway. “So much clutter. So little room!”

Austin, a true gentleman, immediately took the bag from Mrs. Quandt. After he'd deposited it at the curb, he hurried back to the garage and offered to help Mr. Quandt lift a heavy table.

“We're simplifying,” Mr. Quandt explained. “These things
are still useful, they're just a little too worse for wear, so they're all going to the donation center. Healy should be by any minute to haul everything away in his pickup truck.”

I examined the overstuffed garment bag. “What's in here?”

“Oh, just a lot of outdated things. Some old business suits, a couple of prom gowns from when my daughter was young. I think there may even be a few dresses that belonged to my grandmother.”

“In the olden days?” asked Susan.

Mrs. Quandt laughed. “Yes, Susan, in the olden days.”

I followed her back to the garage where she lovingly ran her hand over an old cabinet-model sewing machine. “I do wish this didn't have to go. It's the machine I learned on. But it hasn't worked in years, and the company no longer makes replacement parts. Besides, I have a brand-new portable model Mr. Quandt bought me for our anniversary.”

I had forgotten how much Mrs. Quandt loved to sew. When Susan and I were little, she used to help Mom with our Halloween costumes. And one summer she made us matching terry cloth beach cover-ups.

Austin was now assisting Mr. Quandt in carrying a flowered love seat to the curb.

“You know,” I said, “I bet those old suits and gowns could come in really handy for costumes. And all this furniture
would make terrific set pieces.”

“You really want all this old junk?” asked Mr. Quandt, eyeing the worn love seat and battered chairs.

“Not junk,” I corrected politely. “Props!” I turned to Mrs. Quandt. “Do you by any chance happen to have any wigs?”

“As a matter of fact . . .” Mrs. Quandt pointed to a large box.

Susan opened the box and gasped. She pulled out a blond pixie-cut wig, a sleek black one cut into a bob, and a long wavy auburn one. From where I stood, I could see that there were still plenty more in the box—white curls, long sandy tresses, and even a silver one with purple streaks. Susan and I both turned slowly with wide eyes to look at our neighbor.

Mrs. Quandt laughed again. “What can I say, dears? It was the seventies.”

“What's in here?” asked Susan, opening an old trunk.

“Just a bunch of mismatched bed linens,” said Mrs. Quandt. “Sheets, quilts, pillowcases.”

When Mr. Healy pulled up in his truck, Mr. Quandt and Austin began loading things into the back.

“Change of plans, Healy,” said Mr. Quandt cheerfully. “We're donating these to Anya's project. These theater types here have agreed to take all this junk off our hands.”

“Not junk,” I reminded him with a big smile. Then added in a whisper, “Magic!”

When I entered the theater the next morning, I had to catch my breath.

Streamers of sunlight filtered in through the sparkling windows. The floors had been scoured and polished until they gleamed. According to Susan, both restrooms had been scrubbed and sanitized by—to my great shock—Eddie Kim, who'd volunteered after everyone else had flat out refused to have anything to do with cleaning the long-untouched “facilities.” Eddie had worn rubber gloves and wielded his toilet brush like a pro.

During the cleaning, Susan had discovered a deep storage closet backstage, which she and Maxie had cleared out to create an instant wardrobe department. It was just waiting to welcome all the Quandts' old clothes, hats, and, of course, wigs! When Maxie arrived, I would have her start emptying
the boxes and garment bags (which Mr. Healy had left rather unceremoniously in the middle of the stage) and arranging them in the closet.

Behind me, the door opened.

“Good morning, Madam Director,” said Austin.

I smiled, momentarily dazzled by a slant of sunshine that flashed off the lenses of his glasses. He was carrying a pile of scripts and songbooks from his own personal collection. He placed these on the Quandts' former kitchen table, which had replaced the old rickety one by the door.

“Mr. Playwright,” I said with a formal nod and a little giggle.

We had agreed to meet here early to post the official cast list. I hadn't made any midnight changes to it after all. I realized that my gut instincts (and Austin's) were spot-on, and the choices we'd made were perfect just the way they were.

I opened my backpack, took out the two-page list, and approached the large cork bulletin board that had once held neighborhood notices about bake sales, bridge tournaments, and babysitters needed. Two shiny little thumbtacks remained pushed into the otherwise empty board, which seemed like a very good omen to me. It was as if they'd been waiting there all this time for me to do what I was about to do.

As always, Austin seemed to be reading my mind. “Feels
pretty official, doesn't it?”

I positioned the pages in the center of the corkboard and inserted a thumbtack into the top of each page.

And there it was!

“I hope Jane won't be too upset about not singing ‘Maybe' in the show,” I said.

“She'll be okay,” Austin assured me. “And she'll be great as Wendy.”

Austin went over and sat down at the piano. He plinked out a few notes, then a few more. Then he added chords. It was a melody I'd never heard before, upbeat and very catchy.

“What is that?” I asked. “It's really good.”

Austin smiled and played the notes again. “Oh, it's just something I'm working on,” he said. “Just . . . ya know . . . our theme song!”

My eyes went round. “Did you say theme song?”

“Yep!”

“Austin, that is so cool!” I went over and slid beside him on the bench. I'd never even thought of having a theme song, but now I couldn't imagine not having one. “Play it again.”

He did. If joy had a sound, this would be it. The notes swirled and bounced and tickled the air of the theater like laughter. The song went straight to my heart.