Curtain Up (14 page)

Later, Deon's mom, a former elementary school art teacher, arrived bearing two enormous shopping bags filled to bursting with art supplies. There were two huge rolls of mural paper, several packages of construction paper, tempera paint, and paintbrushes in a range of sizes. . . . The works!

“This stuff has been collecting dust in the attic since I retired,” she said. “I thought perhaps you could put it to good use making backdrops and posters.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Becker,” I said, accepting the coffee can full of magic markers she offered. “This is really generous of you. And I'm sure none of it will go to waste.” I was already envisioning a splashy glittery backdrop for Mackenzie's dance solo.

“All right, then.” Mrs. Becker smiled and waved to Deon, who was checking a wire. “Let's go, Deon. Dinner isn't going
to make itself.”

“Dinner?” I looked at my watch. “How did it get to be five o'clock already?”

“Five o'clock?” cried Mackenzie. “I've got a ballet class at five thirty. I've got to go!” She grabbed her things and bolted out the door.

“If anyone's still wearing a costume,” Maxie said loudly, “please leave it in the wardrobe department!”

This resulted in a mad rush to the storage closet, with feather boas, crinoline skirts, and cowboy hats flying in every direction.

“Don't forget to take your scripts and sheet music with you,” Austin reminded the cast. “We expect you to practice at home.”

In a matter of three minutes the entire theater was empty except for me, Austin, and Susan.

And Jane. I had meant to talk to her about “Maybe,” but evidently, she was taking matters into her own hands.

“Anya, do you have a second?”

“Sure, Jane.”

She didn't beat around the bush. “I was really hoping for a solo.”

“I know . . .,” I began. “And I wish I could have given you one. But . . .” I trailed off, unsure of what to say next.

Austin saved me. “It was an artistic decision,” he said, which didn't exactly explain the bigger problem of Jane's inability to stay on key, but it sounded good.

“Sophia got a solo and she didn't even audition,” Jane reminded us. “Was that an artistic decision too?”

“No, that was a business decision,” I said with a sigh.

Jane frowned, but she didn't look angry or even insulted. She looked curious. “I don't understand.”

I didn't know how to explain my choice without hurting her feelings. Then I noticed her backpack with the magazine stuffed into the outside pocket, and inspiration struck.

“Okay,” I said. “Remember how you and Mia and the others were doing that ‘on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten' thing earlier? That quiz to see which Dream Four member would make the best boyfriend?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Well, I heard you give Dylan Hastings a five for hairstyle, an eight for dance moves, and a nine-point-two for . . . what was it again?”

Jane's eyes shot to Austin, and her cheeks turned bright pink. “Kissability.”

“Right. Then Mia gave his band mate Li'l Q a seven for hair, a three for dance, and a ten for . . . ya' know . . . the kissing thing.”

“That's because Li'l Q is a total hottie.”

“But when you add up the points, Dylan earns a”—I did some quick mental math—“a twenty-two-point-two, whereas Li'l Q scores only a twenty. So that means even though both of them are big stars in a hot band, according to the quiz, Dylan has the most boyfriend potential.”

“I get that,” said Jane. “But what's it got to do with my singing audition?”

“If I were going to score you and Mia on the same kind of number scale, I would have given you a ten for enthusiasm. Unfortunately, I would have given you only a five for your ability to match pitch. Mia, on the other hand, would have gotten a ten in both categories.”

“Which means Mia was the one with the most solo potential,” Austin clarified.

“I know you're disappointed,” I said as gently as I could. “But I hope you understand that Austin and I cast the show as we thought best. That doesn't mean it won't happen eventually. Maybe I can ask Mia to help you work on matching pitch.”

I wished I could have said, “Maybe you'll get a solo next time,” but who knew if there'd even
be
a next time?

“But, Anya,” said Jane, with a whine in her voice, “I really wanted to sing ‘Maybe.' ”

“I get that. But you have to understand how casting works. Lots of actors want parts they don't get. You're going to be an important part of the show, even without a solo. I'm the director, and the director decides.”

Jane sighed, folded her arms, and tapped her foot.

“Was there anything else?” I asked.

She looked at me for a long moment. “I guess not,” she said a bit saucily.

With that, she turned and left.

“Ugh,” I said. “That was awkward.”

Austin gave me a sympathetic look. “It's true, you know.”

“What's true?”

“You're the director. The director is the boss.”

“I've never been good at being bossy,” I confessed.

“Being the boss is different than being bossy. Bossy people just like to throw their weight around, but the boss is the person who keeps things going smoothly, the one with the vision, the one who takes charge and shoulders the responsibility.”

“Sounds exhausting,” I said.

“Oh, it will be,” Austin said on a chuckle. “But you can handle it. You just have to remember to stand your ground and stick to your principles and focus on what's best for the show.”

I smiled. It felt good to have Austin backing me up this way.

“Let's call it a day,” I said, heading for the door.

“I think I'm gonna hang around for a bit,” said Austin, glancing toward the piano. “I've got a few more bars of that melody stuck in my brain, and I want to get them down before I lose them.”

“Okay,” I said, tossing him the key. “Lock up.”

As I headed down the front steps, I heard him at the piano playing the catchy tune of our as-yet-unfinished theme song. It really did have a way of getting into your head. In fact, I found myself whistling it the whole way home.

The rest of the week was a blur of scenes, songs, dance routines, and other prep work. I suppose things went as smoothly as they could have, considering we were seventeen kids flying by the seats of our pants. I found myself making new rules as situations arose, like “No throwing baseballs in the theater, Sam” (after a very near miss with a canister light), and “Chewed bubble gum
must
go in the wastebasket, Maddie” (following an unfortunate but hilarious incident with a sticky pink blob and Sophia Ciancio's new designer sandals).

Mostly, though, it was about the theater and the work, about the acting and singing and dancing. I took great pleasure in seeing my cast improve. By Thursday, Eddie barely complained about the dancing anymore, and somewhere during “Seize the Day,” Jane actually started singing on pitch. I guess Mia had found some time to work with her. Another happy development was watching as we changed from a bunch of kids who happened to live in the same town to an actual company of actors and, in some cases, friends.

And in one instance . . . significant others.

Which was why rule number three was: “No holding hands during the opening number, Maddie and Spencer.”

“Why not?” Spencer asked.

“Well, for one thing, it messes up the dance steps,” I told him as patiently as I could. “And for another, it makes Elle and Eddie giggle uncontrollably. So can we possibly hold the romance until after rehearsal?”

Maddie blushed, but Spencer agreed.

Then Austin leaned in close to me and whispered, “Maybe in the next show we should give those two a scene from
Romeo and Juliet
.”

“Maybe,” I said, trying not to be flustered by the leaning-in-and-whispering element of the conversation. “Although, I'm pretty sure a balcony would break our budget. And
besides”—I stopped when I realized what he'd just said—“you really think we're going to do another show?”

“That's the plan, isn't it?”

“Well, yeah, but . . .” I felt my skin tingling with anticipation. I'd been trying not to think too much beyond this first performance, since it required every ounce of my focus and attention. Not to mention, I was afraid of getting my hopes up. But the way Austin had said it, the way he'd so casually and confidently referred to our “next show,” really made it feel possible.

On Friday at five o'clock, my parents surprised us by having six large pizzas delivered to the theater. Dad and Mom showed up with napkins, paper cups, and soda and joined us for the impromptu dinner party.

“Anya, the theater is gorgeous,” said Mom.

“I don't see a curtain, though,” said Dad.

“Working on it,” I mumbled around a mouthful of sausage and mushrooms.

I noticed that Mackenzie had opted not to eat any pizza, not even a slice.

“Must be a ballerina thing,” Austin guessed as we watched Kenzie offer her pepperoni slice to Maxie, who accepted it happily.

When dinner was through, I sent the company home,
reminding them to rest their voices over the weekend. In recognition of all my (and Susan's) hard work, Mom and Dad offered to stick around and clear away the paper plates and pizza boxes for us. At first I said no thanks, because the theater was my responsibility after all, which meant the cast's mess was my mess. But Mom insisted, citing the dark circles under my eyes and the fact that Susan couldn't seem to stop yawning.

“Go home and relax,” said Dad. “I'm sure even Andrew Lloyd Webber takes a break now and then.”

“Okay,” I said at last. “Thanks. And don't forget to lock up.” I tossed Mom the key, gave them each a hug, and hurried out the door to catch up with Mackenzie, who was heading in the same direction.

“Kenz!” I called. “Wait up.” When I reached her, I gave her a big grateful smile. “I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all your help with the choreography, and with teaching the less experienced dancers.”

“You're totally welcome,” she said. “I like teaching. It's been kind of nice being the one not
taking
orders for a change.”

“Orders?”

“Oh, well . . . you know what I mean. My dance teachers can be pretty intense. For me, dance is serious business. Like
for you theater is business.”

“Business,” I repeated. “Right. But ballet can also be fun, can't it?”

Mackenzie just smiled and sighed. We started walking again.

“Anyway,” I continued, “I just wanted to tell you that we're going to list you as dance captain in the program.”

“That's awesome. Thanks.”

We walked a little farther, enjoying the early evening quiet that had settled over the neighborhood. But there was a question nagging at the back of my mind, and when we reached the end of her driveway, I blurted it out.

“Don't you like pizza?”

She looked at me strangely. “I love it.”

“So . . . why did you give your piece to Maxie?”

Mackenzie's eyes darted quickly to the front door of her house, then back to me. “I like pizza a lot. And cheeseburgers and cupcakes and banana splits . . . but ballerinas tend to stay away from foods like that.”

She laughed, although I wasn't sure why. Passing up banana splits didn't seem at all humorous to me. I loved banana splits.

“Don't worry,” she said with a wave. “I'm sure there's a big plate of broiled chicken and steamed veggies waiting for me
on the kitchen table.”

I tried to return her laughter, but I still wasn't sure what was funny.

“See you on Monday, Anya,” she said, making her way gracefully up the walk.

“See ya, Kenz,” I replied. I almost added, “Enjoy the veggies,” but something told me the joke—whatever it had been—was over.