Curtain Up (17 page)

Oh, who was I kidding . . . it
was
snarky. So I bit my lip and waved to him as he left.

“Have a good weekend!” he called as the door swung closed.

“Thanks!” I called back. I just didn't have it in me to say,
You too
.

Over the weekend, Susan and I handled “the paperwork.” This included making the tickets and the program on the computer.

“How many do we need?” Susan wondered aloud, her index finger hovering over the laptop's track pad.

Honestly, I had no idea. I did know there were fifty folding chairs (Austin had counted) stored under the stage in our theater. I wished there were more; the clubhouse space was certainly roomy enough for at least one hundred chairs. Not that I even dared to dream we'd have a full house.

“Let's see,” I said. “There are seventeen kids, with two parents each, so that's thirty-four parents.” I frowned. “But Mia and Eddie and you and I share a set of parents so that becomes . . . thirty parents total.”

“I bet Nana Adele and Papa Harold will want to see the show,” said Susan.

“Yes! And I'm sure all the other kids have Nanas and Papas, or grandmas and grandpas or what-have-yous who'd be interested too.”

Unfortunately, this presented a far more complicated calculation. There were a lot of unknowns in the equation. Some grandparents lived far away, and others probably didn't like to drive at night.

“Well, Gracie's Yiayia and Papou live in Greece,” said Susan, “so I'm thinking we can count them out.”

“Austin is inviting Mrs. Warde, the English teacher, to the show.”

“Ugh,” said Susan. “She'll probably want to grade us on it.”

“And I know the Quandts wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“I think Sam said some of the kids on his baseball team might come.”

“Don't forget about all those posters you put up,” Susan reminded me. “I'm sure those will draw some customers.”

Maybe we would have a decent-size audience after all. Or maybe we'd wind up with Nana, Papa, thirty obligated parents, and eighteen empty folding chairs. Right now it was anybody's guess.

“Make fifty programs,” I said, feeling optimistic.

Susan hit the track pad, and the printer began to whir.

Truth be told, I'd be perfectly happy with fifty theatergoers. Heck, I'd be happy with five as long as somebody showed up to see what we'd accomplished.

Just so all our hard work wouldn't go to waste.

As I watched the pages zip out of the printer, I felt my fingers crossing of their own accord.
Please don't let that theater be empty on opening night
, I thought.

And it wasn't just for me I was making this wish.

It was for my cast.

Tech Week had arrived. We couldn't hold rehearsal on Monday, because of the Fourth of July holiday, but I told myself this was a good thing. We all needed a break, and what could be better than a long weekend with fireworks and patriotic parades to put us all in the right mind-set? Musical theater was, after all, the great American art form.

On Tuesday I got up early and decided to make a to do list for this final and crucial week of rehearsal. It was only just beginning to sink in how close we were to opening night. The show went up on Saturday—in exactly five days. And we still had a ton of kinks to work out. The thought made me feel excited and nervous. Confident and at the same time completely and totally in over my head.

But I never turned away from a challenge. So I sat down at the kitchen table and made my checklist.

I read my list over three times but feared that once again I'd forgotten something important.

I was almost certain there was something else . . . a tenth to do item, but for the life of me, I couldn't think of what it
could be. All the way to the clubhouse theater, I wracked my brain trying to think of what it could be.

One slight problem was that I had no money to use for change in the cashbox. I'd already spent ninety-seven dollars of our one hundred and thirty dollars in dues money on the T-shirts. Then I'd given Maxie twenty-five of the remaining thirty-three dollars for makeup essentials. This left me with a whopping eight bucks in our theater fund (barely enough to replace Mom's economy-size bottle of Windex). For now I would just hope that anyone who wanted to purchase tickets today came with exact change.

Lugging my trash bag full of custom Random Farms T-shirts, I unlocked the theater door and stepped inside. I knew this was the beginning of what might just be the most important week of my life. I quickly tucked the bag under the stage with the folding chairs. My plan was to hand out the shirts sometime before Friday's dress rehearsal. This way the cast could wear them during their bows while singing Austin's original theme song!

Which Austin was still working on and therefore we hadn't rehearsed yet, with or without the harmonies that may or may not be still stuck in his head.

As if by some unspoken agreement, every member of my cast (well, almost) arrived good and early—they knew this
was a big day, and it did my heart good to know that they were taking it seriously. Even Sophia managed to show up on time, which for her was a major accomplishment.

After referring to my to do list, I decided that my first task was to make Madeline turn in her pack of bubble gum at the door. Then I sent Eddie to refill the soap dispensers in the restrooms.

So what hadn't I done?

I decided not to dwell on it, whatever it was. Sooner or later it would come to me.

Today was to be our first day of the process known as tech rehearsal. That was when the show was rehearsed using all the technical aspects—like sound and lighting and set changes—to be sure they would run smoothly for the performance.

For us this would be ridiculously easy, since we didn't really have all that much tech. For stage lighting there were only the simple overhead canister lights, which didn't do anything but go up and down. The only additional lighting element was the strand of holiday lights Deon had staple-gunned to the front edge of the stage. Unfortunately, there were no spotlights.

“No spotlights?” Sophia threw her hands up in disgust. “Why is this the first I'm hearing of it?”

“You would have known it,” I said tightly, “if you hadn't skipped out on the first rehearsal to go to Daria's pool party.”

Sophia ignored the barb. “How am I going to sing my solo without a spotlight?” she fumed. “I pictured myself haloed in a glowing circle of pale pink light.”

“Sorry,” said Deon, “but look at it this way: without a spotlight, people might not notice how raggedy your costume is.”

Maxie shot him a look.

“What
ever
!” Sophia rolled her eyes. “Just body mic me and get it over with.”

“About that . . .,” said Austin.

“No mics, either?” Sophia looked stricken. “You can't be serious. First you aren't going to light me, now you won't even mic me?”

“Don't worry about it,” said Teddy. “You're plenty loud enough without one.”

“That's because I know how to
project
!” she screamed.

“So it's not a problem,” said Austin. “You don't
need
a mic. You can project.”

“That's one word for it,” Susan mumbled.

“It's the principle of the thing,” Sophia huffed.

Since we didn't have a stage crew, Deon and Maxie had been appointed co–stage managers; they would be responsible for changing backdrops, switching out props and set
pieces, and of course, operating the curtain.

The curtain!

That
was what I'd forgotten.

I felt like I'd just been punched in the gut.

“What's wrong, Anya?” asked Susan. “You look like you're gonna be sick or something.”

“I never got around to finding a curtain,” I confessed. “How could I forget the curtain? It's, like, the first thing people think of when they think of a theater.”

No one disagreed. I vowed silently to handle it before the end of the week. I wanted a curtain. My cast wanted a curtain. Who would ever take us seriously if we didn't have a curtain?

But right now I had to focus on rehearsal.

“Let's get started,” I said, clapping my hands briskly.

Everyone hurried into the wings (although without a curtain, they really weren't all that winglike). There was a cacophony of whispering, giggling, and shuffling of feet.

“It's going to have to be a lot quieter back there on opening night!” I warned.

But this accomplished nothing; in fact, it made things worse by setting off a series of overly loud
shhhhhhhh
s.

Susan and Austin lowered the old roller shades on the windows, and when Deon hit the main light switch that controlled the house lights, the whole interior of the theater
turned dusky gray.

This did the trick; the noisy fidgeting from the wings stopped instantly, and a hush fell over the place.

“That's more like it,” said Austin with a grin.

“Places for the opening number!” I commanded.

Everyone crept onto the shadowy stage.

“Move over, Elle.”

“Teddy, you're supposed to be over there.”

“No, Jane stands there. I stand here.”

“How can you stand here when I'm supposed to stand here?”

“Mackenzie has to be in front. If Mackenzie's not in front, I won't remember the steps.”

“Mackenzie
is
in front.”

“Eddie!”

“What?”

“We haven't even started to dance, and you're already stepping on my foot.”

With a sigh, I turned the main lights back on. Twelve faces turned to me.

“What's the problem?” asked Susan.

“We forgot to spike,” I said.

“Spike?” Spencer repeated. “That sounds kinda dangerous.”

I explained that spiking was the practice of marking
places onstage with small pieces of tape so the actors would always know exactly where to stand. Spike tape came in all different colors, and some varieties even glowed in the dark.

“So, let's spike now,” Susan suggested.

“Great idea,” I said. “Except we don't have any tape.”

“Check the bag of art stuff my mom brought,” said Deon.

I hurried over to where we'd left the shopping bags and, sure enough, there was a roll of ordinary masking tape. It wouldn't glow in the dark, but at least for the moment it would keep my performers from clobbering one another on stage.

I was just tearing off the first piece of tape when I heard a car horn out front. I looked out the box office window. A silver minivan was parked at the curb, and a black station wagon was pulling up behind it.

I checked my watch, surprised as always to see that the time had gotten away from us.

“I guess we're done for today,” I said glumly. “See everyone back here tomorrow.”