Curtain Up (18 page)

Needless to say, the next day we found ourselves in a spiking frenzy. I had my actors walk through the blocking for every
scene while Maxie, Deon, and I scrambled around on our hands and knees, sticking pieces of tape to the floor.

We only had to use Mrs. Becker's boring masking tape to mark the places where set pieces should be placed because Austin had surprised me with several rolls of electrical tape in a whole array of colors. Each performer got to pick out his or her own color, which would make it even easier for them to find their precise places—all they had to do was look for the X in their chosen color. Eddie picked blue
and
orange (Mets fan) for his Xs while Travis picked yellow and black to express his loyalty to the Boston Bruins.

After we'd spiked ourselves silly, we finally got around to doing the cue-to-cue.

It was, as expected, pretty simple: we basically walked the acts on and off the stage, one after the other, while Deon brought the lights up and down between every act.

Lights up. Dance. Lights down. Exit.

Lights up. Monologue. Lights down. Exit.

Lights up. Song. Lights down. Exit.

If we had had a more sophisticated system, we'd have been able to program all kinds of cool changes and effects into a computerized lighting board. I hated to admit it, but I was almost glad we didn't have one, just so Sophia wouldn't get her “pale pink glow.”

Overall, I was pleased. The spike tape made things go a lot more smoothly and efficiently. Sophia complained only once through the entire exercise, which was some kind of a record, I think.

While the cast rehearsed, Susan got proactive and pushed the Quandts' donated table beneath an open window to create a box office. She made a hand-lettered sign that said
TICKETS
and propped it in the window. Five minutes later, to my surprise and delight, Becky's face appeared in the window.

“One please,” she said, handing over five singles.

“Great!” cried Susan. “We're not technically open yet, but since you have exact change, we're good to go.” She slid the bills into the empty cashbox and gave Becky her ticket.

“Hey!” I laughed, hurrying over to the window. “I was planning to comp you a front-row seat. That's kind of a perk of being the director's best friend.”

“Thanks,” said Becky, grinning. “But I'm happy to pay. From what I hear, this show is worth way more than the price of admission!”

“Come on in and look around,” I said.

“Wish I could. Golf lesson. Then a tennis match. Diving practice after that!” She waved through the window and disappeared.

Susan spent the entire morning at the box office window. The good news was that a bunch of neighborhood kids came by asking about the show. The bad news was that none of them plunked five bucks down on the windowsill like Becky had. They did say they were planning to come to the show, which was very encouraging but still didn't change the fact that there were only five measly dollar bills in the cashbox.

I was working with Travis and Mackenzie on their dance number when the door opened.

“Hello there!”

I was surprised to see my mother entering the theater. I left my dancers and rushed across the theater. “Hi, Mom! What's up?”

She handed me an envelope. “This came in the mail for you,” she said. “I imagine it's theater related, so I thought I'd drop it off.”

I glanced at the return address in the corner of the envelope—
The Soft Peddlers, Inc., Port Chester, NY
. It took me a moment to realize it was the bill from the piano tuner. I stuffed it into my pocket, deciding I'd deal with it later when the cast was gone.

“Thanks, Mom,” I said, staring purposefully at the door.

Mom laughed. “Okay, okay, I'm leaving. I know you want the show to be a big surprise.”

“Hey, wait!” cried Susan. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

“What's that?”

“You forgot to buy your tickets.”

“Susan!” I cried. “Mom and Dad and Nana and Papa are our guests. They get house seats for free.”

“No, no,” said Mom quickly, opening her purse. “Susan's right. This is a professional operation, and I'm happy to purchase our tickets. At full price.”

“Good! They're five bucks apiece.” Susan held out her hand with a big smile.

Four front-row seats and twenty dollars later, Mom left the theater.

And I went back to Kenzie and Travis, forgetting all about the bill in my pocket.

When everyone was gone, Susan stood beside the old table and frowned at the cashbox, which now held twenty-five dollars. “I sure hope there's a lot more than that on opening night,” she said.

“Don't worry,” I said. “That's what happens with general admission. Maybe next time we should assign seats. That might create more of a buzz. You know . . . buy early, get better seats.”

Susan laughed. “You never cease to amaze me with your ability to think like a theater tycoon.”

The problem was, I didn't feel much like a tycoon at the moment. I'd spent nearly all our dues money on the T-shirts, and I still had to pay my parents back for the paper and the cleaning supplies. And right now it remained to be seen how much we'd earn in ticket sales.

With a jolt, I remembered the bill in my pocket and my stomach flipped over. I pulled it out and stared at it.

“Whatcha got there?” asked Austin.

“It's from the piano tuner!” I said, slipping my finger under the flap and tearing it open.

Two hundred and eighty dollars?
I felt myself sway on my feet. There was a date on the invoice too, indicating that the Soft Peddlers would like to be paid before the end of the week.

“Anya, are you all right?” Susan sounded nervous. “You
just went completely pale.”

Pale? It was a miracle I hadn't passed out! I'd never in a billion years imagined it would cost close to three hundred dollars to tune a crummy old upright piano. Then it occurred to me that maybe its being so crummy and old was precisely why it
had
cost so much to fix.

Austin raised one eyebrow. “How much?”

I showed him the invoice, being careful to let my thumb cover the “pay by” date.

He turned as pale as I had. “Wow.”

“I know, right?” I shook my head. “I never expected it to be so expensive. I mean, what's this sticky key thing about?”

“It's about a key that was sticky.” His expression turned guilty. “I complained to the guy about it.”

“But it was
only
one key,” I said. “Couldn't you have just played without it?”

Austin looked at me like I was nuts. “Um . . . no.”

He was right, of course. And since the piano was our only source of music, I knew that the fee for tuning it was money well spent. It's just that it was an awful
lot
of money well spent.

“The dues will cover part of it,” said Austin. “Won't they?”

“We collected one hundred and thirty bucks,” said Susan. “We only need one hundred and fifty dollars more. If we sell
all fifty tickets at five dollars each, that gives us . . . um”—she did the math in her head—“two hundred fifty bucks. That plus the dues money, minus . . . what? Maybe fifty bucks we owe Mom and Dad for the cleaning and office supplies we used and the twenty-five you gave Maxie? That's seventy-five. Okay . . . well, that leaves us with three hundred and five dollars. Plenty to pay the piano guys, and even a few bucks left over for”—she waggled her eyebrows at me—“I'm thinking . . . cast party!”

“I like the sound of that,” said Austin.

So did I. But what they didn't know was that I'd impulsively blown ninety-seven of our one hundred and thirty dollars on extremely cool but entirely unnecessary custom cast T-shirts.

“Then again, we still have to buy a few things,” Susan reminded me. “Maxie says we need bobby pins and a couple of pairs of false eyelashes. And remember in the cue-to-cue, when Madeline accidently stepped on one of the Christmas bulbs?”

“There goes the cast party.” Austin chuckled.

I guess my feelings showed on my face because Austin placed a hand on my shoulder and smiled.

“Cheer up,” he said. “Most businesses don't turn a profit right away. At least we haven't lost any money.”

I gulped and forced a smile. “Yeah,” I croaked. “At least we haven't done that.”

“Look,” he said, “once we have that ticket money, I'm sure we'll be able to afford the tuning cost. But dress rehearsal is in two days, and the show goes up on Saturday night. So let's just focus on the revue for now and not worry about the piano guys until after we count our earnings. Okay?”

I nodded. “Okay.”

But for me, not worrying was a lot easier said than done.

That night after dinner I told my parents I was going out for a walk.

It had taken me a full hour to make my decision, and then another hour to convince myself to actually go through with it. It was almost eight o'clock when I finally left the house.

The walk to Sophia Ciancio's front door was the longest of my life.

I knocked—then immediately considered turning and sprinting back home.

But I didn't. I couldn't. I had run out of options.

A minute later the door opened.

“Anya,” said Sophia, looking surprised. “What are you
doing here?”

I let out a long rush of breath. “Well, Sophia,” I said glumly, “I have something I think you might be interested in.”

I showed her what I'd been holding behind my back, and the corners of her mouth turned up into a cool smile. Eyes shining, she stepped aside and let me in.

I had a very strange feeling on Thursday. All day, in fact, from the moment Susan and I had set out for the theater. I tried to tell myself it had nothing to do with the heart-wrenching business transaction I'd conducted the night before. But I hadn't had any other choice. In real theater there are
backers
, wealthy bigwigs who invest in shows. At Random Farms there was me . . . and I needed to recoup the money I had spent on those T-shirts. So I'd taken matters in my own hands and solved our financial problems the only way I could think of.