Curtain Up (5 page)

“Don't know why I have to bother keeping up a place nobody uses,” he muttered, yanking a weed and tossing it over his shoulder. “Waste of time, if you ask me.”

“Who's that?” Austin whispered.

“Mr. Healy,” Susan whispered back. “He takes care of all the common spaces in the neighborhood. He's kind of grouchy.”

We watched Mr. Healy jerk another dandelion out of the earth and fling it into the growing pile behind him.

“Doesn't seem to enjoy his job very much,” Austin noted.

“Can't blame him,” I allowed. “Nobody's used the clubhouse in years. It seems silly to bother keeping it tidy.”

“The older ladies in the neighborhood are always complaining that it's an eyesore,” said Susan. “That's why the president of the Neighborhood Association insists that Mr. Healy keep the place neat.”

I gave my sister a sideways look. “How do you know this?”

“Don't you ever listen when Mom talks to Mrs. Quandt next door?”

“No, I don't,” I said. “Because
I'm
not a spy.”

“I'm not a spy either!” said Susan. “I just like to stay in the loop.”

Despite my gloomy mood, I had to smile.

As Mr. Healy continued to attack the yellow weeds and chuck them over his shoulder, my eyes went to the enormous old clubhouse building behind him. It was a giant barn with fading red paint and white trim around the large paned windows. In spite of its shoddy appearance, I could see that the building was still sturdy.

I had been inside only once, six years ago. Just before the Neighborhood Association had closed the clubhouse's doors for good, they'd used it to host an old-time ice cream social
on the Fourth of July.

I could still picture the interior: a big wide-open space with great light and a tall ceiling. The contractor who'd built our subdivision had done a great job of turning it from a barn into a gathering spot. He'd added restrooms, electricity, and even a stage.

A stage! Complete with a PA system, which came in handy because somehow they'd wrangled Mr. Healy into reading the Declaration of Independence in a Thomas Jefferson costume.

There was even an old upright piano, on which one of the older neighborhood girls had played “Yankee Doodle.”

Thinking back, that whole delightful day was just like a scene out of
The Music Man
.

Without warning, an idea hit me. An idea that seemed to announce itself as loudly as . . . as . . . seventy-six trombones!

“
Ye Gads!
” I cried.

“Anya,” said Austin, narrowing his eyes, “Why are you quoting
The Music Man
?”

I didn't answer him.

Because I'd already taken off across the clubhouse lawn, heading straight for Mr. Healy.

Ten minutes later I returned to the curb where Austin and Susan were waiting for me, looking totally baffled.

“What was that all about?” Austin asked.

“Just a little business deal,” I said, grinning. “We're going to rent the clubhouse as our theater venue.”

Austin blinked. Susan's mouth dropped open.

I giggled. “Okay, well, not rent, exactly. More like barter. See, I told Mr. Healy that I . . . actually
we
. . . would be glad to take over all the clubhouse landscaping duties in exchange for being allowed to use the barn for our theater rehearsals and performance. I told him we'd clean up the inside, too.”

“Anya, that's brilliant,” said Susan.

Austin was shaking his head in amazement. “You really are an expert producer. This place will be perfect. And cutting the grass and sweeping out the inside is a small price to pay.”

“Well, there is one slight problem,” I said, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my shorts.

“How slight?” asked Susan.

“Mr. Healy says it's all right with him, but he doesn't have the final say.”

“Who does?”

“The president of the Neighborhood Association does.”

“Ugh.” Susan, who was “in the loop,” understood immediately why this constituted a problem.

“I don't get why that's an issue,” said Austin, his eyes shooting from me to Susan then back to me. “Who is the president of the Neighborhood Association?”

“Dr. Ciancio,” I said, letting out a long rush of breath. “Sophia's father.”

The next morning I hurried downstairs, eager to talk to my sister. It had taken me forever to fall asleep the night before, since my mind was reeling with ideas for the theater. At midnight Austin had texted me (a boy texting in the middle of the night? How cool was that?) to let me know he'd been working on the revue from the minute he'd gotten home. I texted back that he just might be the most dedicated playwright in the history of the universe. I got a smiley face in response.

I finally dozed off only to wake up again at three in the morning in a complete panic. What if, despite Susan's Twitter popularity, no one wanted to sign up for the Random Farms Kids' Theater?

What if I failed?

I slid into my place at the breakfast table and looked at my sister.

“So?” I asked. I was so anxious, I nearly knocked over my juice glass. “Any interest?”

Her answer was a huge smile. “Well, we aren't exactly trending worldwide, but there's definitely a buzz. Kids are retweeting and favorite-ing like crazy, and my phone's been lighting up like a fireworks display with people asking for more information, like when and where the theater's going to be.”

“Hopefully, by this afternoon we'll have answers for them.”

Mom was sitting at the table, drinking her second cup of coffee and reading the
New York Times
. Dad was loading the dishwasher.

“Susan and I won't be coming straight home from school today,” I informed my parents. “We'll be stopping by the Ciancios' house. I need to ask Dr. Ciancio a very important question.”

Mom put her newspaper down and gave me a serious look. “Anya, what's wrong? Aren't you feeling well?”

“Oh, I'm fine, Mom. It's not a medical question. It's a Neighborhood Association question.”

“Since when are you interested in Neighborhood Association matters?” asked Dad.

“Since we can't have the theater in the house,” I said. Then, in case that sounded snarky, I quickly added, “And since I remembered the clubhouse was vacant and actually has a stage.”

“Well, now.” Mom grinned. “Somebody's thinking like a producer, I see.”

“We're going to trade landscaping services for permission to use the clubhouse,” I explained.

“It's a win-win situation for everyone,” said Susan.

“What makes you think the good doctor is going to be home on a weekday?” asked Dad.

“His office closes at noon on Fridays,” said Susan. “He has a standing tennis match with the editor of the local newspaper, Ms. Bradley, at one thirty, which, according to Mrs. Quandt, he can only get away with because he's the best gastroenterologist in Chappaqua, so not offering Friday afternoon appointments really doesn't hurt his practice at all. Also, he and Ms. Bradley are now officially dating, which Mrs. Quandt thinks is a positive development, especially since his divorce from Mrs. Ciancio was so messy.”

“Wow,” I said, sipping my orange juice. “You really are in the loop!”

“Hmmm.” Dad jiggled a drinking glass into the dishwasher's top rack. “Well, Anya, I wouldn't get your hopes up. Frank Ciancio is kind of a stickler for rules. I'm sure he'll have all kinds of concerns about insurance and liability.”

“Mr. Healy told me the association has been paying for insurance on the clubhouse for the last six years,” I reported. “He said it would make sense for someone in the neighborhood to get some use out of it, especially since it wouldn't cost Cranky Frankie one extra penny to let us have it.”

“Anya!” my mother scolded. “That's very disrespectful.”

“Anya wasn't the one who called Dr. Ciancio ‘Cranky Frankie,' Mom,” Susan pointed out in my defense. “Mr. Healy was.”

Dad closed the dishwasher and hit the rinse-and-hold button. “I like how Healy thinks,” he murmured.

Mom sighed and picked up her newspaper again. “Go to school, girls,” she said. “And please, when you talk to Dr. Ciancio, remember to be polite.”

I'll be polite, all right
, I thought, plucking my schoolbag from the back of my chair.
I'm even prepared to beg if have to.

I only hoped I wouldn't have to.

It was like every other last day of school of my life except for two things: one, for the first time ever, I found myself crushed into a group of girls crowded around the gym bulletin board, checking out the new soccer team roster. Becky's name was at the top of the list. Mine was nowhere to be found. No surprises there.

And two, depending on Dr. Ciancio's decision, I might be walking out of school and into a summer that promised more than just Tuesday afternoons at the town pool and Saturdays at the mall.

As Becky accepted congratulatory hugs and high fives from her new teammates, I turned and headed for the exit. I would call her later to tell her how proud of her I was, but right now I had somewhere to be.

I was just crossing the baseball diamond when I heard her voice.

“Anya! Wait up.”

I turned and smiled, waiting for her to catch up (which, given her long-legged stride and natural speed, didn't take long).

“Are you okay?” she asked, tugging at the ends of her blond ponytail.

“I'm fine,” I said, throwing my arms around her. “And congratulations! I knew you'd make the team.”

“Thanks. But . . . but are you really upset about getting cut?”

“I think we both knew I never had a chance.”

Becky gave me a curious look. “Well, if you aren't bummed about not making the team, why did you leave so suddenly?”

“Oh!” I laughed. “I need to be somewhere. I have a meeting.”

“A meeting? What kind of meeting?”

“A meeting to discuss”—I flung my arms out wide in a big ta-da gesture—“my theater.”