Curtain Up (8 page)

He did. Much better.

“Now . . . knee, knee, twist, twist . . . arms up . . . box step . . . That's it!”

Austin beamed. “Hey, I think I'm getting the hang of it.”

“You are! Now slide, slide. . . .”

He slid. Unfortunately, he slid right into the refrigerator, elbowed the ice dispenser, and sent an avalanche of ice cubes clattering to the floor.

“All right then,” said Susan, sighing. “Austin,
you
handle the folding chairs.
I'll
do the dance demo.”

I hated to admit it, but it sounded like a good idea. Not only for the good of the show but for the good of Mom's kitchen, as well.

I put Austin to work creating what Susan had alluded to as “the paperwork.” In all honesty, I hadn't thought about that until she'd made it up, but we were going to need to get some stuff in writing. For example, we'd need to gather information on everyone who was cast in the show—addresses, phone numbers, emergency contacts (although I sincerely hoped we wouldn't need to use those). I'd also need to get a feel for the level of prior theater experience the kids would be bringing to the project. Professional actors and dancers would have a headshot and a résumé to present at a casting call. But I wasn't likely to see any of those.

I told Austin what I was thinking, and he said he'd come up with some kind of questionnaire designed to give us the info we'd need.

“I just thought of something,” said Susan. “Are you
auditioning kids to see who should have what part in the show, or to see who gets to be
in
the show at all?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is everyone who signs up automatically in, like the parks and rec co-ed softball team? Or is it going to be more like middle-school soccer, where some people make the cut and others get the ‘thanks, but we've decided to go in another direction' line?”

I looked at her. “Another direction?”

“Yeah. Isn't that what show biz types say when they really mean ‘you have no talent'?”

She was kind of right. “Another direction” was code for “we're going to pick someone else.” I bit my lip. “You mean like the old, ‘don't call us, we'll call you' brush-off.”

Susan nodded.

“That's a good question,” said Austin.

I took a moment to consider it. I hated the idea of making anyone feel like they weren't good enough, but I wanted my show—our show—to be as awesome as possible. And I'd
seen
those parks and rec softball games. . . .

“I think we should only take kids who are truly talented,” I said. “Don't you guys?”

I glanced at Austin. He shrugged. Susan looked equally undecided.

But I was the director, so the decision was ultimately mine to make.

“We've decided to go in another direction,” I said, practicing the line. “So, thanks, but don't call us, we'll call you.”

Somewhere deep down, I didn't really like the way those words sounded. But if it were for the good of the show, then I would just have to get used to it.

“Okay,” I said, “let's take it from the top.”

On Sunday morning I jumped out of bed with every Broadway tune I'd ever heard spinning in my head. I would be meeting Austin at the clubhouse at ten, where we would pick up the key from Mr. Healy. Susan had texted and tweeted that signups and auditions would begin promptly at eleven o'clock.

First we'd have our Welcome to Random Farms meeting, where I would explain that this was not just some goofy summer activity but a real, actual, as-professional-as-it-can-possibly-be theater. I planned to sound friendly, but very directorial, so that everyone would know I was in charge.

I liked the idea of being in charge. I was also a little bit terrified of it. Theater is like that, I realized. It has a way of making you feel everything at once.

I banged on Susan's door. “Get up!” I called. “Big day.”

“Uuuuuhhhhhhnnnnnnnggggg” was her reply. Susan was never much of a morning person.

I practically skipped downstairs to make breakfast.

Neatly tucked into my backpack and waiting by the front door was my laptop and one of Dad's legal pads with a pen clipped to it (old-school again!). There were also the questionnaires Austin had printed out, along with the scenes and monologues and lyric sheets. In just one hour Susan and I would hop in the car, and Mom would drive us the short distance to the clubhouse so we wouldn't have to lug all the rakes and hedge clippers and cleaning products we'd need to clean up the place after auditions. I would have liked to have gotten that task out of the way yesterday, but by the time we'd finished with the choreography and the paperwork, there hadn't been time. We'd just have to apologize to the actors for the condition of the venue and assure them that by the time they returned the next day to start rehearsals, it would look terrific.

Of course, those who wouldn't be returning for rehearsals wouldn't have that pleasure.

I pushed the thought out of my head and started humming to myself as I opened the fridge and grabbed a carton of orange juice.

“That's appropriate,” Susan grumbled, padding sleepily into the kitchen.

“What is?”

“The song you're humming.”

I laughed, because I hadn't even realized what it was: “I Want to Be a Producer.”

It seemed like a lifetime had passed before we were finally climbing into Mom's car and heading to the clubhouse.

Make that . . . the theater.

I was happy to see Austin already sitting on the front steps. He hurried over to the car to help us unload the yard tools and cleaning stuff.

“Mr. Healy came by,” he informed me, holding up the key.

My heart skipped a beat when he handed it to me, although it was hard to say whether it was because I was receiving the key to my very own theater or because Austin's fingertips brushed against mine as I took it.

I fitted the key into the rusted lock, turned the knob, and gave the oversize door a gentle push. It swung inward, creaking on its hinges. I peeked inside. I knew this was a moment I would remember for the rest of my life.

There, at the far end of the big barn, was the stage, empty and dusty, and filled with promise.

“Let's see!” cried Susan, slipping past me, her broom
propped on her shoulder. Two steps in, she stopped short, just staring. “Wow, Anya,” she said softly. “This is . . . this is . . .”

“Real,” I said.

It was the only word that came to mind.

It was the only word that would do.

Mackenzie Fleisch was the first to arrive.

“Kenzie!” I cried. “I'm so glad you're here.”

“Me too,” said Mackenzie. “I was totally psyched when I saw Susan's tweet. I think an all-kids theater is a great idea.” She looked around at the worse-for-wear clubhouse space, and I could tell she wasn't overly impressed. “What are you calling this place?”

“Personally,” said Susan, “I call it, ‘the place where Mom doesn't have her office.' ”

“The Clubhouse Theater has a nice ring to it,” I said, coming up with it off the top of my head. “We're going to clean it up this afternoon,” I added quickly. “And redecorate.”

“So . . .,” said Susan, folding her arms and giving Kenzie a challenging look. “How'd you get your mom to let you skip dance class to join our theater?”

I frowned at my sister. “Susan! That was rude.”

“No, it wasn't,” said Susan. “Everybody knows Mackenzie is going to be a professional ballerina. She dances every single day, and last year Mrs. Fleisch wouldn't let her take horseback riding lessons because it would have taken too much time away from her dancing. So I was just wondering.”

Mackenzie's smile faltered for only half a second, and then she was grinning again. “It's fine, Anya,” she said. “Susan's absolutely right. I had to practically beg my mother to let me do this, but she finally said it would be okay.”

I noticed that Austin was staring at Mackenzie's feet, which she'd shifted as she spoke; they were now planted heel-to-heel on the brick walkway, her toes pointing in opposite directions.

Five more actors arrived, four of whom lived right in our neighborhood. Austin directed them to the questionnaires, which were laid out on a rickety table by the clubhouse door. These new arrivals included Mia Kim, who was Susan's best friend and a year behind Austin, Kenzie, and me in school. Mia was probably the most gifted singer in our whole town. Her younger brother, Eddie, was with her; he'd be going into fifth grade next fall. Sam Carpenter was going into sixth grade, like Susan. I didn't know him too well, but he seemed like a sweet kid even though he was kind of shy and had never spoken so much as a single word to me since he'd moved
into the neighborhood two years earlier. Maxine Hernandez, who'd been in Susan's class this past year, immediately told us (and made a note on her paperwork) that she was no longer answering to the name Maxine and she preferred to be called Maxie. That was fine with me. I didn't care what she called herself as long as she was willing to bring her trademark style and artistic talent to our hair and makeup department. The fifth person to make his appearance was Deon Becker, Austin's next-door neighbor and tech-savvy best bud.

Deon got dropped off at the curb by his mom, who rolled down the car window and shouted across the clubhouse lawn, “Austin, honey, your mother asked me to remind you to drink plenty of water so you don't dehydrate!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Becker,” Austin replied. He nodded politely, but I could tell he was completely embarrassed by his mother's excessive worry, which made me feel a little better about the whole pajama thing.

“We'll set up some chairs,” said Austin, giving Deon a nudge toward the cabinet under the stage where they were stored.

Travis Coleman, Elle Tanner, and Gracie Demetrius arrived together in a car pool driven by Gracie's big brother, Nick. They would be in fifth grade next year, so they were a year younger than Susan and the others.

Madeline Walinski and Jane Bailey (who were both going into sixth) showed up next, walking the few blocks from their street. Madeline was chewing bubble gum, which was a habit of hers. I'd ask her to get rid of it before we started. Gum chewing during a rehearsal was the very definition of unprofessional.

Teddy Crawford and Spencer O'Day were last. They were also in Susan's class, which made sense, I suppose, since her Twitter followers were mostly kids her own age. According to Susan, they, along with Maddie and Jane, topped the elementary school A-list. Rumor had it that Spencer was head over heels for Madeline, and Maddie was on the verge of admitting she liked him back.

Teddy was actually a professional actor; he'd had a recurring role on a soap opera when he was a baby, before his family moved here from New York City. He'd also done a macaroni and cheese commercial when he'd been in kindergarten. Having Teddy in our theater would give us what I considered street cred. And Maddie and Jane were both cheerleaders, which meant they could probably rock some pretty complicated dance moves.