by Lisa Fiedler
CHAPTER
13
Our second day of rehearsal went smoothly; we marched through the play, scene by scene, to establish a general sense of blocking and pacing, noting where the songs and dance numbers would come in. I loved the news anchor shtick where the Greek chorus filled in the audience on all the events leading up to the Trojan War. Throughout the play, their job would be to report on Odysseus’s situation in the form of “breaking-news updates.”
There was one moment in which Kenzie interviewed the six-headed beast Scylla, as played by Spencer, which was hilarious because a second monster, Charybdis (Jane), who was basically defined as a swirling pool of water, kept trying to interrupt.
It was instantly clear that the costuming for these characters would have to be highly original, even beyond the creative ingenuity of repurposed bath mats.
So I went backstage to where Maxie was working on wardrobe sketches, and asked her what she was thinking with regard to Scylla.
“I was stumped at first,” she confessed. “I was thinking maybe there was a way I could attach five masks to Spencer’s shoulders, but I realized that would be way too uncomfortable. So I came up with a plan to have Spencer stand in the middle of the stage and put five other actors around him, three on individual risers, and two kneeling, so their heads would be arranged at varying heights.”
“I like it,” I said, picturing the image.
“They’ll be dressed all in black, and I’ll have Deon darken the stage, lighting only their faces. Well, and, of course, Spencer’s whole body. This way they’ll appear to be these creepy disembodied heads just hovering around him. I’m thinking they’ll have tangled wigs and horrible fangs.”
“That’s visionary!” I cried. “D, can we achieve that effect?”
“We can here,” he said, pointing to the lights. “But I’m afraid it won’t translate to the clubhouse. We don’t have that many spotlights.”
I frowned, but Maxie barreled on, undeterred.
“I sort of figured that would be the case,” she said. “So if we are back in the clubhouse for the show, I’ll give each extra head a flashlight to shine under his or her chin.”
“Uplighting,” said Deon. “Spooky. And easy. Very clever.”
“Thanks.” Maxie beamed with pride. “I was hoping you’d like it.”
“I really do,” I said. “But what about Charybdis, the whirlpool?”
“That’s kind of a surprise,” said Maxie. “Jane and I are having a meeting at my house tonight after the bake sale to work on it.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Can you give me a hint?”
“It involves an old toy I had to con my little brother out of,” she said with a mysterious grin. “But that’s all I’m saying for now.”
Since I didn’t want to mess with her creative brilliance, I decided not to push it. I trusted her completely, and besides, it was time to head back to my house.
We had a bake sale to run!
“Cookies! Cupcakes! Brownies!” cried Susan in her best leader-of-the-gods voice. “Get ’em while they last.”
“At this rate,” Deon muttered, “they might last forever.”
Sadly, D was right. Sales were discouragingly slow to the point of being nearly nonexistent, though it wasn’t for a lack of preparedness.
Susan had tweeted about the fund-raiser, Brittany had used poster board to make two large hand-lettered BAKE SALE signs, and we’d set up two card tables at the end of the driveway that we covered with brightly colored cloths. Our wide array of yummy, frosted wares was artfully arranged on paper plates and plastic platters, and if I do say so myself, we had a very impressive supply.
Unfortunately, I’d seriously overestimated the demand.
It occurred to me that perhaps the large amount of people we’d seen on the street last Sunday was more of a weekend phenomenon. Today was Tuesday, and there was far less activity. I realized now that our neighbors were probably anxious to get home after a long day at work; even the kids were probably tired after seven hours at sports camp or parks and rec programs. The few cars and bikes that did go by didn’t even slow down.
“I don’t get it,” said Austin. “Why isn’t anyone buying?”
“What a waste of time,” said Susan, eyeing the lemon bars with interest. “If we’d known this was going to be such a bust, we could have stayed at the community center and kept rehearsing.”
“I suppose we could cut our losses and go over a few more songs,” I said glumly.
And then something my grandfather had mentioned came crashing back into my head.
“That’s it!” I cried. “It’s so Broadway!”
“What is?” asked Susan. “What are you talking about?”
“You know all Papa’s stories about how in the old days, when Broadway producers wanted to test a new show, they would have a preview at the Shubert Theater in New Haven?”
“Yeah.” Susan gave me a skeptical look. “Are you saying you want us to try selling these cookies up in Connecticut?”
“No,” said Austin, getting it now. “She wants us to have a preview. She wants us to put on part of the show … but not at the Shubert … right here in the front yard.”
“Eighteen kids singing and dancing are bound to get people’s attention!” I said. “They’ll stop to watch!”
“Or they’ll stop to tell us to quit disturbing the peace,” said Susan.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think they’ll be curious and excited. And as long as they’re here, I’m betting they’ll buy something to snack on.”
“I agree,” said Austin. “Besides, what can it hurt? Worst-case scenario, we get in a little extra practice. I say we give it a shot.”
We quickly gathered everyone around the bake sale table and explained our strategy. Then Austin counted them in, and they broke into a wonderful a cappella version of “It’s All Greek to Me.”
Our timing couldn’t have been better. Mr. Davenport, who was once again walking by with Patches, stopped to listen to us. To our surprise, Patches threw back his furry head and howled right along with the music. The truly funny thing was that, as far as I could tell, Patches was howling on key.
“Too bad he doesn’t know the words,” quipped Austin.
“We’ll have to keep him in mind if we ever do put on Annie,” I observed, sweeping my hand in an arc gesture to indicate a marquee. “Starring Patches Davenport as ‘Sandy.’ ”
“Excellent casting choice,” said Susan. “I’ll get his agent on the phone right now.”
When the song ended, in appreciation of our efforts, Mr. Davenport bought a red velvet cupcake. Even better than that—he fished his cell phone out of the pocket of his plaid Bermuda shorts and called his wife.
“C’mon over to the Wallachs’ place,” he told her. “The kids are doing some kind of theatrical preview. They’re darn good, too. And bring your purse… . There’s a peach cobbler I’ve got my eye on.”
“It’s working!” said Susan.
“Brady, sing Poseidon’s song,” I directed. “And project!”
Brady did exactly that. Sure enough, doors and windows up and down the street began to open. A group of kids on skateboards came coasting around the corner. When they saw the baked goods, their eyes lit up. As Brady did his best surfer-dude rendition of the sea god’s solo, they, too, pulled out their cell phones to spread the word.
Mrs. Davenport, who’d been hosting her bridge club when she’d gotten her husband’s call, showed up during the second verse, along with three other ladies from the neighborhood. They all seemed delighted to be getting an impromptu performance on a Tuesday afternoon, and happily plunked down payment for the cherry cheesecake Maddie’s mother had contributed.
I hastily posted Gina by the mailbox to remind people to save the date for our next performance.
“Should I tell them we’re having it at the community center?” she asked.
“No. There’s still a good chance the clubhouse will be
ready, and I think we should remain optimistic.”
“Cautiously optimistic,” Austin clarified. “Now, let’s sing.”
“Gotta See a Man About a Horse” was next in the lineup, and soon the street was filled with people enjoying our preview and purchasing goodies.
And then, from the direction of the clubhouse, a battalion of city workers appeared in their yellow hard hats, reflective orange safety vests, and muddy work boots. As they came strutting down Random Farms Circle in the fading summer light, they looked like a proud and powerful army on the march. If we were in a movie, I was pretty sure such a dramatic entrance would have been filmed in slow motion.
“Uh-oh,” said Susan. “I bet our performance was bothering them while they were trying to work.”
“They use jackhammers and steamrollers,” I reminded her. “We’re singing show tunes. How could we bother them?” But I felt a little tremor of panic. Maybe we were in for a scolding.
The foreman of the crew approached the card table. His muscular forearms were streaked with tar. “I hear there’s a bunch of kids who’re anxious to be back in that clubhouse we’re working on. Are you that gang?”
“You must be thinking of West Side Story,” said Susan nervously. “We aren’t a gang; we’re a theater troupe.”
Austin shut her up with an elbow to the ribs.
“Yes, sir,” I confirmed. “We’re those kids.”
The foreman took off his hard hat and grinned. “Well, I just want you to know we’re going to do our best to make that happen. No promises, but we’re giving it our all.”
“We also heard you’re selling cookies,” said a burly man with a gray mustache. “How much for one of those snicker-doodles?”
I was about to tell him the price when Susan stepped in front of me and quickly handed Mustache Guy a handful of cookies. “For you, gentlemen, they’re on the house,” she said, smiling brightly.
“No, no,” said the foreman. “This is a fund-raiser. We want to do our part. I’ve got a daughter studying theater at the Tisch School in Manhattan. So I get what it means to be a struggling artist.”
“We appreciate that,” I said, smiling. “Try the baklava. It’s outstanding.”
As Susan doled out the treats and Austin counted change, I ran inside to grab the CD player and the sound track Drama-o-Rama had provided, to add a little more flash to our performance.
As the neighbors and workmen munched on coconut bars, blondies, and iced sugar cookies, they were given a preview I was sure even the Shubert brothers would have been proud of. Sophia sang her Cyclops solo, then Maddie, Jane, and Elle got their Motown on by totally nailing the Sirens’ song. The crowd applauded wildly.
And thanks to the hearty appetites of the work crew, we had nearly sold out of goodies.
“Shall we give them a grand finale?” I whispered to Austin.
His reply was to hit the play button. The instrumental track of “Everyone Goes” filled the air.
The cast arranged themselves in a long line, their arms interlocked behind one another’s backs.
“Right foot first!” Mackenzie called out. “Five, six, seven, eight …”
Our customers watched in awe as my dancers executed a flawless kickline. Even I was impressed, since they’d really only had one chance to rehearse it. Then Kenzie called out to some of the little kids who were watching and invited them to link themselves to the ends of the line.
Their moms cheered as these tiny new recruits fell into step (well, sort of) with the rest of the dancers.
“Future Random Farms cast members,” Austin said, laughing.
“Future dues payers,” Susan said, rubbing her palms together and beaming.
When the song finished, everyone was laughing breathlessly.
As the workmen went back to the clubhouse, Mackenzie and I sold the few remaining goodies to the audience at a discount; they all expressed their hope that the theater would be ready in time for our second show.
Everyone was in a terrific mood … until a silver sedan pulled up to the curb.
I recognized the car immediately. It belonged to Mrs. Fleisch.
Mackenzie, who was handing our last brownie to a customer, dropped it like it was on fire. Her face went completely pale. When Mrs. Fleisch got out of the car, I could see her expression was one of pure fury.
I had no idea what Mackenzie’s mother was so upset about, but as she stomped across the grass, one thing was perfectly clear… .
She wasn’t here to buy a cookie.
CHAPTER
14
“Mackenzie Allison Fleisch, what in the world are you doing?”
Mackenzie opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Didn’t matter; Mrs. Fleisch was clearly in talking, not listening, mode.
“I called the dance studio to let them know I’d be picking you up early today. I almost had a heart attack when Miss Juliette told me you weren’t there.”
I wondered if Mrs. Fleisch’s potential coronary had to do with the fact that Mackenzie was missing … or just that she was missing dance class.
“I can … um … Let me just … I can explain,” Mackenzie stammered.
But Mrs. Fleisch continued as though she wasn’t aware half the neighborhood was watching. “I told Juliette she simply had to be mistaken, because you had an advanced pas de deux class scheduled for four thirty. But she told me you hadn’t shown up for it. And then she went on to tell me that you weren’t there yesterday, either. In fact, your attendance has been spotty all summer!” Mrs. Fleisch gave her daughter a disappointed look. “Spotty, Mackenzie! Do you think when Anna Pavlova was twelve years old, her attendance was ever spotty?”
“Anna Pavlova,” Susan whispered to me. “Lemonade stand, right?”
“No,” I whispered back. “Shhh!”
“I did go to the studio this morning,” Mackenzie said, “just like I told you I was going to do. I rehearsed all day. But not in class. I worked independently. I guess Miss Juliette didn’t realize I was there.”
“Why would you do that?”
Mackenzie swallowed hard and I realized she was stalling.
Correction: lying!
“Because,” Mackenzie said at last, not quite meeting her mother’s gaze. “Because Desiree Morton is in all those same classes, and you know how awful she is to me. She always tries to psyche me out and make me feel self-conscious.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Fleisch pursed her lips and nodded. “She does do that.”
“I thought if I could just practice on my own,” Mackenzie went on, “I’d be able to focus on my dancing without Desiree playing head games and messing me up. So I found an empty practice room and spent the day working there.”
Not true, I thought, feeling queasy. She spent the day with us at the CCC.
“But what about pas de deux?” Mrs. Fleisch countered. “You certainly can’t practice that by yourself!”
This time Mackenzie didn’t miss a beat. “Vladimir texted me and told me he was skipping class,” she said easily. “I didn’t tell Juliette because I didn’t want him to get in trouble. But since I wasn’t going to have a class partner, I didn’t see any point in staying. So I got a ride home from Annabelle’s mom, but because there’s so much construction at the east end of Random Farms Circle, I just had her drop me off at the corner and I walked. Jogged actually. To burn more calories.”
At this, Mrs. Fleisch actually looked pleased.
“That was when I saw Anya was having a bake sale, so I stopped to help out. I’ve been here only a few minutes.”
I kept my eyes fixed firmly on the card table because I didn’t dare look at Mrs. Fleisch, or for that matter, Mackenzie. I was sure my shock was as plain as the nose on my face. This had to be one of the most exquisitely detailed lies ever told.
“Please don’t tell on Vlad,” Kenzie went on, her voice catching dramatically. “He’s such a good partner and he’s the best male dancer at the studio. I don’t want to get him mad. He might start d
ancing with Desiree instead of me.”
At this statement, I couldn’t help but sneak a glance at Kenzie’s mom. She looked horrified at the thought of this Desiree person stealing away her daughter’s pas de deux partner. Finally she shook her head, as though dismissing the entire incident.
“Get in the car, Mackenzie,” Mrs. Fleisch instructed. “I’ve managed to get you into a special class tonight in Manhattan. We’re going straight to the train.”
Without another word, Mackenzie gathered up her things and bolted for the car.
But as Mrs. Fleisch strode around to the driver’s door, I heard this:
“I hope you haven’t eaten any of those baked goods. Have you seen the dancers in New York? They’re positively svelte.”
“What’s svelte?” Susan whispered.
I didn’t know. But for some reason, it sounded like one of the ugliest words I’d ever heard in my life.
No one said a word.
Even though it was clear Mackenzie had just blatantly lied to her mother about where she’d been for the last two days (not to mention the entire first session of the Random Farms Kids’ Theater), nobody, it seemed, had the stomach to say it out loud.
I certainly didn’t. The two lemon bars I’d eaten earlier were suddenly churning in my belly, creating a whirlpool worthy of Charybdis. I felt positively sick. And not just because Mackenzie had proven herself to be the most amazing liar in the entire world.
But because I was a very close second.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Anya! Ma chérie!”
“How’s Paris?”
“It’s wonderful! Dad and I are getting ready to go out for an elegant dinner.”
“That’s great.” I paused, picturing a swath of awkward silence forming across the Atlantic Ocean. Even with several time zones between us, my mother knew something was up.
“Anya, what’s wrong? Did something happen?”
The fear in her voice made me feel even worse than I already did.
“Everything’s fine,” I said quickly. “Nobody’s hurt or anything. There’s just something I wanted to tell you. Can you put me on speaker so Dad can hear?”
