by Lisa Fiedler
“That’s amazing.” Becky looked genuinely impressed and very happy for me.
“I was going to tell you about it,” I explained, “but I didn’t want to steal your soccer thunder. I planned on calling you tonight once Austin and I got everything figured out.”
“Austin Weatherly,” said Becky, her eyes dancing. “He got a lot cuter this year, didn’t he?”
We could have stood there talking about Austin’s upgrade in cuteness for hours. But I had scheduled a rendezvous with my in-house playwright, my administrative assistant (or, as she’d dubbed herself, my as-sister-ant), and good old Cranky Frankie Ciancio.
“Text me after your diving lesson,” I said, giving her another hug. “I’ll fill you in on the whole theater thing then.”
“Okay,” said Becky.
“Congratulations again.”
“You too. And thanks for not stealing my soccer thunder.”
As I took off, I called over my shoulder, “Hey, maybe that can be your team nickname. Soccer Thunder!”
“I love it!” she shouted back. “I’ll have them embroider it on my warm-up jacket!”
The last thing I heard as I rounded the corner was Becky making thunder sounds and laughing like crazy.
Austin and I met in the middle-school parking lot then walked the three blocks in nervous silence to the elementary school, where we found a weepy Susan saying her heartfelt good-byes to her fifth-grade teacher and the school principal. Not that my sister was a suck-up or anything, but leaving the elementary school you’ve been in since pre-K, with the daunting prospect of middle school looming at the end of the summer, would make anybody emotional.
And speaking of daunting prospects . . .
“Do you know what you’re going to say to Dr. Ciancio?” Susan asked me, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and giving a big sniff as she fell into step between Austin and me.
“I’m just going to give him the facts and appeal to his sense of neighborliness,” I said lamely.
“Good luck with that,” she grumbled.
We found Dr. Ciancio in his driveway, putting his tennis bag into the trunk of his car. A woman I didn’t recognize was standing beside him.
“Are you kids here to see Sophia?” he asked.
“God no,” said Susan.
I gave her a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“We’re here to see you, sir,” said Austin. “About the clubhouse.”
Dr. Ciancio closed the car trunk impatiently. “Well, you’ll have to make it quick. We’ve got a tennis game in twenty minutes.” He turned to the house and called, “Sophia! Let’s get a move on!”
I smiled at the woman in case she was a member of the Neighborhood Association board. She smiled back. To my surprise, Austin reached out to shake her hand.
“You’re Ms. Bradley, the editor in chief of the Chappaqua Chronicle, aren’t you?” he said politely. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper.”
“I am,” Ms. Bradley replied sweetly. “And it’s nice to know young people are taking an interest in the Chronicle.”
Sophia came out the front door, dressed perfectly in the cutest little tennis dress I’d ever seen. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a bouncing ponytail that was tied with a crisp white ribbon.
Wonderful. The last thing I wanted to do was make my pitch to Dr. Ciancio in front of Sophia. She joined us in the driveway, twirling her tennis racquet. “Hi, Austin,” she said with a bright smile.
“What is it you wanted to ask me about the clubhouse?” Dr. Ciancio prodded, checking his watch impatiently.
“Oh, uh . . . well . . .” I stood up a little straighter. “We were wondering if we might get your permission to use it.”
Dr. Ciancio frowned. “Let me guess. Another Sunday afternoon ice cream social?”
I shook my head. “No, sir. In fact, we’d like to have it for the next three weeks, if we could.”
“What in the world for?” asked Dr. Ciancio. “As I’m sure you know, the place hasn’t been used in six years. We don’t rent it out anymore.”
“Which is why it’s perfect for us,” said Susan. “We don’t have rent money.”
“We were hoping we could barter our landscaping services in exchange for using the clubhouse,” I said. “This way, Mr. Healy would be able to devote his energy to tending to other more popular public areas in the neighborhood.”
“I still don’t understand,” said Dr. Ciancio, opening the driver’s-side door. “What do you kids want with the clubhouse?”
Suddenly Sophia stopped twirling her tennis racquet and gasped. “I know what this is about! They want to use the clubhouse for their little theater.”
“It’s not going to be a ‘little’ theater,” I said, scowling at Sophia. “We’ve gotten a ton of responses already.” I turned back to Dr. Ciancio. “But she’s half right. We want the clubhouse so my new theater can put on an original musical revue.”
“That’s fascinating!” said Ms. Bradley, looking every inch the newswoman she was. “A theater run by young people. What a wonderful project.”
I really liked that she was calling us young people instead of children.
“Maybe it’ll make a good story for the paper,” I said boldly.
Ms. Bradley grinned. “Maybe it will.”
Sophia was looking at me with a strange gleam in her eyes. I had the sense she was plotting something.
“We’ll do all the outside work,” said Austin. “And we’ll clean up the inside, too. Mr. Healy said he’ll check to be sure the plumbing and the electricity are still in good working order. We promise we’ll take good care of the place, sir.”
Dr. Ciancio sighed. “Sounds risky. What if one of you kids twists an ankle or falls off the stage? The neighborhood will be liable.”
I was about to remind him about the insurance policy, but to my shock, someone else spoke up first.
Sophia!
“You should totally let them use the clubhouse, Daddy.”
We all looked at her—the little tennis princess in her perfect white dress—who was smiling up at her father with the biggest puppy dog eyes I’d ever seen.
I had a sick feeling I knew where this was going.
“Of course,” Sophia continued, batting her eyes and twirling her racquet, “there would just have to be one teeny tiny condition.”
“What’s that, sweetheart?” Dr. Ciancio asked.
“I get to be a member of their little theater,” she said. “I get a part in the show.” Susan’s eyes flashed. Austin let out a groan. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing that tennis racquet out of her hands and smashing it into a million pieces on the driveway.
But I didn’t do it.
Instead I turned my brightest theater producer’s smile to Sophia and extended my hand professionally, just like Austin had done to Ms. Bradley. “Welcome to the theater,” I said. “We’ll be having our first meeting on Sunday morning. Eleven o’clock at the clubhouse.”
Sophia hesitated only a second before accepting my handshake.
“Great, wonderful, okay then,” said Dr. Ciancio, sliding into the driver’s seat. “You’ve got the clubhouse. I’ll fill out the paperwork. Your parents will have to sign it. Healy has the keys, so he’ll see to the details. Princess, please, get in the car. You know how I loathe being late for a tennis match!”
Sophia gave me a triumphant little grin, while Ms. Bradley waved good-bye and slipped into the passenger seat.
“See you at rehearsal,” Sophia said.
“Can’t wait,” Susan grumbled.
After Sophia got into the car, Austin, Susan, and I watched as Dr. Ciancio backed out of the driveway.
There was a full minute of utter silence before they both whirled to gape at me, speaking—no, make that shouting—into my ears at the same time.
“Are you crazy?”
“You’ve lost your mind!”
“She’ll ruin everything!”
“The girl is a diva!”
<
br /> “I know,” I said calmly. “But there was no way Dr. Ciancio was going to say yes until she piped up. Don’t you see? Sophia did us a favor.”
Susan reached over to place her palm on my forehead. “You lied to Mom. You aren’t fine at all.”
I swiped her hand away. “What are you talking about?”
“You must be deathly ill if you’re sticking up for Sophia.”
“I’m not sticking up for her. I’m merely stating the facts. The girl can sing and act and dance. In theater that’s called a triple threat. We can use someone like that.”
Austin ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “That’s true.”
“But she’s so obnoxious!” said Susan in a whiny voice. “And conceited. And pushy.”
“I know that,” I said. “But I’m thinking like a producer now. Sometimes you have to see the bigger picture. For the good of the show.”
Susan shook her head sadly. “If Sophia’s part of the bigger picture, I say let’s crop her out.”
Austin laughed. “Anya’s right, Susan.”
“Fine, whatever.” Susan sighed and folded her arms across her chest. “Okay, so now that we have the clubhouse, what do we do next?”
“We announce that starting Sunday, Random Farms is open for business.” I nodded to my sister. “Susan, you’ll be in charge of the media blitz, tweeting and posting about the Random Farms Kids’ Theater. Start by saying we’ve found a home in the clubhouse.”
Susan took out her phone and tapped the screen until she’d opened the theater text thread. Then she typed exactly what I’d just said and invited any and all prospective thespians (Austin’s word . . . and I loved it!) to join us there on Sunday morning for our first informational meeting. Then she posted the same message to Twitter.
“Done,” said Susan, hitting send with a flourish.
“Now what?” asked Austin.
“Now we go home and enjoy our first afternoon of summer vacation,” I explained, “because beginning tomorrow, we’ve got work to do!”
We agreed to meet the next day for more planning. Then Austin left to go home and write, and Susan and I ambled back to our house. I felt a little shiver of excitement, thinking of how incredibly different this summer was going to be from all those that had come before.
Because this was going to be The Summer of the Random Farms Kids’ Theater.
And I couldn’t wait to get started.
The first thing I did when I woke up on Saturday was text Becky. She’d texted me the night before (long after I’d fallen asleep to visions of the shady Billy Flynn character from Chicago singing “Razzle Dazzle”) to tell me her coach had put her in the one-hundred-meter butterfly event for Sunday’s swim meet. It would be her first time swimming that race, and she couldn’t sleep because she was nervous about it.
I typed: U will totally win! I know U can do it.
She texted back: Thnx, Anya. Hope the theater meeting goes gr8 tomorrow!! Will try to swing by if the meet ends early enough. :)
Then I got up and dragged my sister out of bed. She followed me downstairs, where I popped two bagels into the toaster oven.
“I’m going to make a list of the cleaning supplies we’ll need to take to the clubhouse,” I said. “We’ll have to use whatever Mom has here, but we’re going to promise to replace them as soon as we have the dues money.”
“I’ll go out to the garage and take an inventory of yard tools,” said Susan, opening the fridge and grabbing a tub of cream cheese, which she placed in front of me on the breakfast bar. “Did you get a look at those flower boxes under the clubhouse windows? Nightmare!” Then she marched out of the kitchen, calling, “Don’t burn my breakfast!” over her shoulder.
I was halfway through my everything bagel and a quarter way through my list of cleaning products when the doorbell rang at ten fifteen. I was so caught up in making my list that I just went and answered the door without thinking about what I was wearing. It wasn’t until I saw the weird look on Austin’s face that I remembered I was still wearing my pink polka dot pajama bottoms and a ratty old New York Giants T-shirt. Was it my imagination or was he blushing slightly at seeing me in my pj’s? I’m sure I was blushing, and way more than slightly.
“Um, come on in,” I said, feeling like a total dork. “I’ll . . . be right back.”
Then I bolted upstairs, quickly changed into cutoff shorts and a Mama Mia T-shirt, and whipped my hair into a high ponytail. I brushed my teeth and hurried back down to the living room, where Susan had joined Austin. They were seated on the sofa, looking at her phone and all the theater-related texts and tweets.
My sister grinned at me. “Austin here was just telling me he never knew you were a Giants fan.”
I would have slugged her, but that would have meant I’d be out one media specialist, so I let it slide.
Austin held out a neatly bound stack of papers. “Here’s the script.”
My eyes scanned the cover page.
RANDOM ACTS OF BROADWAY
Produced and Directed by
ANYA WALLACH
Written by
Austin Weatherly
Presented by
The Random Farms Kids’ Theater
Talk about chills! Just seeing that phrase in print—Directed by Anya Wallach—literally gave me goose bumps. The first page was a list of the performance selections:
RANDOM ACTS OF BROADWAY
OPENING NUMBER
“Comedy Tonight” from A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM
(Full Cast)
“Anything You Can Do”
from ANNIE GET YOUR GUN
“Seize the Day” from NEWSIES
Scene from PETER PAN
“Maybe” from ANNIE
“Try to Remember” from THE FANTASTICKS
(Dance Solo)
Monologue from YOU’RE A GOOD MAN, CHARLIE BROWN
CLOSING NUMBER
“There’s No Business Like Show Business”
from ANNIE GET YOUR GUN (Full Cast)
CURTAIN CALL TBA
(Full Cast)
I flipped through the script. In addition to the lines from the actual plays, between each number Austin had written original dialogue that would serve to introduce and connect each individual performance. It had a fun new-millennium-vaudeville vibe, which was exactly what I’d imagined when he first suggested it.
“I can’t believe you already finished it,” I said. “You started only two days ago.”
“That’s how the creative process is,” he reminded me with a grin. “Sometimes things just want to be written. And besides, I can’t really take that much credit. Most of it—the music, the scenes—is stuff other people have already written. I just sort of cobbled it together.”
“Well, you’re a great cobbler. You made excellent choices, and it has a really good flow. Perfect songs, awesome scenes . . .” I looked up from the pages to smile at him. “Austin, you’re incredible!” Then I caught myself and clarified, “I mean, this script is incredible.”
“Thanks, Anya.”
“So . . . what’s the closing song?”
He crooked a grin at me. “That’s a surprise.”
Before I could press him for a clue, he hurried on.
“I have most of the sheet music for the songs I picked out,” he added, nodding toward a pile of music books he’d placed on the coffee table. “But not all of it.”
“I bet we have whatever you’re missing,” I assured him, hurrying across the room to the piano. I held the script reverently, just as I would handle the antique crystal gravy boat my nana Adele uses only for Thanksgiving dinner—like it was priceless. Because it was.
I opened the piano bench and began rifling through all the old sheet music tucked inside. Susan and Austin came over to help me.
We laughed when I pulled out our beginner books (Ugh! “Hot Cross Buns”! Why?), and Susan found a bunch of classical compositions (which I’d always found challenging, but Susan had bre
ezed through them like a champ).
Things improved significantly when we found my beloved Marvin Hamlisch (best composer ever! A Chorus Line . . . enough said!). Lucky for our miniscule dues-only budget, we’d collected plenty of Broadway music over the years. Much of it was from what my dad would call the “old standards,” like Guys and Dolls, Finian’s Rainbow, The Fantasticks, and West Side Story. Susan turned up her nose at the Gilbert and Sullivan stuff, but I confessed that I didn’t mind The Pirates of Penzance, and this had us giggling as we belted out a few choruses of “I Am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General.”
We also had an excellent cross section of newer songs from more contemporary shows like Matilda, The Book of Mormon, and Hairspray.
Austin was pleased with the haul; between our two collections we had music for every song in the show and plenty of additional choices for the kids to audition with. We both agreed that the more recent shows would be our best bets for the audition songs. We picked “Popular” from Wicked and “Seize the Day” from Newsies, then threw in “Maybe” from Annie because . . . well, because it’s Annie!
“Who’s going to provide the musical accompaniment for the auditions?” Susan asked, making a big show of cracking her knuckles.
“I guess you and Austin could take turns,” I said.
“Good,” said Susan, sitting down and placing her fingers on the keys. “I’ll practice.”
“What about the acting auditions?” I asked Austin. “Any ideas?”
“I’ve got a few things in mind,” he said. “I e-mailed them to you last night.”
“Cool. My laptop’s in the kitchen. C’mon.”
We left her seated at the piano and headed for the kitchen. A few seconds later we heard “Seize the Day” wafting from the living room.
Austin and I each settled onto a counter stool at the breakfast bar, and I opened my computer. I logged in to my e-mail and found that Austin had really done his homework. He’d sent me a bunch of possibilities for the acting auditions, which we quickly narrowed down to two monologues (one for girls, one for boys) and two scenes to be performed by partners. He’d picked out a perfect array of material. Dramatic, comedic, and just the right level of difficulty.
