by Lisa Fiedler
The plan for Thursday was to do our first complete run-through of the show, from the opening number to the final bows (otherwise known as the curtain call). I was hoping Austin’s theme song would be ready by then so we could rehearse it.
“I think we should take our bows in order of age,” Sophia suggested. “Youngest to oldest.”
This seemed like a reasonable arrangement. I was about to thank her for her input when I realized her suggestion was completely self-serving. As the oldest, Sophia would be the last cast member to bow . . . a spot customarily reserved for the star of the show.
“I’ve got a better idea,” said Austin, catching on at the same moment. “Let’s go alphabetical by last name.”
Sophia pursed her lips but didn’t argue.
So it would be Madeline Walinsky who would take the final bow. “Is it okay if I curtsy?” she asked me. “I’ve always wanted to curtsy to a crowd.”
“Fine with me,” I said, then turned to Austin. “Maestro Weatherly, our theme song if you please!”
This sent a ripple of curiosity and excitement through the group.
“We have a theme song?”
“That’s so cool!”
“I bet Austin composed it himself.”
“Are there lyrics?”
“Is there a solo part?”
That last comment, not surprisingly, had come from Sophia.
Austin, who was suddenly looking very unenthusiastic, motioned for me to join him at the piano.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The theme song’s not finished yet. I’m still working it out.”
I smiled. “That’s okay. For now you can just play what you’ve got. As long as they get the gist of it.”
“I kind of wanted to keep it under wraps until it was all done,” he said. “It means a lot to me, Anya.”
“It means a lot to me, too,” I assured him. “How are the lyrics coming along?”
“Slowly.”
I sighed. “Well, I’m not worried. You’ll get them done in time.”
“So . . .,” said Susan from across the stage. “Let’s hear this theme song!”
Frowning, Austin sat down at the piano and placed his marked-up music sheet on the easel. He shot me a look I couldn’t read, then began to play.
Of course, everyone loved it! When he finished, the whole cast cheered.
“Can you put all our names in it?” Jane asked.
“It’s going to be hard to find something that rhymes with Random Farms,” Gracie observed.
“It’s catchy,” said Elle. “But maybe it would be better if it were a ballad.”
“See?” Austin grumbled to me. “This is why I didn’t want them to hear it until it was complete.”
I felt my cheeks turn pink, realizing he’d been right. I shouldn’t have insisted. “I’m really sorry,” I said, and I meant it. “I just really wanted to share it with them. I wanted you to put your stamp on this show!”
His only response was to take the theme song sheet music off the easel and replace it with “Comedy Tonight.”
I figured that was my cue to move on. I sighed.
“Okay, people!” I called, turning back to my cast. “We’re going to take it from the opening number. Places, everyone.”
I dropped myself into a folding chair, prepared to watch the show from start to finish. The actors were a little hesitant at first, and very cautious, but as they moved from number to number, scene to scene, their confidence grew and their energy increased.
I was amazed at how wonderful it all looked. Sure, there were a few flubbed lines, a few missed steps, but overall, it was looking fantastic. When it was done, Austin and I leaped to our feet and applauded.
From the way he was smiling, I guessed he wasn’t upset with me anymore, which was a huge relief.
“Were we really that good?” Mackenzie asked, flushing modestly.
“You were fabulous!” I said. “All of you. There’s still some work to be done, but for a first run-through, it was terrific.”
“Do you have any notes for us?” Teddy asked, sitting down so his legs dangled over the edge of the stage.
“Just a few.” I referred to my legal pad. “Elle, you need to be a little louder. Spencer, remember to wait for the laughter to quiet down before you start your next line.”
Spencer grinned. “You think I’m really gonna get some laughs?”
“Absolutely,” said Austin. “Your comic timing is excellent.”
“Thanks.”
“Madeline,” I said, wagging my finger. “Gum!”
Madeline looked so guilty, I felt compelled to quickly add that her curtsy was top-notch.
On Friday we ran through the show twice before lunch. Then we focused on wardrobe and makeup. That morning I’d given Maxie twenty-five of our remaining thirty-three dollars and sent her to the drugstore to buy foundation, eyeliner, cotton swabs, and disposable makeup sponges. When Spencer and Eddie heard they would be expected to wear makeup, they got flustered.
“What’s the big deal?” asked Sam. “It’s just colored powder and some other gunky stuff. It’s no different than when football players wear eye black.”
“Yeah,” said Travis. “It’s like Halloween.”
Austin assured the boys that every major Broadway performer and movie star spent hours in the makeup chair. Finally they agreed to let Maxie make them up.
Still, when I surprised everyone by letting them go home early, Spencer and Eddie couldn’t get to the restroom fast enough to wash the makeup off before setting foot outside the clubhouse. Elle was also happy to get rid of her makeup, but the rest of the girls were thrilled to be going out in public wearing mascara and eye shadow. Of course, if their moms were anything like mine, they’d be ordered into a hot shower before they could say lip liner!
When everyone was gone, I cleared my throat and smiled at Austin. I knew it would be a sore subject, but I was simply too curious.
“So . . . about that theme song. Any luck with the lyrics?”
He gave me a frustrated look. “A little. I managed to rhyme laugh with choreograph, but I’m not sure it’s gonna stick.”
“Well, don’t worry,” I said. “You’ll get it.”
“I’m planning to work on it all weekend,” he promised. “Like I said, it means a lot to me.”
“You’ll knock it out of the park,” I said confidently. “And there’s a chance we’ll be able to start rehearsing it on Tuesday.”
“No guarantees,” said Austin. “But I’ll try. Those harmonies need to be worked out in my head before I can teach the cast. I don’t want to do it until I can do it right.”
“Okay, okay.” I held up my hands like I was on the wrong end of a stickup. “No pressure.”
He smiled, but only a little. “I appreciate that. And I’ll see what I can do.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to mention that since he had so much work to do on the theme song, it would probably be in his best interests not to accept any pool party invitations that might come along, but I was afraid he might misinterpret that comment as snarky.
Oh, who was I kidding . . . it was snarky. So I bit my lip and waved to him as he left.
“Have a good weekend!” he called as the door swung closed.
“Thanks!” I called back. I just didn’t have it in me to say, You too.
Over the weekend, Susan and I handled “the paperwork.” This included making the tickets and the program on the computer.
“How many do we need?” Susan wondered aloud, her index finger hovering over the laptop’s track pad.
Honestly, I had no idea. I did know there were fifty folding chairs (Austin had counted) stored under the stage in our theater. I wished there were more; the clubhouse space was certainly roomy enough for at least one hundred chairs. Not that I even dared to dream we’d have a full house.
“Let’s see,” I said. “There are seventeen kids, with two parents each, so that’s thirty-four parents.
” I frowned. “But Mia and Eddie and you and I share a set of parents so that becomes . . . thirty parents total.”
“I bet Nana Adele and Papa Harold will want to see the show,” said Susan.
“Yes! And I’m sure all the other kids have Nanas and Papas, or grandmas and grandpas or what-have-yous who’d be interested too.”
Unfortunately, this presented a far more complicated calculation. There were a lot of unknowns in the equation. Some grandparents lived far away, and others probably didn’t like to drive at night.
“Well, Gracie’s Yiayia and Papou live in Greece,” said Susan, “so I’m thinking we can count them out.”
“Austin is inviting Mrs. Warde, the English teacher, to the show.”
“Ugh,” said Susan. “She’ll probably want to grade us on it.”
“And I know the Quandts wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“I think Sam said some of the kids on his baseball team might come.”
“Don’t forget about all those posters you put up,” Susan reminded me. “I’m sure those will draw some customers.”
Maybe we would have a decent-size audience after all. Or maybe we’d wind up with Nana, Papa, thirty obligated parents, and eighteen empty folding chairs. Right now it was anybody’s guess.
“Make fifty programs,” I said, feeling optimistic.
Susan hit the track pad, and the printer began to whir.
Truth be told, I’d be perfectly happy with fifty theatergoers. Heck, I’d be happy with five as long as somebody showed up to see what we’d accomplished.
Just so all our hard work wouldn’t go to waste.
As I watched the pages zip out of the printer, I felt my fingers crossing of their own accord. Please don’t let that theater be empty on opening night, I thought.
And it wasn’t just for me I was making this wish.
It was for my cast.
Tech Week had arrived. We couldn’t hold rehearsal on Monday, because of the Fourth of July holiday, but I told myself this was a good thing. We all needed a break, and what could be better than a long weekend with fireworks and patriotic parades to put us all in the right mind-set? Musical theater was, after all, the great American art form.
On Tuesday I got up early and decided to make a to do list for this final and crucial week of rehearsal. It was only just beginning to sink in how close we were to opening night. The show went up on Saturday—in exactly five days. And we still had a ton of kinks to work out. The thought made me feel excited and nervous. Confident and at the same time completely and totally in over my head.
But I never turned away from a challenge. So I sat down at the kitchen table and made my checklist.
Director’s TECH WEEK To Do List
1. ASK AUSTIN ABOUT THE THEME SONG!
2. Remind Madeline W. to take the gum out of her mouth before she goes onstage
3. Hand out T-shirts (surprise!)
4. Make sure restrooms are clean and stocked
5. Have Maxie H. triple-check that all straight pins have been removed from costumes after alterations
6. Write blurb about silencing cell phones and no flash photography
7. Remind Madeline W. again about the gum
8. Begin advance ticket sales
9. SERIOUSLY . . . THE THEME SONG!
10. ???
I read my list over three times but feared that once again I’d forgotten something important.
I was almost certain there was something else . . . a tenth to do item, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of what it could be. All the way to the clubhouse theater, I wracked my brain trying to think of what it could be.
One slight problem was that I had no money to use for change in the cashbox. I’d already spent ninety-seven dollars of our one hundred and thirty dollars in dues money on the T-shirts. Then I’d given Maxie twenty-five of the remaining thirty-three dollars for makeup essentials. This left me with a whopping eight bucks in our theater fund (barely enough to replace Mom’s economy-size bottle of Windex). For now I would just hope that anyone who wanted to purchase tickets today came with exact change.
Lugging my trash bag full of custom Random Farms T-shirts, I unlocked the theater door and stepped inside. I knew this was the beginning of what might just be the most important week of my life. I quickly tucked the bag under the stage with the folding chairs. My plan was to hand out the shirts sometime before Friday’s dress rehearsal. This way the cast could wear them during their bows while singing Austin’s original theme song!
Which Austin was still working on and therefore we hadn’t rehearsed yet, with or without the harmonies that may or may not be still stuck in his head.
As if by some unspoken agreement, every member of my cast (well, almost) arrived good and early—they knew this was a big day, and it did my heart good to know that they were taking it seriously. Even Sophia managed to show up on time, which for her was a major accomplishment.
After referring to my to do list, I decided that my first task was to make Madeline turn in her pack of bubble gum at the door. Then I sent Eddie to refill the soap dispensers in the restrooms.
So what hadn’t I done?
I decided not to dwell on it, whatever it was. Sooner or later it would come to me.
Today was to be our first day of the process known as tech rehearsal. That was when the show was rehearsed using all the technical aspects—like sound and lighting and set changes—to be sure they would run smoothly for the performance.
For us this would be ridiculously easy, since we didn’t really have all that much tech. For stage lighting there were only the simple overhead canister lights, which didn’t do anything but go up and down. The only additional lighting element was the strand of holiday lights Deon had staple-gunned to the front edge of the stage. Unfortunately, there were no spotlights.
“No spotlights?” Sophia threw her hands up in disgust. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“You would have known it,” I said tightly, “if you hadn’t skipped out on the first rehearsal to go to Daria’s pool party.”
Sophia ignored the barb. “How am I going to sing my solo without a spotlight?” she fumed. “I pictured myself haloed in a glowing circle of pale pink light.”
“Sorry,” said Deon, “but look at it this way: without a spotlight, people might not notice how raggedy your costume is.”
Maxie shot him a look.
“Whatever!” Sophia rolled her eyes. “Just body mic me and get it over with.”
“About that . . .,” said Austin.
“No mics, either?” Sophia looked stricken. “You can’t be serious. First you aren’t going to light me, now you won’t even mic me?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Teddy. “You’re plenty loud enough without one.”
“That’s because I know how to project!” she screamed.
“So it’s not a problem,” said Austin. “You don’t need a mic. You can project.”
“That’s one word for it,” Susan mumbled.
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Sophia huffed.
Since we didn’t have a stage crew, Deon and Maxie had been appointed co–stage managers; they would be responsible for changing backdrops, switching out props and set pieces, and of course, operating the curtain.
The curtain!
That was what I’d forgotten.
I felt like I’d just been punched in the gut.
“What’s wrong, Anya?” asked Susan. “You look like you’re gonna be sick or something.”
“I never got around to finding a curtain,” I confessed. “How could I forget the curtain? It’s, like, the first thing people think of when they think of a theater.”
No one disagreed. I vowed silently to handle it before the end of the week. I wanted a curtain. My cast wanted a curtain. Who would ever take us seriously if we didn’t have a curtain?
But right now I had to focus on rehearsal.
“Let’s get started,” I s
aid, clapping my hands briskly.
Everyone hurried into the wings (although without a curtain, they really weren’t all that winglike). There was a cacophony of whispering, giggling, and shuffling of feet.
“It’s going to have to be a lot quieter back there on opening night!” I warned.
But this accomplished nothing; in fact, it made things worse by setting off a series of overly loud shhhhhhhhs.
Susan and Austin lowered the old roller shades on the windows, and when Deon hit the main light switch that controlled the house lights, the whole interior of the theater turned dusky gray.
This did the trick; the noisy fidgeting from the wings stopped instantly, and a hush fell over the place.
“That’s more like it,” said Austin with a grin.
“Places for the opening number!” I commanded.
Everyone crept onto the shadowy stage.
“Move over, Elle.”
“Teddy, you’re supposed to be over there.”
“No, Jane stands there. I stand here.”
“How can you stand here when I’m supposed to stand here?”
“Mackenzie has to be in front. If Mackenzie’s not in front, I won’t remember the steps.”
“Mackenzie is in front.”
“Eddie!”
“What?”
“We haven’t even started to dance, and you’re already stepping on my foot.”
With a sigh, I turned the main lights back on. Twelve faces turned to me.
“What’s the problem?” asked Susan.
“We forgot to spike,” I said.
“Spike?” Spencer repeated. “That sounds kinda dangerous.”
I explained that spiking was the practice of marking places onstage with small pieces of tape so the actors would always know exactly where to stand. Spike tape came in all different colors, and some varieties even glowed in the dark.
“So, let’s spike now,” Susan suggested.
“Great idea,” I said. “Except we don’t have any tape.”
“Check the bag of art stuff my mom brought,” said Deon.
I hurried over to where we’d left the shopping bags and, sure enough, there was a roll of ordinary masking tape. It wouldn’t glow in the dark, but at least for the moment it would keep my performers from clobbering one another on stage.
