by Lisa Fiedler
“You’ve got your solo. You’re singing ‘Castle on a Cloud.’ ”
I heard a gasp and guessed it was Susan. But I stood my ground and turned to meet Jane’s wide-eyed expression. “You know the words?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Do you have a problem with wearing rags?”
“Not at all, but . . .”
“Then you can take Sophia’s place tomorrow night and sing Cosette’s song.”
“B-but . . . what about that whole ‘scale-of-one-to-ten’ th-thing?” Jane sputtered. “You said I don’t have the right amount of solo potential.”
“To be perfectly honest,” I said gently, “you don’t. But I would much rather have someone with your dedication and enthusiasm perform the song, even if it’s not perfect, than someone who cares more about herself than the show and thinks she can bully the director.”
Jane looked happy and terrified at once.
Sophia looked like she might go up in flames.
“You can get off the stage now, Sophia,” I said, hoping my voice would not betray the fact that I was literally shaking in my shoes.
“Fine!” Sophia said through her teeth. Then she looked beyond me toward the doorway. “Make sure you put that in your article, Mr. Jefferies,” she said.
Confused, I turned to see who she’d addressed that last statement to and saw a gray-haired man standing by the ticket table. “Mr. Jefferies” was holding a notepad and a camera, and he had a press pass attached to a lanyard that hung around his neck.
I whirled back to face Sophia. “You invited a reporter?” I said with a gasp.
“No, you did,” she said smugly. “Remember when my father gave you permission to use this place and you told Ms. Bradley your theater would make a good story for the Chronicle? Well, she took you seriously and sent Mr. Jefferies, who, by the way, is not just any reporter. He’s also the drama critic. Ms. Bradley even promised to put our picture on the front page. And if you think I would ever appear in the newspaper wearing a dress made of rags, you’re crazy.”
“Well, now you’re not going to appear in the newspaper at all,” said Austin in a brittle voice.
“Maybe not,” said Sophia. “But Anya is. And I bet Mr. Jefferies is going to write all about what a disaster this dress rehearsal has been. Then everyone in town is going to know that, as a director, Anya Wallach is a complete and total failure!” She let out a nasty little cackle. “I mean, c’mon! You call this a theater? It doesn’t even have a curtain!”
I spun around to look at the reporter, who was furiously jotting notes on his pad.
And then . . .
I ran.
I made it as far as our front porch before the tears came. I threw myself onto one of the wicker chairs and cried.
I cried because I’d worked harder on the Random Farms Kids’ Theater than I’d ever worked on anything in my entire life, and I still hadn’t been able to make it work.
I cried because Eddie and Madeline and Travis and all the other kids had trusted me. They’d put their whole hearts and souls into this show, and I’d let each and every one of them down.
I cried because Austin had wasted the first three weeks of his summer vacation on a theatrical revue when he should have been writing his brilliant original musical, and because Susan had stepped up and proved herself to be not only an amazing assistant but the best little sister a girl could ask for, and I had only proven myself to be exactly what Sophia Ciancio had said I was.
A failure.
It was just too much. It was soccer tryouts all over again, only this time it was much, much worse. Because this time, I cared.
“Anya?”
I didn’t look up right away because I knew my eyes were red and swollen, and there was a very good chance my nose was running.
“Anya,” Austin repeated. “Look at me.”
There was no avoiding it. I knew Austin would stand there forever if he had to, which, if I were being honest, was actually one of the things I liked best about him. So I used the back of my sleeve to wipe my face, took a good hard sniffle, and finally lifted my head.
“You were right.”
I gave him a cautious look. “About Sophia?”
“Well, yeah. That too. But I meant”—he took a deep breath, then turned up his palms—“you were right about the theme song.”
I blinked at him, wondering if maybe I’d misheard. “I was?”
He grinned. “You know you were. And the thing is, I knew it too. I just couldn’t bring myself to give up without a fight.”
I straightened up, pulling the chair’s throw pillow into my lap and fiddling with the fringe trim. “I wasn’t asking you to give up,” I said softly. “I was just asking you to be patient. The song was too good to be wasted like that. Actually”—I gave him a tentative smile—“by saying no, I think I was paying you a compliment.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry.”
“You’re welcome. And I’m sorry too. You’re an artist, and I should have never tried to rush you. And I should have never brought up Daria’s party.” I felt my cheeks flush bright red. “That was really immature of me.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But I kind of get it.”
I sighed.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said with a loud sniff. “Today was a mess. I’m sorry I freaked out back there, but everything was going so horribly wrong. Bloody teeth, blown fuses . . . reporters!”
“Yeah,” Austin chuckled. “But you’ve got to admit, it was pretty cool to actually have the paparazzi there.”
“I can’t believe there’s going to be an article in the Chronicle about what a pathetic idiot I am!”
“Hmmm,” said Austin, pulling a piece of notepaper out of his pocket and studying it. “Doesn’t say anything about anybody being a pathetic idiot here.”
I frowned at the paper. “What’s that?”
“Mr. Jefferies’s notes. After you left, I asked him if he was really going to write his article about the hairspray and the bubble gum and the party dress. And d’ya know what he said?”
I was almost afraid to ask. “What?”
“He said he’d never seen a twelve-year-old handle a situation with as much poise and maturity as you handled Sophia’s refusal to change costumes. He said you were a true professional and a visionary, too. He couldn’t believe what we’d done with that dusty barn and the hand-me-down wardrobe, and he said what you’ve created in three short weeks most adults couldn’t accomplish in three whole months. He was so impressed, he said he already had the whole article written in his head, which was why he was able to give me some of his notes.”
“Can I see those, please?”
Austin handed me the small sheet of paper, which I used to blow my nose.
This totally cracked Austin up. And the sound of his laughing made me feel much better.
“Mr. Jefferies reminded me of something,” Austin continued. “Another old theatrical superstition I’d forgotten about.”
“The one about saying ‘the Scottish play’ instead of ‘MacBeth’?” I guessed.
“No, Shakespeare, not that one. The one that says that the bigger disaster the dress rehearsal is, the bigger success the play will be.”
I felt my heart leap in my chest. “That’s right! When I was in Annie, the director even made up a little poem about it: ‘Bad dress? Don’t stress! When rehearsal flops, the show is tops!’ ”
“Clever,” said Austin. “I wish I’d written that.”
“I think after what happened today, we can safely assume that Random Acts of Broadway might turn out to be one of the greatest shows ever.”
“If not the greatest,” Austin agreed.
I jumped up from the wicker chair, all business. “Let’s go back. We still have to run the closing number and I want to see how Mia’s throat feels and—”
“Wait.” Austin suddenly had a weird look on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
> “Um, well, I think maybe we shouldn’t go back just yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because . . . because it might be better for you to get some fresh air first. We can take a walk to the drugstore. You still have to get those false eyelashes, right? And while we’re in town, we can hang up a few more posters.”
“Are you sure? Austin, the show opens tomorrow. There’s so much to do.”
“I know, but I think you could use a little break. Clear your head. Susan can handle things for an hour or so. Maybe we can even stop by the coffeehouse for a while. My treat this time.”
I laughed. “Well, how can I refuse that?”
“You can’t. Let’s go.”
He pointed to the door, and we were on our way.
An hour later Austin and I were walking up the brick path to the theater. I was holding a bag from the drugstore containing two pairs of extra-long false eyelashes, a package of bobby pins, a Snickers bar for Susan (to thank her for running things in my brief absence), and a pack of bubble gum for Madeline to replace the one I’d confiscated . . . which I would not present to her until after the show.
I was feeling great as we approached the door. The icy cold Coke had refreshed and energized me, and I was ready to get back to work.
I took a deep breath and stepped into the theater. Then I stopped in my tracks because the place was completely silent. And empty.
I felt a surge of panic.
“Where’s my cast? Did they quit? Where is everybody?”
Austin grinned. “Why don’t you check up there . . . behind the curtain?”
As he said this, I heard the sound of pulleys creaking as a billowing curtain unfurled from above, falling gracefully to conceal the stage. Just like a real Broadway theater.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Austin, when . . . how . . .?”
But I was unable to finish my question because a huge lump had formed in my throat. I could only stare. The curtain had been fashioned from the old sheets the Quandts had been planning to donate to charity. But there was much more to it than that. Brightly colored letters, neatly cut from Mrs. Becker’s felt scraps, had been stitched into the fabric, forming a perfect arc that spelled out the words THE RANDOM FARMS KIDS’ THEATER.
“Now, Deon!” Austin called.
More pulley noise. I watched as the one-of-a-kind curtain crinkled itself upward like a fancy window shade to reveal my entire cast assembled onstage behind it, smiling their heads off.
“Surprise!” they hollered.
I opened my mouth, then closed it. I tried again. On my third attempt I finally got some words out. “You guys!” I cried. “Oh, wow!”
“Do you like it?” asked Mackenzie.
“We hung it up while you were gone,” said Eddie.
“We cut out the letters and sewed them on ourselves,” said Susan, grinning broadly.
“It’s incredible!” I breathed. “But the curtain . . . who made the curtain?”
It was then I noticed the portable sewing machine on the ticket table. A second later Mrs. Quandt popped out from backstage, her eyes shining. “Do you like it?” she asked.
“Oh yes!” I cried. “Yes, yes, yes! And thank you! Thank you, everyone.”
“No, Anya,” said Jane, stepping forward to give me a hug. “Thank you!”
Here was what happened on the afternoon of opening night:
Sam’s loose tooth fell out.
Mia got her voice back completely, so it probably had just been nerves and not something more serious. Still, since Susan was the one who’d brewed the tea and added the honey, she chose to take full credit for Mia’s miraculous recovery. Mia and I chose to let her.
During our lunch break, Mr. Healy showed up with a certified electrician and informed me that it was high time a brand-new electrical panel was installed in the barn, and this would basically guarantee there wouldn’t be any more blown circuits.
I felt a wave of panic. A new electrical panel was probably a very expensive upgrade, and thanks to bobby pins and sticky piano keys, the Random Farms Kids’ Theater was pretty close to broke. I explained this to Mr. Healy.
He gave me a snort and a gruff look. “Nobody’s askin’ you to pay for it, girly. I’m in charge of the neighborhood common spaces, and I decide when things need improvement. The whole cost’ll be comin’ straight out of the association’s petty cash fund.”
I was so pleased, I actually offered Mr. Healy a high five. To my shock, he high-fived me back. “Thanks,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. Then, as Mr. Healy escorted the electrician to the barn’s cellar, he turned over his shoulder, gave me a wink, and said, “Break a leg, kid.”
I had no idea how he knew to say that instead of good luck, but I was awfully glad he did!
Ten minutes after the house had officially opened, I was in the girls’ restroom, smearing on some lip gloss Maxie had given me. I’d left Susan and Becky to handle ticket sales and had ducked into the restroom for a few minutes to get myself (as Papa Harold might say) “dolled up.”
Three minutes later Jane came in holding what had formerly been Sophia’s raggedy Cosette dress.
“Anya, if it’s all right with you, I’d rather not sing ‘Castle on a Cloud’ tonight.”
I stopped mid-gloss smear and stared at her. Was she kidding? Was this a joke? I couldn’t tell. I was about to ask, but she hurried on.
“I was thinking about what you said the day the cast list went up. So I’ve been listening to Mia’s and Sam’s and Sophia’s incredible voices these last few days, and I realized something.”
“What’s that?”
“I realized . . . that I’m not ready yet.”
I was so glad she’d said “not ready” instead of “not good enough.” After yesterday I knew better than anyone how it felt to be afraid of not being good enough, and I would never want anyone in my cast to ever feel that way. Jane may not have been a natural-born singer, but I knew that with some patience and maybe a little coaching, she could eventually improve a whole lot.
“Okay, Jane,” I said. “If that’s what you want.”
Jane smiled. In fact she looked a little relieved. “It is. Definitely. Now, about Sophia . . .”
Uh-oh. “What about her?”
“She really wants to sing the solo, and she’s agreed to wear the raggedy dress. . . . That is, if it’s all right with you.”
I looked over Jane’s head and saw Sophia peeking in through the restroom door.
“She’s sorry,” said Jane.
“I’m going to need to hear that from her,” I said, putting the cap on the lip gloss and slipping it into my pocket.
There was a heavy sigh from the other side of the door. A moment later Sophia entered the bathroom. She was holding something behind her back.
“I’m sorry for our . . . misunderstanding yesterday,” she said. “I’d really like to sing the song.”
For a split second I considered saying no. I was the director, after all. But I knew that wasn’t what real theater was about. And besides, as I’d told Austin, I was never good at being bossy.
“You’ve got your solo,” I said with a nod.
Sophia nodded back, then handed me what she’d been hiding behind her.
“I thought you might want this,” she said, “in case you’re thinking of starting a Random Farms scrapbook. It’s an advance copy of tomorrow’s Chappaqua Chronicle. Ms. Bradley gave it to me.”
The headline nearly knocked me over.
LOCAL GIRL FORMS YOUTH THEATER. GREAT THINGS EXPECTED.
Beneath this boldly printed vote of confidence was a photo . . . of me, Austin, and Susan! It was a candid shot, taken near the piano. We were looking over sheet music and smiling. The photographer must have snapped it just before we’d started our disastrous dress rehearsal.
“Thanks for this,” I said. Then, before I could do anything I’d regret—like hugging Sophia Ciancio—I walked out of the girls’ room. . .
.
And—to my great surprise and indescribable joy—straight into a fully packed house!
It was one of the most awesome sights I’d ever seen. Every last one of those fifty folding chairs was occupied and, to my shock, behind the last row of chairs were at least fifty more people standing. They were parents, as expected, but also siblings and teachers and teammates and friends. I saw Mrs. Warde with her husband, and the Quandts with their grown-up daughters and their husbands. There were more grandparents than I could possibly count. The lady from the teas-of-the-world café was there with her private-school daughter. Even Daria Benson and Abigail Silver and the entire starting lineup of the girls’ soccer team were there. Gracie’s cute older brother had brought his cute girlfriend.
The electrician who’d replaced our circuit panel was there with his wife and kids, as was the barista who’d rung up my and Austin’s sodas yesterday at the coffeehouse. Sam’s baseball buddies took up an entire row of folding chairs, and Becky’s whole family was there, as was the Chappaqua Chronicle’s editor in chief, Ms. Bradley, who was seated beside the illustrious drama critic and all-around good guy, Mr. Jefferies.
And of course, my mom and dad and Papa Harold and Nana Adele were sitting right up front, looking as proud as could be in the very best seats in the house.
The most incredible part was that no one looked as if they’d been dragged here kicking and screaming. They all looked as if they truly wanted to come to this world-premiere performance of the musical revue called Random Acts of Broadway! All of them! Even Daria Benson.
“Isn’t it amazing?” cried Becky, rushing over to me. “Susan and I have been selling tickets like crazy. When we ran out of chairs, she decided to charge two dollars for standing-room only. But don’t worry; Mr. Healy says it’s not a violation of the fire codes or anything. So you won’t get arrested.”
I laughed. “Glad to hear it.”
“I knew you could do it,” she said.
I didn’t see any point in telling her that, less than twenty-four hours ago, I had thought exactly the opposite.
Austin was taking his seat on the piano bench. Susan joined him; her job would be turning the pages for him during the performance. We all exchanged smiles, then I told Becky I’d see her after the show, and hurried backstage where my whole cast, including Sophia, was waiting for me.
