Curtain Up

by Lisa Fiedler

  They looked nervous.

  And excited.

  And nervous.

  But most of all, they looked ready.

  In theater, it’s sort of a tradition for the director to say something inspiring on opening night. So on my walk over I’d prepared a long fancy speech in my head. It was all about the importance of teamwork and the magic of theater and the satisfaction of a job well done. It included advice and reminders and all sorts of other directorial wisdom I thought I should share before I sent them out onto that stage.

  But now that it was time to express it all, I decided on something else entirely. Something that, in its own way, encompassed all that other stuff . . . and more.

  “You guys are the best,” I said. “I may have been the one who dreamed up this theater, but not one single bit of it could have happened without all of you. We’ve worked really hard, but somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like work and started feeling more like . . . well, maybe this sounds cheesy, but . . . it started to feel like it was all meant to be.”

  “Doesn’t sound cheesy to me,” said Teddy, grinning.

  “Me either,” said Maddie, spitting her gum into a tissue.

  “This all started because I wanted to be on a team,” I continued. “And I wound up being on the best team I could have ever asked for. So, thanks.”

  “Showtime,” said Eddie.

  “Let’s do this!” I cried.

  Deon was ready at the light controls. I gave him a nod, and the house lights went down. The murmuring and whispering of the audience faded to silence.

  “Places,” I said.

  My cast took the stage. In a moment I would slip out from the wings, tiptoeing through the shadowy house to take my place in the back, where I would enjoy the show.

  Our show.

  Heart racing in my chest, I turned to Maxie (whose hands were already clasped expectantly around the pulley rope) and whispered the words I had been waiting to say my whole life.

  “Curtain up!”

  Maxie gave a mighty pull on the rope, and the curtain sailed upward. Deon hit a switch and the stage was suddenly alive with light. Piano music filled the theater, and twelve incredibly dedicated, talented kids—my actors . . . my friends—began to perform, dancing and singing with all their hearts.

  In the audience I saw people smiling and tapping their feet.

  For them, this was the start of an unforgettable show.

  For me, it was the start . . . of everything.

  I had never heard such a complete quiet.

  The clubhouse theater was empty now, except for me, seated dead center in the front row, looking at the dark stage. Everyone had gone to the ice cream place with their families to celebrate our success over milk shakes and sundaes.

  I suppose the reason this quiet seemed so quiet was because a mere thirty minutes ago, people had leaped to their feet to cheer and applaud and shout, “Bravo!” A few of those people had even had tears in their eyes. My mom, for one. And Mrs. Warde. And me. The show had been that good.

  Although that wasn’t to say there weren’t a few bloopers. If someone had asked me yesterday how I would have reacted to mistakes in the performance, I probably would have said I’d be horrified. But when they actually happened, I was surprised to find that I was able to let them go. It was like I could finally see the bigger picture. It didn’t have to be perfect; it just had to be amazing. And besides, the little mistakes had felt almost like inside jokes, because no one in the audience could have possibly noticed them. The crowd hadn’t known that in the Oliver! scene, Sam had been wearing Eddie’s Dodger costume while Eddie had been dressed in Sam’s Oliver clothes, or that Gracie had left out three whole lines of her Veruca Salt monologue from Willy Wonka. Teddy’s mustache had been on upside down, so it’d looked less like an old-time handlebar and more like some wacky overgrown goatee; Mia had forgotten one whole verse of “Maybe”; and in the Fantasticks dance, Travis and Mackenzie had bumped heads not once but twice.

  But besides the actors themselves, only Austin and Susan and I had been aware of these minor glitches, and somehow we just knew that in the scheme of things, they didn’t really matter.

  After the final bow—and Madeline’s perfect curtsy—the audience had milled around on the clubhouse lawn to wait for the cast to come outside. Austin and I had wound our way through the throng, listening gleefully as parents and grandparents and neighbors and friends had talked about our show. The ones who’d recognized us (like the Quandts, and Mr. and Mrs. Kim for example) had stopped us to gush about how impressed they’d been and to congratulate us on a job well done. But for me, it had been almost more exciting to overhear the theatergoers who didn’t know who Austin and I were (like aunts and uncles from out of town). They’d been blown away by what we’d achieved. Most of them had been flat out shocked that we’d been able to put on such an entertaining show.

  “Should we be insulted?” Austin had whispered to me.

  “Nah. It’s a compliment. I mean, let’s face it, a bunch of middle schoolers putting on a top-notch revue all by themselves is definitely not something that happens every day.”

  “True,” said Austin.

  Then the cast had burst out of the clubhouse, and the cheering had started all over again. My actors had accepted hugs and bouquets, and I couldn’t have been prouder.

  But for one second, one teeny, tiny sliver of a moment, I couldn’t help feeling the slightest twinge of envy. Sure, I’d had my hand shaken and my back patted, and that had been super gratifying. But this was applause . . . and it was a little bit different.

  This, I’d recalled (as Teddy’s dad gave him an enthusiastic high five), was what it felt like to be a performer. A star.

  My eyes had gone to Sophia, clutching her long-stemmed roses and beaming at her friends, who’d been gathered around her, gazing in awe.

  And for a heartbeat, I’d wondered what it might be like to be her.

  The feeling had gone as soon as it had come. I had given the stars their chances to be stars. Sure, there had been bumps in the road, obstacles and moments of fear and doubt. But we hadn’t given up, and we’d made something happen. Something wonderful. Kids who’d never exchanged so much as a hello before joining Random Farms were friends now . . . good friends.

  An abandoned barn had been transformed into a beautiful space where people could come to be dazzled and entertained.

  I had had an idea, and I’d been lucky enough to find all the right people to make it happen. Austin and Susan, and this amazing and dedicated cast. Everything had come together because of a lot of people’s hard work, but I couldn’t help feeling a little shiver of joy at knowing that I had been the one who’d had the idea. I wasn’t going to let it go to my head though. Because ideas are important, but they’re nothing without people to bring them to life.

  “Anya?”

  I turned to see Susan standing behind me. She was holding a half-eaten pistachio ice cream cone and a slightly melted butterscotch sundae.

  “I hope the sundae’s for me,” I joked.

  “Yep.” She handed me the bowl of ice cream, a plastic spoon, and a napkin. “Mom wants to know when you’re coming home.”

  “Soon,” I said, spooning the cherry off the swirl of whipped cream and into my mouth.

  “Okay. I’ll tell her.” Susan grinned. “But she wants me to remind you not to be too late. Even big-time producer-directors have curfews, ya know.”

  I would have laughed, but I had a mouthful of butterscotch.

  Susan left, and again I was alone in the silence of the empty theater. I decided I would stay long enough to finish my sundae, and then I’d go home. But for just a few more minutes I wanted to be here all by myself, eating ice cream and picturing Elle and Travis and Jane and all the others, dancing and singing and acting their hearts out.

  And as I sat there, letting the images and the ice cream fill me, I knew this would be the most delicious butterscotch sundae I’d ever tasted.
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br />   “Pass the sunscreen, please.”

  I kept my eyes closed and reached out my hand for Susan to place the bottle of coconut-scented lotion into it. I squirted out a drop and rubbed it carefully onto my nose.

  “Now, pass the chips.”

  I heard the crinkling of a bag. “Sorry. None left.”

  I tilted my sunglasses up onto my head and frowned at my sister.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I don’t even like sour cream and onion. Look at him!” She pointed.

  I turned to the lounge chair next to me, where Austin was crunching guiltily. He smiled. It was the afternoon following our performance and everyone was in a great mood. I’d woken up that morning fearing that it might have all been a dream, but when Dad handed me the morning paper, there was a glowing review of our show.

  It was the first day in weeks that I had a totally free day, and I wanted to spend it outdoors. So there we were . . . Susan, Austin, and I with Becky, Mackenzie, Deon, and Mia, all hanging out at the town pool on the most beautiful sunny Sunday I could remember.

  “Who wants to go off the diving board?” said Deon.

  “Me!” cried Mia.

  “Come on,” said Susan, sliding off her chair. “I’ll show you my world-famous cannonball.”

  Austin, Becky, Mackenzie, and I watched as our friends hurried toward the deep end. I was so involved in watching my sister’s crazy dive it was a moment before I noticed that three kids—two boys and a girl—had appeared beside my chair.

  I recognized two of them from Chappaqua Middle School.

  “Hey,” said the girl smiling at me. “I’m Julie Roth. We had science together last year, remember?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You got an A on the mold-growing project, right?”

  Julie nodded. “This is Brady Greenberg. He just moved here from Boston. And this is Joey Garcia.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “We saw your show last night,” Joey said to me. “It totally rocked.”

  “Actually,” I said, nodding toward Austin, then Mackenzie. “It wasn’t my show. It was our show. But thanks. I’m glad you liked it.”

  “We loved it,” said Julie. “And we were wondering if you were planning to do another one.”

  It was at this moment that my cannonball of a sister returned to her chair, dripping wet. “Of course we’re going to do another one,” she said, toweling off.

  “We’re starting our second production a week from tomorrow,” I explained. “At the theater. Ten o’clock.”

  “Great,” said Brady. “We’ll be there.”

  “Don’t forget ten bucks for dues,” said Susan.

  Joey offered Austin a fist bump. “Awesome job on the piano, dude. I play drums myself. And I’m taking saxophone lessons in the fall.”

  “I’m not too bad on the guitar,” said Brady, with a shy smile.

  “That’s great,” said Austin. “We can use more musicians.”

  The moment Joey said drums, I was already picturing an orchestra. Percussion, strings, an entire brass section! And how great would they sound with a whole new PA system? After last night’s ticket sales, we were well on our way to being able to afford one.

  And Julie from science class . . . I suddenly remembered she’d once done an extra credit oral report on the digestive system of the North American bullfrog. The girl had amazing diction. She’d been really animated in her descriptions and had even made a few jokes about the small intestine.

  I bet she could act. Maybe she could sing.

  There I went, thinking like a producer again.

  As I watched our three new theater members head toward the snack bar, Austin asked, “Just out of curiosity, when exactly did you know for sure that we would be doing our second show?”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “I think it was about ten seconds after I decided we were doing our first show. It was the plan all along.” I lifted an eyebrow at him. “You in?”

  He pretended to think about it. “Ahh, sure, why not? I mean, I already have the T-shirt, right? And the piano sounds great since we had it tuned.”

  I laughed and settled back against my towel, letting the warmth of the sun wash over me and wondering if I would ever tell Austin or Susan (or anyone for that matter) how I managed to earn the money to pay that piano bill on time. I could only imagine what they would say if they knew I’d sold my autographed Wicked Playbill for two hundred dollars in order to settle up with the Soft Peddlers.

  I suppose now that we’d earned all that money in ticket sales, I could approach the buyer and purchase it back. But something told me the buyer in question would either charge me a million bucks or flat out say no. I was pretty sure Sophia Ciancio was the sort who would drive a hard bargain.

  But the thing was, as much as I loved that Playbill, I loved my theater more.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am fortunate to have had the advice and support of many people during the creation of the Stagestruck series. I would like to recognize the following friends and colleagues for their inspiration, guidance, and belief in both me and this project: Pamela Bobowicz, Rob Fermann, Alexis Grausz, Adam Harley, Michael Kauffman, Lisa Pitliuk, and Angela Santomero; Heather Hughes and Barb McNally at Sleeping Bear Press; Marc Tumminelli; and Susan Cohen and Brianne Johnson at Writer’s House.

  Special thanks to my parents, Jennifer and Stacy, for giving me the unconditional love and encouragement needed to reach for the stars.

  —Anya Wallach

  I was proud of my cast and proud of myself. But a producer’s work was never done, which meant it was time to start preparing for our second show. So Austin and I arranged to meet late Monday afternoon at the coffeehouse to plan.

  I got there first, toting my laptop. I bought myself lemonade and a swirled-icing cupcake, and picked a table. Three minutes later the bell on the door jangled, and Austin walked in. Thanks to our day at the pool, his nose and cheeks were just a little bit sunburned.

  I was surprised at how good Austin looked with that sunny glow. He waved and went to the counter for an iced tea and a giant macadamia-nut cookie. When he was seated, we got right to work.

  “First things first,” I said. “Finances.”

  Austin bit into the cookie and nodded. I opened my laptop and showed him the document my sister had titled “RF Money.”

  “So, according to Susan, we made a pretty decent profit.” I pointed to the number at the bottom of the screen. “Not bad, right? We’ll be able to cover our piano-tuning debt and still have plenty left over.”

  “Excellent,” said Austin. “Add that to the next session’s dues and the money we should get from the ticket sales for the new show, and we’re definitely in good shape.”

  “Yes, we are,” I said. “Moving on . . . membership.” I clicked a few times and showed him the two e-mails I’d received that morning. “Unfortunately, Sam isn’t going to be able to be in the second show. He’s got a lot of baseball stuff going on for the next few weeks.”

  Austin frowned. “That’s kind of a bummer. Sam’s a great kid. And good actor.”

  “I know. I was pretty sad when I got the e-mail. But I understand that baseball means a lot to him too.” I indicated the last line of the e-mail, which Austin read aloud.

  “ ‘I’ll def be back for the third show,’ ” Austin read.

  This resulted in a shiver of excitement along my spine. “Third show!” I repeated. “Sam’s counting on there being a third show. That’s encouraging.”

  Austin beamed. “Yeah, it is.”

  My excitement subsided as I clicked on the second e-mail. “Uh-oh . . . Sam’s not the only one who’s ‘bowing’ out. . . . No pun intended.”

  Austin cracked a smile. “Please say Sophia’s decided to opt out.”

  “We should be so lucky!” I rolled my eyes. “But no, as far as I know, Sophia the Diva will be back for the second show. It’s Mia and Eddie who won’t be able to do it. Family vacation.
They’ll be gone for two weeks.”

  “That’s a serious bummer,” grumbled Austin. “A double whammy! What are we gonna do without Mia’s vocal talent and Eddie’s comedic timing?”

  “We’ll just have to work around it,” I said with more confidence than I actually felt. “And remember, a lot of our cast has improved a ton since we started.”

  “That’s very true.”

  “And don’t forget the new recruits. Those three kids we met at the pool yesterday, Julie, Brady, and Joey . . . They’ve got great potential. And Susan’s been fielding tweets and texts all morning from kids wanting to sign up.”

  “So . . . you’re saying our cast might actually increase?” Austin looked thoughtful. “That’s going to be a huge factor in deciding on the next show. We’re going to need something with lots of roles.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he thought he might be able to finish his big musical, when . . .

  I was interrupted by the jangling of the bell on the door. Looking up, I saw Susan come skidding into the coffeehouse, looking frantic.

  “Anya! You have to come to the theater. Now!”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not really sure,” she said, her eyes wide and her face pale. “All I know is that Mr. Healy’s pickup is parked on the lawn. There are orange cones blocking off half the street, and the whole clubhouse is surrounded by fire trucks and police cruisers!”

  Police cruisers? Fire trucks?

  Heart racing, I looked at Austin. He looked at me.

  We both dropped our snacks and sprung up from our chairs.

  And we ran!

  LISA FIEDLER

  Lisa Fiedler is a lifelong fan of musical theater. She saw her first Broadway play at age seven and has been badly belting out show tunes ever since! Her books for children and young adults include the Mouseheart trilogy; Romeo’s Ex: Rosaline’s Story; and Dating Hamlet: Ophelia’s Story. She and her family divide their time between their home in Connecticut and their cottage on the Rhode Island seashore.