Curtain Up (13 page)

“Let's hear the lyrics!”

“They aren't finished yet,” said Austin. “Still a little rough. But I'm working on them.”

I let him play the song through another time. “Austin, we have to use this in the show!”

He beamed. “That's sort of what I was hoping for. I mean, I compiled the script, but there really isn't a lot in it that's mine. I figured this would be the best way for me to put my own stamp on the revue. Like you're doing with your producing and directing. But I don't know if I'll be done in time.”

“Sure you will,” I said breezily. “Look how fast you put together the revue. And you've got the music nearly completed.”

“Yes, but I'm thinking there should be some awesome harmonies, and that'll take a while for the kids to get right. Teaching it to them might take longer than writing.”

“It would be amazing if the cast could sing it during the curtain call.” I turned to frown at the stage. “Speaking of which . . .”

The ceiling above the stage was equipped with the necessary hardware for a simple proscenium-style stage curtain that could go up and down thanks to some pulleys that dangled in the wings. But there was no actual curtain in place. I supposed we could make do without one, but the thought of seeing a real curtain go up on opening night gave me chills.

Maybe Deon could figure out a way to rig up something. I'd have to work on that.

Austin continued to fiddle with the theme song until
Susan arrived and showed us her design for the program. “We can have the kids write their bios during the lunch break,” she suggested.

“Good thinking,” I said.

At ten o'clock on the dot the door swung open and all eleven actors rushed in, anxious and excited.

“Where's the list?” asked Madeline.

Austin pointed to the bulletin board; the kids stormed it like a stampeding herd. “Now I know where the term
cattle call
comes from,” Austin quipped.

For the next few minutes there were shouts of joy, shrieks of excitement, and high fives and hugs all around. The only person who looked a little unhappy was Jane, but to her credit she didn't sulk, and she was the first to congratulate Mia on getting the solo. I decided I'd have a quiet word with Jane at the end of the day. Exactly what I would say to her, I had no idea. But something told me this was what a real director would do. I hoped Austin would offer to join me for this discussion, but if he didn't, I decided I wouldn't ask. No reason for both of us to be uncomfortable.

Deon and Maxie came in while the cast was still scanning the list. Maxie was holding a large expandable makeup case. Deon was draped with electrical cords and carrying a toolbox.

“Hey,” said Mia, “why does Sophia Ciancio get the final solo?”

“Yeah,” said Spencer. “She didn't even stick around long enough to sing.”

“It's a long story,” I said. “But she's very talented, so she'll be a wonderful addition to our cast.”

Mackenzie, who knew Sophia as well as I did, looked skeptical. I knew it wasn't the “talented” part she was questioning. . . . It was the “wonderful.”

First I had everyone give Susan his or her dues money. It felt weird asking kids for cash, but we had expenses. Programs and tickets would have to be printed, and paper and ink weren't cheap. In addition, Jane had blown through an entire economy-size bottle of my mom's Windex yesterday, which I fully intended to replace.

Once that task was handled, I told everyone to spread out across the floor for some warm-up exercises, and then I stood in front of the group. I was familiar with a few from my rehearsals for
Cinderella
and
Annie.
But last night I'd googled “acting warm-ups” and, with the help of wikiHow and YouTube, I'd added a few more exercises to my repertoire. I invited Mackenzie, possibly the most flexible human being on earth, to help me lead a stretching routine.

We had just begun the first simple stretch when Sophia
strolled in.

“Good morning,” she said, dropping her pricey tote bag by the door and looking totally bored with life. “So, where's the cast list?”

Both of my arms were above my head, so I motioned toward the bulletin board with my chin. Sophia examined the list, then turned to me with a smug smile.

“I'm singing ‘Castle on a Cloud' and Mia Kim isn't?”

I nodded, gritting my teeth as I reached outward with my left arm, then my right.

“Mia's singing ‘Maybe,' ” said Jane.

“I can read,” snapped Sophia. She turned back to the board. “Oh, and I'm doing a scene from
Wicked
with Elle.” She glanced around the room until her eyes fell on her partner. “I hope you know what you're doing,” she said. “I refuse to work with amateurs.”

“We're all amateurs, Sophia,” said Austin firmly. “Well, except for Teddy.”

“Teddy's done TV commercials and even had a small role on a soap opera once,” said Madeline.

“Well, then I want to do my scene with him,” said Sophia, crossing the floor to take a place right at the front of the group.

“Keep stretching,” I whispered to Kenzie. “Ignore her.”

Kenzie dropped her chin to her chest and began slowly swinging her head from shoulder to shoulder, then in a full circle. “Head rolls,” she announced.

“Oh, heads are gonna roll all right,” Sophia muttered, “if I don't get to do my scene with Teddy.”

It was then that Susan marched right up to Sophia and cleared her throat loudly. “
Ahhhmmm
.”

“What do you want?” sneered Sophia.

“Ten bucks,” said Susan, holding out her upturned palm. “Dues money. Everyone paid. Now it's your turn.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. “There's money in the outside pocket of my tote. But I only have a twenty.”

“No problem,” Susan informed her, skipping toward the tote bag. “I can make change. Do you prefer a ten or two fives?”

“Time for some tongue twisters,” I said brightly, “to warm up your . . . um . . . well, your tongues, I guess.”

A ripple of laughter floated through the theater.

“Really use those cheeks and lips when you say the words,” I explained. “Use your whole face and pronounce the words as clearly as you can. Here we go . . . red leather, yellow leather . . . red leather, yellow leather.”

Suddenly the whole room was alive with the silly chant. After a minute or so of this I switched to the far more
challenging, “I love New York, unique New York, you know you need unique New York.” It wasn't long before everyone was giggling.

“What are these for, anyway?” Sam asked.

“They help you focus on enunciating,” I told him. “So the words don't run together and the audience can understand you.”

“Plus they're fun,” said Susan.

I asked Mia to do some voice warm-ups too, since I didn't want to have any strained vocal chords on my conscience.

Once everyone had warmed up, it was time to begin rehearsing in earnest. Deon was anxious to see how the overhead lights would illuminate the stage when everyone was on it, so we started with the dances. The revue now included the ensemble number and one duet—Mackenzie and Travis dancing to “Try to Remember” from
The Fantasticks
, which Austin would play on the piano. Mackenzie would choreograph, and I had no doubt it would be breathtaking.

I was pleased with how well everyone had picked up the dance. Sophia caught on quickly enough, which was good because we didn't have to spend any extra time teaching her.

After a few run-throughs, we broke for lunch, during which Susan handed out sheets of paper and had everyone write their bios.

“What's a bio?” asked Sam. “Like our life story?”

“Kind of,” I said. “A bio is where you tell the audience a little about yourself, specifically about your previous roles and other theatrical experience.”

“What if we don't have any?” asked Jane.

“Just say something like: ‘Jane is thrilled to be getting her start here at the Random Farms Kids' Theater.' ”

“Ooh!” Jane smiled. “I like that!”

Jane, Mia, Elle, and Madeline finished writing their bios quickly and took the opportunity to pore over a teen magazine Jane had brought along in her backpack. It included a quiz to determine which member of the newest boy band, Dream Four, had the most “boyfriend potential” on a scale of one to ten.

Madeline popped a huge bubble gum bubble and blushingly admitted that even though she had a life-size poster of the group's mischievous lead singer, Dylan Hastings, hanging in her room, she still thought Spencer O'Day had way more BFP than any member of Dream Four.

After the break, everyone split up to rehearse scenes and monologues, just as we had on Saturday, only this time the cast was working on the material they would actually perform in the show. As our actors rehearsed, Austin and I made our way around the theater, spending time with each group or
individual, giving them notes and suggestions, and complimenting them on the acting choices that were working.

“I would like everyone to be off book by next Monday,” I announced. Then I had to explain to Elle and Eddie what
off book
meant. “Have your lines memorized,” I clarified.

“I have a tip,” said Teddy. “When I'm preparing for a part, I always tape my pages to the bathroom mirror so I can look at them while I'm brushing my teeth.”

“Excellent idea,” said Austin.

Maxie was flying around the place with costumes and accessories, handing out hats and slipping on jackets. She asked if any of the girls had character shoes. Some did; I still had my pair from fifth grade somewhere in the back of the closet, and it was bound to fit somebody. Sophia, I was sure, had an extra pair lying around too, but naturally she didn't offer to share.

The actors continued to run their lines, the singers worked on their songs with Austin, and I sat down to look at Maxie's and Deon's sketches for the sets and scenery. They'd done a great job of pulling together Fagin's hideout for Eddie and Spencer's
Oliver!
number. One of Mrs. Quandt's daughter's prom gowns would make the perfect dress for Madeline to wear as Annie Oakley during her “Anything You Can Do” duet with Teddy.

Everything was coming along nicely. The whole theater was humming with activity. Even the out-of-tune piano sounded beautiful to me.

I spent some time at the Quandts' old kitchen table helping Susan write copy for the program and coming up with a design for the tickets. I knew exactly what I wanted them to look like, because I still had the ticket stub from the first Broadway show I'd ever seen saved in a scrapbook.

I tore a sheet of legal paper from my pad and began to write.

“They should look just like this,” I said, sliding the page across the tabletop.

“Wait,” said Susan. “We're charging only five dollars per ticket?”

I nodded.

“That seems kind of cheap. I was thinking we'd charge at least ten. This show is worth it.”

“I know,” I said. “But this is what Mom would call a marketing strategy. I want to get people in the door—grown-ups
and
kids. When they see how great we are, the grown-ups will be like, ‘Wow, I would have paid a lot more to see a show that good,' and the kids will be like, ‘I didn't expect it to be so awesome. Where do I sign up for the next show?' ”

Susan grinned. “The next show, which will cost ten dollars per ticket. And signing up new actors means more dues money!”

“Exactly,” I said. “We're building a reputation, see? We're creating a fan base.” I didn't say so out loud, but I knew this was the best shot we had at turning our single musical revue from a one-off into an ongoing theatrical business venture.

“Genius,” said Susan, shaking her head in awe. “My sister is an absolute genius!”

“Well, I don't know about
that
,” I said, blushing.

“It's the dog-walking business all over again,” Susan observed. “Only better.”

“Let's hope so,” I said, laughing. But she was right. This
wasn't the first time I'd employed my savvy marketing skills and business know-how.

Three years ago I had had the idea to start a dog-walking business in my neighborhood. I'd knocked on the door of every house in our neighborhood where I'd known there was a dog and given my pitch:
dog walking—three dollars for one lap around the cul-de-sac
. Five dollars extra if they'd wanted me to give their pet a bath.

My dad had said I'd had “the entrepreneurial spirit.” And I'd made a decent amount of money, too, until Susan had had a major allergic reaction to a Boston terrier I'd been shampooing in our bathtub. That was when Mom had made me retire.

Now I noticed that Susan had taken my pencil and was scribbling something on my ticket mock-up. “What are you doing?”

“You forgot to add the year.”

“I think people will get that it's
this
year,” I said.

“Duh,” said Susan. “Of course they will. But we have to put the year on the ticket anyway!”

“How come?”

“Because,” my little sister said with a glowing smile, “someday when Anya Wallach is a big-time world-famous Broadway director, people are going to want to know exactly
when it all started.”

Her words went right to my heart, filling me with pride. And hope.