Curtain Up (20 page)

“The song goes,” I said.

“Then so do I!” With that, Austin stomped to the piano, grabbed his sheet music, and bolted out the door.

Once again silence fell over the theater. No one said a word. No one even breathed. I suddenly realized that theater superstitions weren't silly at all. The creepy feeling I'd had that morning had been right.

Something bad
had
happened.

Something very, very bad.

Don't cry
, I told myself.
Don't cry. It's not professional to cry
.

Without turning to face the twelve astonished actors who stood staring at me from the stage, I waved my hand in a gesture of dismissal.

“We're done for the day,” I said in a level voice. “You can all go home.”

Then, with my head high, my shoulders back, and my knees shaking, I walked out the door.

I went straight to bed. Mom called me for dinner, but I wasn't hungry. Sometime around nine o' clock Susan knocked.

“You okay?” she asked through the door.

I didn't answer.

All I could think about was that horrible scream fest between Austin and me. We were supposed to be working together, but instead we'd turned on each other and said horrible things that had nothing to do with the Random Farms Kids' Theater at all. We must have looked ridiculous! We'd acted like idiots.

He was right. . . . I'd been too pushy. I'd forgotten about the creative process; I'd completely disrespected his artistic integrity. But then he'd been too sensitive and closed-minded. He refused to see that there just wasn't enough time to learn the song, to perform it the way it should be performed. He
was disappointed. Maybe even hurt.

But I was hurt too. I wasn't full of myself. I was the director.

Why couldn't he just listen to me?

And worst of all . . . worse than his bringing up the T-shirts and my bringing up the pool party . . . was that somehow we'd both forgotten about what was really important.

The show.

It was two a.m. before I finally felt my eyes grow heavy. At last I fell asleep . . . wondering what might happen tomorrow.

Would Austin even show up? Would anyone?

And could I blame them if they didn't?

When I arrived at the clubhouse on Friday morning, Austin was already there, seated at the piano.

Frankly, I was surprised to see him.

I was even more surprised to see Becky sitting on the bench beside him.

“Uh, hi.”

They turned in unison. Becky smiled at me. She, of course, looked stunning. With the exception of that rainy Saturday when we'd traipsed up and down King Street, her
whole summer vacation had been spent either at the golf course or the town pool, so her skin was this golden bronze color. The closest thing I'd seen to sunshine in the last three weeks were our phony footlights.

Austin and I were careful not to make eye contact.

“This place looks awesome, Anya,” Becky said, hopping up from the piano bench to give me a hug. “I'm on my way to a swim meet in Katonah. The diving coach has me doing my first double back flip today, and my relay team has a super-good chance of breaking the league record in our age group.”

“That's awesome.”

“I just stopped in to offer to help out tomorrow night. Do you need ushers? Maybe I can help sell tickets at the door.”

I was still distracted by the fact that Austin and I had yet to acknowledge each other. Clearly, he was still furious with me.

And that was making me furious with him. Furious with a side of really, really awkward. I tried to stay focused on Becky.

“That would be great,” I said, hoping to sound enthusiastic and grateful. “You can help in the box office and show people to their seats.”

“I'll wear a red vest or something so I'll look like a real Broadway usher.”

“You'll look great no matter what you wear,” Austin
blurted out. Then he blushed and hastily turned his attention back to the piano keys.

Becky, who in addition to being athletic and beautiful was also pretty instinctive about social situations, seemed to understand that there was something uncomfortable happening between Austin and me. Her eyes went from where his head was bent low over the piano keys, to my hands, which I was wringing.

“Okay, then,” said Becky. “So . . . uh . . . I've got to get going, but I'll see you tomorrow night.”

“Good luck with your relay, Beck.”

“Thank you. And good luck to you, too!”

At the sound of this phrase, I forgot all about the weirdness with Austin. My blood went ice-cold. “No!” I shouted. “Don't say that. Don't
ever
say that! Take it back! Please. Take it back now.”

“Anya!” Becky was looking at me as if I'd completely lost my mind. “What's the matter with you? Why wouldn't you want me to wish you good—”

“Stop!” Without thinking, I reached out to press my hand over her mouth, desperate to trap those horrible, terrible words inside.

Austin sprung up from the piano bench and hurried over to where I was practically suffocating my best friend. “It's an
old theater superstition,” he explained, gently removing my palm from Becky's face. “You never say goo—Uh, what you said. You say ‘break a leg' instead.”

Becky looked mortified. “Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I didn't know. I didn't mean to jinx you. Honest.”

“Of course you didn't mean to jinx us,” said Austin sweetly. “I mean, how would you know about theater quirks? You play soccer and swim and dive and stuff. And I'm betting the last thing you'd ever want to say to a gymnast or a soccer player is ‘break a leg,' right?”

“That's very true.” Becky gave him her most beautiful smile. “A fractured fibula would make it awfully hard to score a goal.”

“Yes, it would,” said Austin, grinning like a dope.

Meanwhile, I had no idea what a fibula even was, let alone that it could be fractured.

Now Becky turned her dazzling smile toward me. “Break a leg, Anya,” she said earnestly. “Break two!”

By this point, I'd managed to collect myself enough to return Becky's smile. “Thanks,” I said. “And sorry I flipped out. It's just . . . well, today's a big day. Dress rehearsal. And the play is tomorrow. So I guess I'm just a little jumpy.”

“I totally get it,” said Becky. “And speaking of jumpy, there's a three-meter board in Katonah with my name on it,
so I'd better hustle.” She gave Austin a dainty wave and a big grin. “Bye, Austin.”

“See ya, Becky.” The boy actually looked like he was going to melt.

When Becky was gone, I swept my eyes over the fifty empty chairs in their neat, orderly rows and felt a prickle of fear creeping up my spine. I could still hear Becky's words echoing in the warm air.

Good luck . . . Good luck . . . Good luck.

To me, they sounded like a curse.

As the actors arrived, Austin and I retreated to separate sides of the theater. I forced myself to greet everyone with a cheerful “good morning,” and I tried to ignore the feeling of dread that had begun to gnaw at my guts.

But even as I smiled at my happy, eager cast, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were all doomed.

Here was how dress rehearsal went:

Jane had a slight but immediate allergic reaction to her stage makeup, and while Maxie was frantically trying to wash it off, Travis decided to do his own hair and accidentally sprayed hairspray in Spencer's eyes.

“I'm blind!” Spencer shrieked. “Help! I'm blind!”

“You're not blind,” I assured him, leading him to the boys' restroom to rinse out his eyes. “Worst that'll happen is your eyelashes will be stiff for the rest of the day.”

Which reminded me: I still hadn't purchased the false eyelashes Maxie had requested. Or the bobby pins or the bottled water or . . .

“Anya?”

I turned to see Deon standing behind me, wringing his hands.

“Let me guess. You blew a fuse.”

“Yeah. How'd you know?”

“I'm the director,” I said with a sigh. “That's what I do.”

Mr. Healy had to be called in to check the electrical circuits. This took up several minutes of precious rehearsal time, but at least he was able to fix the problem.

Mackenzie had to run home because she'd brought the dance bag that held her pointe shoes instead of the one where she kept her jazz shoes. This took fifteen whole minutes, and when she got back, her hair was all sweaty and had to be redone.

I wish I could say things improved when we started the actual rehearsal, but . . . nope. They didn't. In fact, they got worse.

During the opening number, most of the masking tape we'd used to mark the stage wound up sticking to the bottoms of the girls' character shoes.

Gracie flubbed the words of her monologue three times, and that was before she'd even gotten to the second line.

Sam forgot the steps during his dance routine, so he improvised with some very cutting-edge break-dance moves. Unfortunately, Sam wasn't an especially accomplished break-dancer, which was why he wobbled out of his head spin, landed on his face, and knocked a tooth loose. On the upside, it was a baby tooth. On the downside, he bled all over his costume, and I had to send Susan home to get Mom's laundry pretreater stain stick so Maxie could remove the blood from Sam's costume shirt.

When it was Mia's turn to sing her solo, I was delivered some extremely bad news.

“I lost my voice,” she croaked. “You
what
?”

“I think I've got laryngitis,” she explained in a hoarse whisper. “Or maybe it's just nerves.”

I quickly called home and told Susan that in addition to the stain remover, we were going to need hot tea and lots of it. “Herbal,” I instructed. “With honey.”

Teddy's fake moustache fell off. Twice.

Elle spilled lemonade all over the sheet music to “Maybe.”

Madeline got bubble gum stuck in her wig.

Finally it was Sophia's turn to take the stage for “Castle on a Cloud.” Austin played the intro, and I watched as Sophia's silhouette floated onto the darkened stage.

On cue, Deon brought the lights up.

When I saw Sophia, I blinked. Then I squinted. Then I screamed. “Sophia Ciancio, what on earth are you wearing?”

She gave me a snooty smile. “My father bought it for me yesterday at Bloomingdale's just for the show. You like it?”

Of course I liked it. I
loved
it. It was gorgeous. Dazzling even, this shimmery cream-colored party dress with a flouncy hemline and pink sequins all over it. It was stylish and elegant and, I was sure, incredibly expensive. But what it
wasn't
. . . was the Cosette costume Maxie had made.

“Go back to the dressing room and change,” I ordered in a tight voice. “Right now.”

Sophia folded her arms and looked down her nose at me. “No.”

“Sophia . . .”

“I hate that stupid raggedy dress. I'm not wearing it.”