Showstopper (10 page)

“Sword fights, daring escapes, hand-to-hand combat,” Austin rattled off. “I just hope it turns out to be as exciting as the action I saw on that tennis court.”

Becky beamed. “Thank you, Austin.”

“I'm not kidding,” he said enthusiastically. “I mean, if Odysseus could handle a spear the way you handled that tennis racquet, he'd be unstoppable.” Suddenly his eyes lit up. “Hey. Maybe you could be our fight choreographer!”

“Your what?” said Becky.

I frowned. But not because it was a bad idea.

A fight choreographer is the person who designs and blocks all the physical violence in a play. Onstage scuffles may look improvised, but that was the genius of theater—every punch is planned, every attack rehearsed. This not only makes the fight scenes look better, it keeps the actors from getting unintentionally clobbered. I had to admit, after seeing Becky wield her racquet, what Austin was suggesting was actually brilliant. Her athleticism would translate perfectly into fight choreography, and it might just save us a few broken noses.

Becky would rock the job of fight coordinator.

So why did the idea bother me so much?

Maybe it had something to do with the way Austin was now offering to carry Becky's tennis bag for her. While I'd been mulling the suggestion over, he'd explained the job to Becky. Her eyes were now shining with interest.

“What do you think?” he was asking her. “We'd work the rehearsals around your sports schedule.”

I laughed (it sounded more like a choke). “Well,
that's
not going to be easy,” I said. “Becky's pretty booked up.”

“Actually,” said Becky, “my diving coach is away for a few weeks, so I won't be having lessons for a while. And since we just won this match, we won't have another one until the championship tournament, which is three weeks away. We'll still have to make time to practice, but if you guys can be flexible . . .”

“We can be totally flexible,” Austin assured her.

I was actually gritting my teeth. Austin inviting Becky to be Skirmish Designer (or Brawl Coordinator, or First Assistant Director of War Craft or whatever title we ultimately decided to bestow upon her) without consulting me was simply unacceptable.

I was about to say we'd need to discuss the whole thing further, but then I noticed the expression on my best friend's
face. She looked almost as thrilled as she'd been when she'd hit that final overhead smash to win her match. And I understood why: here at last was a chance for Becky and me to combine our passions and talents, to finally do something together and both shine at it. In the whole nine and a half years of our relationship that had never once happened.

I threw my arms around Becky and gave her a hug. “This is going to be amazing!” I said, and I meant it. “You don't need to come tomorrow or Tuesday, since we'll just be getting started and won't be ready to block the battle scenes yet. How about you report to work on Wednesday?”

“I'll be there!”

“Excellent,” I said. “We'll messenger the script over to your house tonight.”

“And by that,” said Austin, crooking a grin, “she means we'll send Susan over on her bike to deliver it.”

Becky laughed. “I'd better get back to the team,” she said. “Anya, keep me in the loop, okay?”

I nodded.

As my best friend walked off, swinging her tennis racquet like a longsword, I told myself Austin had a great idea.

But what I knew deep down was that he had way more than just an idea.

What he had was . . . a crush!

The whole bike ride home from the tennis courts, I was thinking about our expenses. We'd already shelled out a decent amount of money to license
The Odd-yssey
, not to mention we'd be settling up on the licensing fees from the first show later on. And on the chance that the clubhouse wouldn't be ready in time, we still might have to rent the community center for another week. So even if the bake sale was a huge success, we might still need a backup.

I decided it was time to shift into entrepreneurial mode.

As soon as we got back to my house, Austin and I sat down at my computer and Googled “Broadway money.” What we found was a bunch of articles about investors. Simply put, investors were people who loaned money to a production. Not out of the goodness of their hearts, of course, but as a way of earning more money for themselves if the show becomes a hit.

So that was what I needed: investors. Otherwise known as backers. Aka angels.

“Angels?” said Susan when we explained it to her.

Austin nodded. “That's what they're called.”

“Cute. So who ya gonna ask?”

Good question. I knew my parents would be happy to invest in my theater, but I just didn't want to ask them. I really liked the idea that this was a theater run entirely by kids; ideally that concept would apply to our backers as well.

As I was thinking this, I heard a loud rumbling sound.

“Are you playing the sound effects CD again?” I asked Susan.

“No, it's still in the basement.” She went to the window and looked out. “It's Matt Witten. He's cutting the grass on his father's ride-on mower.”

I'd forgotten Dad had hired Matt to mow the lawn this year. Matt was in eighth grade and lived two streets over from us. I remembered I'd had a crush on him last summer, because he smiled at me and let me cut in line for the diving board at the town pool. But I was over that now. Well, mostly.

I also recalled how, this past spring, Matt had sat at our kitchen table with my parents and haggled like a real pro before settling on a price for his landscaping services. As I understood it, he'd built up quite a client roster for himself by doing the same thing with Mackenzie Fleisch's parents, and the Quandts as well.

Susan turned away from the window, her eyes twinkling. “Matt must be making some big bucks this summer, huh?”

“You read my mind,” I said, hopping up from my desk.
“Okay, listen. Go outside and invite Matt to come in for lemonade when he's finished cutting the grass. I want to have a financial meeting with him.”

Susan nodded and dashed for the door. I told Austin what I was thinking, and he agreed it was a great idea. Then I asked him to wait for me in the kitchen, ran upstairs, and went straight to my closet. Because something told me that one of the first rules of business—just like in the theater—was looking the part.

CHAPTER

9

I changed into an outfit Mom bought me last year when I went into the city with Dad for Take Your Daughter to Work Day. At the time I'd felt like a total dork in the prissy trousers and boyish blazer. But today I was happy to have this power suit in the back of my closet. Paired with a crisp white blouse and my best flats, it made me look super professional.

I hurried into the kitchen and joined Austin just as Matt's ride-on mower sputtered to a stop by the front door. I took my place at the table.

Susan gave me a once-over as Matt rang the doorbell. “Hillary Clinton called. She wants her clothes back.”

“Funny,” I said, pouring three glasses of lemonade. “Go get the door. Then leave.”

“What?”

“Susan, this is a financial meeting. I don't think having
my little sister hanging around is going to look very professional.”

“Right,” said Susan, eyeing Austin, then me. “Because everyone knows it's the twelve-year-olds who are running Wall Street.”

She stomped off to answer the door.

I arranged
The Odd-yssey
script, the newspaper article about our theater from the
Chappaqua Chronicle
, and the program from
Random Acts of Broadway
on the table. Lastly I laid out our financial paperwork. All in all, I thought it made for a pretty compelling presentation. It said,
We are real; we are a success
.

A moment later Susan was leading Matt into the kitchen. He smelled faintly of grass clippings and gasoline, and there was a piece of mulch bark stuck in his hair. He also had his noise-canceling headphones resting around his neck, but I was not about to let any of this detract from the professional mood of this meeting.

Austin took a seat at the breakfast bar.

“Hey, Austin,” said Matt. The boys fist-bumped, then Matt slipped into a chair and reached for a lemonade. “Hi, Anya. Haven't seen you at the pool much this summer.”

“Hi, Matt. That's because I've been busy with my theater.”

“Yeah.” He took a long sip of lemonade. “I heard about
that. Things going well?”

“Yeah, it's a lot of fun. Well, except when the theater gets flooded and the lights go out and the washing machine explodes.” I realized I was rambling, and I felt my cheeks turn pink. I wondered if that had anything to do with the fact that Matt Witten's eyes were bigger and browner and sparklier than I remembered. “Sorry. I guess it's kind of a long story.”

Matt smiled. (Wow! His smile was a lot more dazzling than I remembered, too!) “I'd like to hear it sometime,” he said.

“Well, I'd like to tell it to you sometime,” I said with a grin.

When I glanced at Austin, I noticed he'd suddenly gone from looking happy about Matt's hearing our pitch to seeming a little . . . well . . . hostile. I had no idea why.

“What play are you doing this time?” Matt asked.

“It's called
The Odd-yssey: An Epically Funny Musical
.”

“As in the Homeric poem?” he asked.

I thought I heard Austin mutter, “Show-off,” under his breath.

“Not exactly a Broadway classic,” I admitted. “But it's going to be really entertaining.”

“I'm sure it is,” said Matt. “Theater originated with the ancient Greeks, after all. I did a term paper about it. Homer's poems were often performed.”

Not to be outdone, Austin folded his arms across his
chest in a challenging pose. “Did you know the word
thespian
comes from the Greeks? Because the name of the man thought to be the first actor was—”

“Thespis,” Matt supplied.

Austin frowned. “Right.”

Okay, this conversation was getting weird. And so far it had nothing to do with asking Matt to invest, which was the whole point of the meeting.

“The ancient Greeks built huge outdoor amphitheaters where they performed their plays,” Austin went on. “The seats were made of limestone, and they rose up, away from the stage, just like you see in modern theaters today. Even back then the Greeks understood how acoustics work.”

“I did know that, actually,” said Matt amicably. “In fact, as a visual aid for my English report, I built a detailed scale model of the theater at Delphi.”

“Oh.” Austin looked a little deflated, and I thought I heard him grumble something that sounded like “overachiever.” I got the feeling he didn't mean it as a compliment.

“How's the landscaping business?” I asked, guiding the conversation toward our purpose for being there.

“It's a living,” he joked. “I try to take advantage of my earning opportunities during the summer 'cause things always get a little crazy when I start my freestyle skiing training in the winter.”

“Training,” said Austin. “You mean, like lessons?”

“Not exactly.” Matt hesitated, then explained in a modest tone, “My ski coach thinks I've got a shot at the Olympics in a few years.”

“That's
fabulous
,” I said, sounding like a starstruck schoolgirl. “The Olympics!”

“It's a long shot,” Matt amended, with a shrug. “But who knows?”

“I'm writing a play,” Austin blurted.

“Really?” Matt gave him a genuine smile. “That's awesome. Maybe I can read it sometime.”

“Sure,” Austin murmured under his breath. “Right after you win your Olympic gold medal or maybe while you're waiting to be awarded your Nobel Prize.”

“Huh?” said Matt.

“He said, he'll send you a copy as soon as it's finished,” I fibbed, giving Austin a sharp look.

“Well, I'm sure you guys didn't ask me in to talk about skiing,” said Matt, taking another drink of lemonade. “So what's up? I'm guessing it has something to do with your next play?”

“Yes,” I said. “I was wondering if you'd like to be my angel.”

Matt nearly choked on his lemonade. “Your
what
?”

“My angel.”

Was it my imagination or was Matt blushing a little? “Uh . . . is that anything like being your . . . um . . .
boyfriend?
”

Austin let out a loud snort of laughter.

“No!” I said quickly, wanting to crawl under the table and die of embarrassment. “I guess maybe the term
angel
does make it sound that way, but trust me, this has nothing to do with romance.”

“Yeah,” said Austin, eyeing my suit. “I'm pretty sure
that
conversation would require a very different outfit.”