Showstopper (20 page)

“Doesn't matter,” he said. “It still wouldn't have been a majority.”

“But it would have made it a tie. Then we would have had to figure it out some other way, and it might have ended with us doing the show here.”

“Well, it didn't.”

He wasn't being snotty, just matter-of-fact. I sighed. “So why
didn't
you vote to have the show here?” I pressed.

“Because as much as I care about lights and sound and really good acoustics, I care about you more.”

I blinked. Had I heard him correctly? Did he just say he cared about me?

“As a director,” he added quickly, as if he'd read my mind. “I care about your directorial vision. And as a colleague, too.” He gave me an awkward shrug. “If going back to the clubhouse theater will make you happy, then it'll make me happy too.”

It was the best answer he could have given me.
I could barely focus during the last half hour of rehearsal. We were running the opening dance to “Gotta See a Man About a Horse,” and it just wasn't coming together as well as anyone would have liked. I think it had something to do with the fact that the kids who'd lost the vote were still upset. And besides that, we'd put so much effort into the suitors' big tap-dance-slash-sword-fight number, we hadn't allowed ourselves much time to perfect this one. The basics were all there, but there was still a lot more fight choreography that needed to be added, interspersed between the dance steps.

And still no weapons. My actors were doing a great job of miming in time to the battle sound effects on the CD. But I really wanted those phony spears and swords for the performance! Especially since we'd paid for them in advance. Right now, though, the bigger problem was the “Horse” number itself.

“The show goes up in a week, people,” said Austin from his place at the electronic keyboard. “We've got to figure out a way to make this work. Let's try it again.”

The dancers grumbled but returned to their starting positions and did it again. Better, but still not flawless.

I wanted to contribute, but I was so nervous about meeting Mr. Healy that no matter how hard I tried to concentrate, the entire number was a blur.

Mackenzie raised her hand. “Austin, Anya . . . I kind of have to go.”

“Now?” I asked, checking the time on my phone. “But there's still another twenty-five minutes left of rehearsal. And you're the dance captain.”

“I know,” said Mackenzie, her tone a mix of guilt and apology. “But I've kind of got somewhere to be, and I can't be late.” She turned to Becky. “Do you think you can finish tweaking the choreography without me?”

Becky considered it. “I guess I could. I mean, I can add the combat stuff, but I really don't know much about dance other than what I've been learning from you. I'm not sure I'll be able to come up with the right steps on my own.”

“Kenz,” said Susan, “the ‘Horse' dance is one of the biggest numbers in the show. Are you sure you can't stick around a little longer?”

I wasn't sure if it was Kenzie's sense of responsibility or the fact that this request had come from Zeus that did the trick, but after a moment of what was clearly some difficult deliberation on her part, Mackenzie nodded.

“Okay,” she said. “Dancers, from the top . . .”

Deon hit the CD play button, and the sounds of crashing shields and whizzing arrows filled the auditorium. Over these came Teddy's voice, singing:

Mackenzie counted out the steps, and Becky shouted reminders like, “Parry! Thrust! Duck!”

I watched until I couldn't stand the suspense a moment longer—I needed to talk to Mr. Healy now or I might actually explode. Confident that my dancers were in good hands, I told Austin and Susan to meet me at the clubhouse as soon as they could. Seconds later I was sprinting through the lobby, offering a quick smile to the receptionist as I headed for the door.

“Anya . . . ,” she called after me. “Wait . . . I have a message for you.”

I knew it was rude, but I pretended not to hear. I dashed out the door without so much as a backward glance and galloped down the front steps to where Mom's SUV was idling at the curb.

Because whatever the receptionist's message was, it couldn't possibly be more important than getting to the clubhouse to meet Mr. Healy.

Mom dropped me off at the end of the street because there were still a number of road workers and city trucks, as well as a police cruiser, blocking the clubhouse driveway.

I waved to the workmen as I hurried past.

Stepping back into the shadowy clubhouse theater, I understood exactly how Odysseus must have felt when his sandals finally hit the gravelly shores of Ithaca and he was able to enter the castle he'd longed to see for so many years.

I felt as if I were coming home.

Home
. Even without the Christmas lights shining or the folding chairs arranged in their orderly rows or the piano music rippling through the air, the clubhouse theater still felt as familiar and welcoming as it always had.

I immediately became aware of a deep, muffled growling sound coming from somewhere down below. Immersed as I'd been in Greek mythology for the last two weeks, my first thought was that there was either some great hulking beast prowling around our basement, or Poseidon had sent a combination earthquake-hurricane-tidal wave to completely ruin my day.

But of course, neither of these were the case.

“Mr. Healy?” I called out into the vibrating hum.

“Be right with you,” came his voice from backstage.

A moment later he appeared, sweeping aside our custom-made
RANDOM FARMS KIDS' THEATER
curtain. Frowning, he strode to center stage as if he were about to perform some tragic Shakespearean soliloquy.

In that moment I had my answer. I felt the tears spring to my eyes, but I fought them back.

“I'm sorry, kid.” Mr. Healy said this in his usual gruff voice, but I could hear the sympathy beneath his words. “The structure's still sound, which is good, but that rumble you're hearing is a couple of giant industrial fans. We're using 'em to dry out the basement. Gotta get rid of every last trace of moisture, ya see, or we run the risk of growing toxic mold. Public Works is afraid it's still too damp to turn the power back on, which is why we've got the fans running on a portable generator.”

“Oh, all right,” was all I could say.

For a long moment Mr. Healy and I just stood there, staring at each other. I think maybe I was waiting for him to say he'd made a mistake, that what he'd really meant to tell me was that the clubhouse was perfectly safe and ready for our immediate occupancy.

But of course, he didn't say that.

So I let out a long breath and said, “Thanks anyway, Mr. Healy.”

I was about to leave when I remembered I hadn't kept my promise about asking if Matt could cut the back lawn. And although I wasn't really in the mood to seal any business deals at the moment, a promise was a promise.

So I explained Matt's proposition to Mr. Healy. He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Might as well let the kid give it a good once-over. Nothing fancy, though—we don't need any flower beds or perennial borders or anything like that back there. I'd just like him to cut the grass and clear out the weeds. I'll pay him his going rate. Tell him he can start tomorrow.”

“I will, Mr. Healy,” I said glumly.

Then I turned and walked out of my theater. My heart ached, and my stomach roiled.

But at least my eyes (unlike the clubhouse basement) were dry.

CHAPTER

18

Susan and Austin were just arriving on their bikes when I stepped out of the dimness of the theater and onto the front lawn of the clubhouse.

“Well?” said Susan, letting her bike fall to the grass. “What did he say?”

“Can we come back?” Austin prompted.

All I could do was shake my head and keep walking. I wasn't sure where I was going exactly; I guess I was just too filled with emotions crashing around inside me to make myself stand still.

Susan ran to catch up and threw her arms around me. “Anya, that stinks. I'm so sorry!”

“So am I,” I said, wriggling out of her hug and doubling my pace. She and Austin fell into step beside me.

“Are you okay?” Austin asked.

“Sure,” I said, the word falling from my lips like a dull, unpolished stone. “Why wouldn't I be? The show will go on.”

I continued my hearty stride around the corner of the clubhouse and didn't stop until I'd come to the vast, sloping meadow that stretched out behind the barn, that tangle of weeds and overgrown grass that, tomorrow, would face the wrath of Matt Witten's ride-on mower.

And that was when I screamed.

It was a sound of pure frustration—a bellow, in fact. A shout of sheer and utter disappointment.

Susan and Austin looked on with wide eyes as the shrillness of my voice echoed down the rocky hill, over the field, and into the brilliant blue of the sky.

“Wow,” said Susan. “The acoustics out here are amazing.”

Surprisingly, as soon as I finished the scream I felt a whole lot better. For a while we just stood quietly, looking out over the field. The lumber that had been carried out of the basement still sat there in the high grass, dry now from two weeks in the summer sun. I wondered what Mr. Healy was going to do with it. Put it back in the basement, most likely, once the place dried out.

“Listen, Anya,” said Austin at last. “Maybe it's not exactly what we wanted, but let's face it: the community center theater isn't such a bad place to put on a show.”

“I know.”

“And just think, we won't have to spend all that extra time setting up the chairs,” Susan pointed out.

“That's true,” I allowed. “I guess it won't be so bad. It's just . . .” I trailed off with a sigh.

“I know what you mean,” said Austin, glancing toward the clubhouse. Even from out here we could still hear the deep whirring of those powerful fans. “It's like that scene in the play when the god Aeolus gives Odysseus a giant bag of wind as a gift, and he tells him that he's not supposed to open it until he's home. They almost make it, too, but just when they're close enough that Ithaca's coastline is in sight, one of his men opens the bag against Odysseus's orders, and the wind escapes, causing a raging storm that blows them back out to sea. Odysseus has to start his journey all over again.” He paused to shake his head. “It's kind of a bummer. He was so close. . . .”

“So close,” I repeated softly, following Austin's gaze to the clubhouse.

Susan's phone made the twinkling sound that indicated she'd just received an e-mail. She tapped the screen a few times, then read silently. “Uh-oh. This isn't good.”

“What now?” asked Austin.

“It's an e-mail from the stage weapon people.”

“Finally!” I said. “Where are our swords?”

Susan gave me a worried look. “Well, according to this . . . they're still in the factory warehouse. In China.”

“China!” I squawked. “That's not possible. We ordered them days ago. They should have shipped already.”

“Yeah, it says that, but . . .” Susan consulted the e-mail, shaking her head in disbelief. “Oh, you are not going to believe this.”

“Try me,” I said.

“Okay, well, the sword people are very sorry to inform us that they will be forced to reimburse us for our order because . . .”

Her voice faded into the rumbling din of the fans churning in the basement.

“Susan . . . ,” I urged. “Come on. . . . Because why?”

“Because their entire fleet of cargo planes has been grounded for the last several days due to . . .
high winds
.”

For a moment I just gaped at her. High winds? First floods, now high winds?

“Anya . . . ?”

I must have had a very strange expression on my face because Susan was suddenly looking very concerned. “Are you all right?”

My answer was a giggle.

And then the giggle turned into a chuckle. The next thing I knew, I was laughing so hard, the tears I'd been holding back since Mr. Healy had given me his grim report were now streaming down my face. I was laughing so hard, I was crying. Because if you really stopped to think about it, the whole thing was actually, kind of, almost, sort of completely and totally . . .
funny!

Ridiculous. Ironic. And ROTFL funny!

So I laughed. And then Susan and Austin started laughing, too.

Because honestly, at this point, what else could we do?