Showstopper

by Lisa Fiedler

  “I hate to say this,” I whispered to Austin, “but I’m starting to develop some serious professional respect for Sophia.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” said Austin. “You can’t ignore that kind of talent.”

  Unfortunately, my “professional respect” took a serious hit when I heard Sophia attempting to bait Nora into an argument over whether Odysseus should have stayed with Circe or gone home to Penelope.

  “Circe is a goddess,” Sophia huffed. “Penelope is a housewife. It’s a no-brainer.”

  “Penelope’s royalty,” Nora pointed out calmly.

  “Circe is gorgeous!”

  “So is Penelope. She’s also faithful and resourceful and doesn’t turn people into farm animals.”

  Sophia’s eyes flashed, and she leaned in so her nose was almost touching Nora’s. “Fine,” she said. “But just remember this. Circe is immortal, which means she was around long before Penelope, and she’ll be around long after.” Then she planted her hands on her hips and added, “Plus, Circe is a way better singer!”

  As Sophia stomped off, I realized the heated debate I’d just witnessed had nothing to do with Circe or Penelope at all. This was about Sophia reminding Nora that she’d been a Random Farms member first and she was not about to take a backseat to a new girl.

  Rivalry. I supposed it was unavoidable. I told myself Sophia would get over it before the show and turned my attention back to rehearsal.

  Brady’s turn. He was outstanding when he delivered his Poseidon monologue.

  Somehow he’d found the perfect balance between angry god and swaggering beach bum, and managed to make it believable.

  As Austin and I watched Brady’s scene from the third row, Deon came and slipped into a seat behind us.

  “I’ve got a really cool idea,” he said.

  “Let’s hear it,” said Austin.

  “I want to light Poseidon—I mean Brady—entirely in blue and green. Whenever he’s on the stage, it’ll be lit with aquamarine sea tones.”

  “Go for it!” I told D, then called out to Brady onstage, “Hold up a second.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Not at all. Just give Deon a minute to get to the lighting board.”

  Brady shrugged and lazily twirled his freshly painted trident. A moment later the entire stage was bathed in a pale bluish-green glow.

  “It looks like he’s underwater!” cried Elle.

  “That’s awesome,” said Joey. “Hey, wasn’t there a ‘Waves’ track on the sound effects CD?” He put down the lyre and joined D in the booth to fiddle with the sound board. Suddenly the theater was filled with the sounds of a crashing surf.

  “I love it!” I said. “Okay, Brady. Again. From the top.”

  As Poseidon launched into his monologue, Susan came and plopped down onto the seat beside me. She had a strange look on her face, as though she were disgusted with something. Or someone.

  “The show’s really coming along great,” I said. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Look at that lighting! Makes it kind of hard to believe we aren’t actually adrift in the middle of the Aegean, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  I turned to frown at her. “What’s the matter?”

  “You’re turning into a lotus-eater. That’s what’s the matter!”

  “I’m what?”

  “Act two, scene four!” she snapped. “Odysseus tells the Greek chorus all about this island where his men were fed these weird, magical lotus flowers that made them all dreamy and kind of stupid.”

  I gasped. “Are you calling me stupid?”

  In response, she opened her script and showed me the scene. “Read it and weep, sister!”

  Odysseus: The lotus flowers were so delicious, the men stopped caring about getting home. They were delirious and content. All they wanted was to stay and gobble up the blossoms forever, without even thinking about their return.

  I handed back the script and raised an eyebrow at her. “So?”

  “Don’t you get it?” Susan shook her head in exasperation. “Anya, this theater is the island, and the lights and the sound system are the lotus flowers. You’re the lotus-eater! All you can see is how great the stage and the curtains and the equipment are, and you’re forgetting all about home. Our home! The clubhouse! With the Christmas lights stapled to the stage and the curtain made of Mrs. Quandt’s old bed linens and no microphones. Remember, Anya?”

  This time I did feel as though I’d been hit with a Zeusian lightning bolt. In one blinding flash my sister had brought me back to reality.

  I was a lotus-eater! I’d grown so distracted by this fully functioning theater that I’d allowed myself to put everything else out of my mind. Sure, the lights were cool, and the sound was amazing, but as Susan had just pointed out—as Odysseus surely would have known from the start—the community center wasn’t home. It was a port in a storm, a pleasant diversion, an island on the way from Troy to Ithaca.

  But it wasn’t where we truly belonged.

  The clubhouse theater was ours. We’d found it, fixed it up, and made it an awesome place. But even more important than all of that was that at the clubhouse, we called the shots. We didn’t have to answer to anyone. The grown-ups at the CCC had been helpful and pleasant, but the whole point of Random Farms was to create a theater run entirely by kids. That wasn’t the case here. Here we were at the mercy of someone else’s schedule and rules.

  How could I have forgotten that?

  “Okay, people,” I said loudly, “change of plans. Deon, the lights look incredible and the sound is fantastic. But we have to figure out if any of it can be re-created at the clubhouse. Because that’s where we want to be! That’s what we’re still hoping for. So anything that can’t be done back at Random Farms will have to be out.”

  Brady looked confused. “So no more blue lights?”

  “Only if Deon can figure out a way to achieve the same effect in our theater. He’s a technical genius, so I’m sure he’ll come up with some alternative—if not something exactly the same, at least something close.”

  “You’re willing to settle for close?” asked Gracie. “That’s what you want?”

  “No,” I said simply. “What I want is to go back to the clubhouse theater where we can do what we want to do, how and when we want to do it. What I want is to go home.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” said a familiar voice from the back of the theater.

  I turned to see Mom and Dad in the doorway, home from Paris and ready to discuss my punishment.

  “Anya,” said Mom, crooking her finger, “it’s time for you to come home.”

  Talk about getting back to reality.

  All things considered, I would have preferred the lightning bolt.

  I left Austin in charge and made my way slowly up the center aisle.

  Susan had already run ahead to welcome our parents back with a big hug. Then she met me halfway and whispered, “What’s going on?”

  “I told them everything,” I whispered back. “The basement rehearsal, the washing machine … all of it. They’ve had three days to decide what to do with me. That’s why I’m going home. To find out what my punishment’s going to be.”

  Susan’s face went pale. “Do you think they’d—”

  “They might.” I gave her a stern look. “But don’t tell anyone. Not yet. I don’t want to worry them if I don’t have to. It might still be okay. And they’ve all worked so hard.”

  Susan surprised me with a grin. “You really are like Odysseus,” she said. “You want to protect your men. Well, boys. And girls. But you get the point. It’s heroic.”

  That made me feel a little better. But only a little.

  “Make sure Austin helps Spencer with his speech to the suitors,” I reminded her. “He needs to sound angrier. And Nora needs to come off a little sneakier in her scene with Antinous. Have her work on that.”

  “Will do. And, Anya … good luck.”
r />   I gave my sister the best smile I could muster and continued up the aisle, feeling a little envious of old Odysseus. All he had to do was outsmart the gods and navigate the dangerous straits between the vicious and formidable pair of sea monsters, Scylla and Charybdis.

  What I had to deal with was more frightening and unpredictable: a pair of disappointed parents.

  And you didn’t have to be a student of Greek tragedy to know there was nothing more nerve-wracking than that!

  We rode home in silence.

  I probably should have asked them how their trip was, but I couldn’t get the words out. I was a nervous wreck. I feared that if I opened my mouth, the only thing I’d be able to say would be, Are you going to let me do the play?

  So I sat in the backseat with my hands folded and didn’t say a word.

  Just as we turned into the driveway, my phone gave a little chirp. It was a text message from Ms. Napolitano, the special events coordinator at the CCC, confirming that I had paid in full to reserve the theater for the following week. She also asked if I still wanted to keep it on hold for the week after that.

  I texted back:

  Yes, please, keep the theater on hold.

  She wrote back that she would do so, but reminded me that payment would be due before the end of business next Friday, in order for us to be allowed into the theater on Monday morning.

  I was about to put a reminder alert in my iCalendar when Dad cut the engine.

  Tucking the phone into my tote bag, I got out of the car and followed my parents inside.

  We went straight to the family room. They (the jury) sat down on the couch, and I (the defendant) placed myself on the love seat.

  For a few moments no one said a word.

  When I couldn’t stand the silence any longer, I aimed a tentative smile at my mother. “Did you enjoy Paris?” I asked.

  “Very much. It was lovely.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad you had fun.”

  It got quiet again and I fidgeted in my seat, wishing they’d just get to the closing argument already. I was aching to hear the verdict.

  “Anya,” said Dad at last, “we’ve been thinking an awful lot about what you told us.”

  “I kind of figured.”

  “We understand that this theater means the world to you,” said Mom. “And we can only imagine how terrible you felt when you realized your clubhouse was off-limits.”

  They exchanged glances, as though trying to decide which one of them was going deliver the crummy news. Dad, it seemed, drew the short straw. He gave me a serious look.

  “Anya, Mom and I have decided that—”

  From the depths of my tote bag, my phone rang. Talk about bad timing.

  I fished into the bag and checked the screen. “It’s Susan,” I said. “Should I get it? In case there’s a problem?”

  Dad nodded.

  I swiped my index finger across the screen, then put the call on speaker. “Hey, Susan. Everything okay?”

  “I should be asking you that!”

  Mom frowned.

  I glared at the phone. “Kind of in the middle of something here, Susan. What’s up?”

  “Okay, well … Maxie wants to know if she should use the risers we found backstage for the extra Scylla heads to stand on, or if she should bring in milk crates or something.”

  I considered this. The last thing I needed was to have actors falling off wobbly milk crates on a dark stage. “I think for safety’s sake, we should use the risers,” I said. “They’ll be sturdier. But send Maxie to the front desk and make sure she gets permission first.”

  “I’m on it. Thanks.”

  I disconnected the call, put the phone on the coffee table, and turned apologetic eyes to my parents. “Sorry. Go on.”

  Mom sighed and picked up where Dad had left off. “Lying is never acceptable, Anya. You know that, don’t you?”

  I was about to tell her I did know that, when my phone dinged again. This time it was a text message from Austin:

  D wants to know if there’s enough $ in the budget to rent a follow spot for the clubhouse.

  “Austin has a financial question,” I told my parents. “Do you mind if I … ?”

  “Go ahead,” said Mom.

  “Okay. It’ll just be a sec.” I pulled my notepad and the budget report Susan had prepared for our business meeting with Matt out of my tote bag. I spread these across the coffee table and opened the calculator tool on my phone. I punched in a few figures, adding, subtracting. I compared the results to the paperwork, murmuring to myself as I did. “Hmm … okay, so adjusting for the cost of the stage weapons, and taking into account the Krause mini-mart ad …”

  “Excuse me, did you just say ‘the Krause mini-mart ad’?” asked Mom.

  I nodded. “Uh-huh. We’re selling advertising space in the program. Matt Witten has a professional arrangement with Mr. Krause, so I did a little networking and got him to place an ad for the filling station. He paid top dollar.”

  My father looked a little flabbergasted. “Ad space. Really.”

  “Matt Witten’s going to promote his lawn service, and when we get a free moment, we’re going to see if any more local businesses might want to jump on board.”

  “That’s … very impressive,” said Mom.

  “Thanks.” I made a few more calculations on my phone, then used the speech-to-text feature to respond to Austin. “Tell D I love the idea. We can probably swing it, but have him shop around and compare prices. Don’t finalize anything until we discuss it.”

  I hit send, then turned back to my parents. “I’m really sorry about this. It’s just that—”

  My apology was cut off by the ringing of the house phone; we could hear Nana answering it in the kitchen.

  “Wallach residence… . Yes, she is. Who may I say is calling?”

  A moment later Nana appeared in the family room, holding the cordless phone. “Sorry to interrupt, dears. But it’s a Mr. Jefferies. He says he’s a reporter with the Chappaqua Chronicle, and he’s asking to set up an interview with—and I quote—‘Ms. Anya Wallach, the director.’ ”

  Despite being in the middle of a sentencing hearing, I smiled. Mr. Jefferies had written an amazing article about our first show (thanks to Sophia Ciancio, believe it or not) and the fact that he wanted to do a follow-up interview with me about our second performance was kind of a big deal.

  “Can I take the call?” I asked eagerly.

  “Absolutely,” said Mom. At the same time my father said, “Of course.”

  “Hi, Mr. Jefferies,” I said in my most professional voice. “Thanks so much for calling. I’m in a meeting right now, but I’d love to set up a time to talk.”

  He gave me a few dates and times. I chose Tuesday morning at the community center theater. This way, he could interview a few of the actors and crew members as well. I thought it would be way more interesting for the Chronicle readers to get input from other theater members, instead of just hearing about me.

  I hung up the phone and once again turned my full attention to my parents. They were looking at me with the weirdest expressions on their faces. Neither said a word; they just looked from me to each other, shaking their heads and looking utterly amazed.

  When I couldn’t stand the suspense one minute longer, I blurted out the question I’d been stewing over for the last three days.

  “Did you guys decide to make me cancel the play?” I asked.

  Dad took a deep breath.

  Mom looked down at her hands.

  I gripped the sofa cushions for dear life and waited for an answer.

  Finally my father looked me in the eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “We did.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  “Yes?” I echoed. My voice was a whisper. A croak. A gasp. It sounded exactly how I felt: as though every ounce of life had been drained out of me. “Yes, you decided to cancel the play?”

  Mom nodded. “Yes, we did.”

  “Oh. Ok
ay.” I swallowed hard. “Well, I don’t really blame you, I guess.”

  “Anya,” said Dad, his face unreadable. “You have to understand. Mom and I talked about this for a long time and, ultimately, we came to the conclusion that making you cancel the play would be the right thing for us to do.”

  Yeah, I get it! I wanted to shout. I heard it the first time; you don’t have to rub it in! Sniffling loudly, I kept my eyes low and managed a nod.

  “But … ,” said Mom.

  But? I snapped my head up and saw that Dad was smiling.

  “We’ve changed our minds,” he said. “Just now, in fact.”

  I looked at them in utter disbelief, as though, like Scylla the sea monster, they’d both suddenly grown five more heads.

  “We had every intention of canceling your show,” said Mom. “You broke the rules and you were dishonest. And for the record, you will be punished for that.”

  “Okay,” I said, now at the edge of my seat. “But the show … What about the show?”

  Dad shrugged, as though even he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “Anya, what you’re doing here”—he gestured to my phone and the theater budget on the table—“is truly impressive. I can’t imagine another twelve-year-old—or twenty-year-old, for that matter—handling a business with such natural ability. We saw how wonderful the first show was, but honestly, I don’t think we really understood just how many behind-the-scenes responsibilities you had to juggle to bring it to life.”

  “I didn’t either,” I admitted. “Until they started happening.”

  “That’s the point,” said Mom. “You’re stepping up and handling this like a real professional. All those other children are looking to you and counting on you to get the job done. And from where I sit, you’re not letting them down.”

  Happy as I was to hear that, I felt a pang of guilt. “But I let you guys down,” I said quietly. “And I’m so, so sorry.”

  “We know you are,” said Dad. “And as Mom said, you’re going to be punished for what you did. But canceling the show wouldn’t just be punishing you, it would be punishing Susan and Austin and all the other members of the cast. That wouldn’t be fair.”