by Lisa Fiedler
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.
The Random Farms Kids’ Theater Premiere Performance
THE CLUBHOUSE THEATER
Random Farms Circle, Chappaqua, NY
RANDOM ACTS OF BROADWAY
Row 1 Seat A
7:00 P.M. SUNDAY, JULY 11
$5.00
“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.
Later, Deon’s mom, a former elementary school art teacher, arrived bearing two enormous shopping bags filled to bursting with art supplies. There were two huge rolls of mural paper, several packages of construction paper, tempera paint, and paintbrushes in a range of sizes. . . . The works!
“This stuff has been collecting dust in the attic since I retired,” she said. “I thought perhaps you could put it to good use making backdrops and posters.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Becker,” I said, accepting the coffee can full of magic markers she offered. “This is really generous of you. And I’m sure none of it will go to waste.” I was already envisioning a splashy glittery backdrop for Mackenzie’s dance solo.
“All right, then.” Mr
s. Becker smiled and waved to Deon, who was checking a wire. “Let’s go, Deon. Dinner isn’t going to make itself.”
“Dinner?” I looked at my watch. “How did it get to be five o’clock already?”
“Five o’clock?” cried Mackenzie. “I’ve got a ballet class at five thirty. I’ve got to go!” She grabbed her things and bolted out the door.
“If anyone’s still wearing a costume,” Maxie said loudly, “please leave it in the wardrobe department!”
This resulted in a mad rush to the storage closet, with feather boas, crinoline skirts, and cowboy hats flying in every direction.
“Don’t forget to take your scripts and sheet music with you,” Austin reminded the cast. “We expect you to practice at home.”
In a matter of three minutes the entire theater was empty except for me, Austin, and Susan.
And Jane. I had meant to talk to her about “Maybe,” but evidently, she was taking matters into her own hands.
“Anya, do you have a second?”
“Sure, Jane.”
She didn’t beat around the bush. “I was really hoping for a solo.”
“I know . . .,” I began. “And I wish I could have given you one. But . . .” I trailed off, unsure of what to say next.
Austin saved me. “It was an artistic decision,” he said, which didn’t exactly explain the bigger problem of Jane’s inability to stay on key, but it sounded good.
“Sophia got a solo and she didn’t even audition,” Jane reminded us. “Was that an artistic decision too?”
“No, that was a business decision,” I said with a sigh.
Jane frowned, but she didn’t look angry or even insulted. She looked curious. “I don’t understand.”
I didn’t know how to explain my choice without hurting her feelings. Then I noticed her backpack with the magazine stuffed into the outside pocket, and inspiration struck.
“Okay,” I said. “Remember how you and Mia and the others were doing that ‘on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten’ thing earlier? That quiz to see which Dream Four member would make the best boyfriend?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Well, I heard you give Dylan Hastings a five for hairstyle, an eight for dance moves, and a nine-point-two for . . . what was it again?”
Jane’s eyes shot to Austin, and her cheeks turned bright pink. “Kissability.”
“Right. Then Mia gave his band mate Li’l Q a seven for hair, a three for dance, and a ten for . . . ya’ know . . . the kissing thing.”
“That’s because Li’l Q is a total hottie.”
“But when you add up the points, Dylan earns a”—I did some quick mental math—“a twenty-two-point-two, whereas Li’l Q scores only a twenty. So that means even though both of them are big stars in a hot band, according to the quiz, Dylan has the most boyfriend potential.”
“I get that,” said Jane. “But what’s it got to do with my singing audition?”
“If I were going to score you and Mia on the same kind of number scale, I would have given you a ten for enthusiasm. Unfortunately, I would have given you only a five for your ability to match pitch. Mia, on the other hand, would have gotten a ten in both categories.”
“Which means Mia was the one with the most solo potential,” Austin clarified.
“I know you’re disappointed,” I said as gently as I could. “But I hope you understand that Austin and I cast the show as we thought best. That doesn’t mean it won’t happen eventually. Maybe I can ask Mia to help you work on matching pitch.”
I wished I could have said, “Maybe you’ll get a solo next time,” but who knew if there’d even be a next time?
“But, Anya,” said Jane, with a whine in her voice, “I really wanted to sing ‘Maybe.’ ”
“I get that. But you have to understand how casting works. Lots of actors want parts they don’t get. You’re going to be an important part of the show, even without a solo. I’m the director, and the director decides.”
Jane sighed, folded her arms, and tapped her foot.
“Was there anything else?” I asked.
She looked at me for a long moment. “I guess not,” she said a bit saucily.
With that, she turned and left.
“Ugh,” I said. “That was awkward.”
Austin gave me a sympathetic look. “It’s true, you know.”
“What’s true?”
“You’re the director. The director is the boss.”
“I’ve never been good at being bossy,” I confessed.
“Being the boss is different than being bossy. Bossy people just like to throw their weight around, but the boss is the person who keeps things going smoothly, the one with the vision, the one who takes charge and shoulders the responsibility.”
“Sounds exhausting,” I said.
“Oh, it will be,” Austin said on a chuckle. “But you can handle it. You just have to remember to stand your ground and stick to your principles and focus on what’s best for the show.”
I smiled. It felt good to have Austin backing me up this way.
“Let’s call it a day,” I said, heading for the door.
“I think I’m gonna hang around for a bit,” said Austin, glancing toward the piano. “I’ve got a few more bars of that melody stuck in my brain, and I want to get them down before I lose them.”
“Okay,” I said, tossing him the key. “Lock up.”
As I headed down the front steps, I heard him at the piano playing the catchy tune of our as-yet-unfinished theme song. It really did have a way of getting into your head. In fact, I found myself whistling it the whole way home.
The rest of the week was a blur of scenes, songs, dance routines, and other prep work. I suppose things went as smoothly as they could have, considering we were seventeen kids flying by the seats of our pants. I found myself making new rules as situations arose, like “No throwing baseballs in the theater, Sam” (after a very near miss with a canister light), and “Chewed bubble gum must go in the wastebasket, Maddie” (following an unfortunate but hilarious incident with a sticky pink blob and Sophia Ciancio’s new designer sandals).
Mostly, though, it was about the theater and the work, about the acting and singing and dancing. I took great pleasure in seeing my cast improve. By Thursday, Eddie barely complained about the dancing anymore, and somewhere during “Seize the Day,” Jane actually started singing on pitch. I guess Mia had found some time to work with her. Another happy development was watching as we changed from a bunch of kids who happened to live in the same town to an actual company of actors and, in some cases, friends.
And in one instance . . . significant others.
Which was why rule number three was: “No holding hands during the opening number, Maddie and Spencer.”
“Why not?” Spencer asked.
“Well, for one thing, it messes up the dance steps,” I told him as patiently as I could. “And for another, it makes Elle and Eddie giggle uncontrollably. So can we possibly hold the romance until after rehearsal?”
Maddie blushed, but Spencer agreed.
Then Austin leaned in close to me and whispered, “Maybe in the next show we should give those two a scene from Romeo and Juliet.”
“Maybe,” I said, trying not to be flustered by the leaning-in-and-whispering element of the conversation. “Although, I’m pretty sure a balcony would break our budget. And besides”—I stopped when I realized what he’d just said—“you really think we’re going to do another show?”
“That’s the plan, isn’t it?”
“Well, yeah, but . . .” I felt my skin tingling with anticipation. I’d been trying not to think too much beyond this first performance, since it required every ounce of my focus and attention. Not to mention, I was afraid of getting my hopes up. But the way Austin had said it, the way he’d so casually and confidently referred to our “next show,” really made it feel possible.
On Friday at five o’clock, my parents surprised us by having six large pizzas delivered
to the theater. Dad and Mom showed up with napkins, paper cups, and soda and joined us for the impromptu dinner party.
“Anya, the theater is gorgeous,” said Mom.
“I don’t see a curtain, though,” said Dad.
“Working on it,” I mumbled around a mouthful of sausage and mushrooms.
I noticed that Mackenzie had opted not to eat any pizza, not even a slice.
“Must be a ballerina thing,” Austin guessed as we watched Kenzie offer her pepperoni slice to Maxie, who accepted it happily.
When dinner was through, I sent the company home, reminding them to rest their voices over the weekend. In recognition of all my (and Susan’s) hard work, Mom and Dad offered to stick around and clear away the paper plates and pizza boxes for us. At first I said no thanks, because the theater was my responsibility after all, which meant the cast’s mess was my mess. But Mom insisted, citing the dark circles under my eyes and the fact that Susan couldn’t seem to stop yawning.
“Go home and relax,” said Dad. “I’m sure even Andrew Lloyd Webber takes a break now and then.”
“Okay,” I said at last. “Thanks. And don’t forget to lock up.” I tossed Mom the key, gave them each a hug, and hurried out the door to catch up with Mackenzie, who was heading in the same direction.
“Kenz!” I called. “Wait up.” When I reached her, I gave her a big grateful smile. “I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate all your help with the choreography, and with teaching the less experienced dancers.”
“You’re totally welcome,” she said. “I like teaching. It’s been kind of nice being the one not taking orders for a change.”
“Orders?”
“Oh, well . . . you know what I mean. My dance teachers can be pretty intense. For me, dance is serious business. Like for you theater is business.”
“Business,” I repeated. “Right. But ballet can also be fun, can’t it?”
Mackenzie just smiled and sighed. We started walking again.