Curtain Up by Lisa Fiedler

Man.” Susan swooned a little over Daniel Radcliffe (and who could blame her!).
    We watched the dance through from start to finish twice, then began the process of creating our own steps to simulate the style. This required space, so we moved not only the barstools but the kitchen table as well.
    â€œInstant dance studio,” I said. “Now, let’s do the simplest sixteen counts.”
    â€œYes,” said Susan. “I think Austin will appreciate that.”
    â€œMe?” Austin frowned. “Why do I have to learn it?”
    â€œSo you can help my sister demonstrate tomorrow.”
    â€œWhy can’t you?”
    â€œI’m the administrative arm of this organization,” Susan said haughtily. “I’m going to be busy.”
    â€œBusy doing what?” Austin wanted to know.
    To be honest, I was a little curious myself.
    â€œOh, ya know . . . counting the dues money . . .” She began ticking off a list on her fingers. “Filing paperwork, organizing the sheet music for the singing auditions, general crowd control . . .”
    This was all news to me. Not that these weren’t important tasks, but Susan and I had never discussed the fact that she’d be the one to handle them. And why would she just happen to be handling them during dance auditions?
    Before I could mention this, my sister turned away from Austin and gave me a great big wink! Suddenly I knew exactly what she was doing—she was setting it up so that Austin and I would have to dance together.
    For the second time that day I wanted to knock her out.
    And, just the tiniest bit, I kind of wanted to hug her.
    â€œPlus,” she continued, “I’ll be making sure there are paper towels in the clubhouse bathrooms, planning ticket sales, making sure all the folding chairs are in good working order . . .”
    Okay, now she was just making things up. Still, I had to admire her creativity.
    â€œFine, fine,” said Austin, cutting her off. “I’ll do the dance demo.” He gave me a nervous smile. “Just don’t expect too much. I’m not exactly light on my feet.”
    â€œIt’s not difficult,” I promised. “Watch.”
    I began to call out the steps as I did them. “Heel, heel, heel, twist, twist . . . and turn, heel, heel, heel . . . twist, twist, arms!”
    I looked over at Austin, who tried to copy what I’d just done.
    He took out a counter stool and the cookie jar.
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” Susan told him breezily. “There’s never any cookies in there anyway.”
    â€œTry it again,” I advised.
    He did. Much better.
    â€œNow . . . knee, knee, twist, twist . . . arms up . . . box step . . . That’s it!”
    Austin beamed. “Hey, I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
    â€œYou are! Now slide, slide. . . .”
    He slid. Unfortunately, he slid right into the refrigerator, elbowed the ice dispenser, and sent an avalanche of ice cubes clattering to the floor.
    â€œAll right then,” said Susan, sighing. “Austin, you handle the folding chairs. I’ll do the dance demo.”
    I hated to admit it, but it sounded like a good idea. Not only for the good of the show but for the good of Mom’s kitchen, as well.

I put Austin to work creating what Susan had alluded to as “the paperwork.” In all honesty, I hadn’t thought about that until she’d made it up, but we were going to need to get some stuff in writing. For example, we’d need to gather information on everyone who was cast in the show—addresses, phone numbers, emergency contacts (although I sincerely hoped we wouldn’t need to use those). I’d also need to get a feel for the level of prior theater experience the kids would be bringing to the project. Professional actors and dancers would have a headshot and a résumé to present at a casting call. But I wasn’t likely to see any of