Curtain Up by Lisa Fiedler Page A

those.
    I told Austin what I was thinking, and he said he’d come up with some kind of questionnaire designed to give us the info we’d need.
    â€œI just thought of something,” said Susan. “Are youauditioning kids to see who should have what part in the show, or to see who gets to be in the show at all?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI mean, is everyone who signs up automatically in, like the parks and rec co-ed softball team? Or is it going to be more like middle-school soccer, where some people make the cut and others get the ‘thanks, but we’ve decided to go in another direction’ line?”
    I looked at her. “Another direction?”
    â€œYeah. Isn’t that what show biz types say when they really mean ‘you have no talent’?”
    She was kind of right. “Another direction” was code for “we’re going to pick someone else.” I bit my lip. “You mean like the old, ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’ brush-off.”
    Susan nodded.
    â€œThat’s a good question,” said Austin.
    I took a moment to consider it. I hated the idea of making anyone feel like they weren’t good enough, but I wanted my show—our show—to be as awesome as possible. And I’d seen those parks and rec softball games. . . .
    â€œI think we should only take kids who are truly talented,” I said. “Don’t you guys?”
    I glanced at Austin. He shrugged. Susan looked equally undecided.
    But I was the director, so the decision was ultimately mine to make.
    â€œWe’ve decided to go in another direction,” I said, practicing the line. “So, thanks, but don’t call us, we’ll call you.”
    Somewhere deep down, I didn’t really like the way those words sounded. But if it were for the good of the show, then I would just have to get used to it.
    â€œOkay,” I said, “let’s take it from the top.”

    On Sunday morning I jumped out of bed with every Broadway tune I’d ever heard spinning in my head. I would be meeting Austin at the clubhouse at ten, where we would pick up the key from Mr. Healy. Susan had texted and tweeted that signups and auditions would begin promptly at eleven o’clock.
    First we’d have our Welcome to Random Farms meeting, where I would explain that this was not just some goofy summer activity but a real, actual, as-professional-as-it-can-possibly-be theater. I planned to sound friendly, but very directorial, so that everyone would know I was in charge.
    I liked the idea of being in charge. I was also a little bit terrified of it. Theater is like that, I realized. It has a way of making you feel everything at once.
    I banged on Susan’s door. “Get up!” I called. “Big day.”
    â€œUuuuuhhhhhhnnnnnnnggggg” was her reply. Susan was never much of a morning person.
    I practically skipped downstairs to make breakfast.
    Neatly tucked into my backpack and waiting by the front door was my laptop and one of Dad’s legal pads with a pen clipped to it (old-school again!). There were also the questionnaires Austin had printed out, along with the scenes and monologues and lyric sheets. In just one hour Susan and I would hop in the car, and Mom would drive us the short distance to the clubhouse so we wouldn’t have to lug all the rakes and hedge clippers and cleaning products we’d need to clean up the place after auditions. I would have liked to have gotten that task out of the way yesterday, but by the time we’d finished with the choreography and the paperwork, there hadn’t been time. We’d just have to apologize to the actors for the condition of the venue and assure them that by the time they returned the next day to start rehearsals, it would look terrific.
    Of course, those who wouldn’t be returning for rehearsals wouldn’t have that pleasure.
    I pushed the thought out of my head and