Curtain Up by Lisa Fiedler Page B

started humming to myself as I opened the fridge and grabbed a carton of orange juice.
    â€œThat’s appropriate,” Susan grumbled, padding sleepily into the kitchen.
    â€œWhat is?”
    â€œThe song you’re humming.”
    I laughed, because I hadn’t even realized what it was: “I Want to Be a Producer.”
    It seemed like a lifetime had passed before we were finally climbing into Mom’s car and heading to the clubhouse.
    Make that . . . the theater.
    I was happy to see Austin already sitting on the front steps. He hurried over to the car to help us unload the yard tools and cleaning stuff.
    â€œMr. Healy came by,” he informed me, holding up the key.
    My heart skipped a beat when he handed it to me, although it was hard to say whether it was because I was receiving the key to my very own theater or because Austin’s fingertips brushed against mine as I took it.
    I fitted the key into the rusted lock, turned the knob, and gave the oversize door a gentle push. It swung inward, creaking on its hinges. I peeked inside. I knew this was a moment I would remember for the rest of my life.
    There, at the far end of the big barn, was the stage, empty and dusty, and filled with promise.
    â€œLet’s see!” cried Susan, slipping past me, her broompropped on her shoulder. Two steps in, she stopped short, just staring. “Wow, Anya,” she said softly. “This is . . . this is . . .”
    â€œReal,” I said.
    It was the only word that came to mind.
    It was the only word that would do.

    Mackenzie Fleisch was the first to arrive.
    â€œKenzie!” I cried. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
    â€œMe too,” said Mackenzie. “I was totally psyched when I saw Susan’s tweet. I think an all-kids theater is a great idea.” She looked around at the worse-for-wear clubhouse space, and I could tell she wasn’t overly impressed. “What are you calling this place?”
    â€œPersonally,” said Susan, “I call it, ‘the place where Mom doesn’t have her office.’ ”
    â€œThe Clubhouse Theater has a nice ring to it,” I said, coming up with it off the top of my head. “We’re going to clean it up this afternoon,” I added quickly. “And redecorate.”
    â€œSo . . .,” said Susan, folding her arms and giving Kenzie a challenging look. “How’d you get your mom to let you skip dance class to join our theater?”
    I frowned at my sister. “Susan! That was rude.”
    â€œNo, it wasn’t,” said Susan. “Everybody knows Mackenzie is going to be a professional ballerina. She dances every single day, and last year Mrs. Fleisch wouldn’t let her take horseback riding lessons because it would have taken too much time away from her dancing. So I was just wondering.”
    Mackenzie’s smile faltered for only half a second, and then she was grinning again. “It’s fine, Anya,” she said. “Susan’s absolutely right. I had to practically beg my mother to let me do this, but she finally said it would be okay.”
    I noticed that Austin was staring at Mackenzie’s feet, which she’d shifted as she spoke; they were now planted heel-to-heel on the brick walkway, her toes pointing in opposite directions.
    Five more actors arrived, four of whom lived right in our neighborhood. Austin directed them to the questionnaires, which were laid out on a rickety table by the clubhouse door. These new arrivals included Mia Kim, who was Susan’s best friend and a year behind Austin, Kenzie, and me in school. Mia was probably the most gifted singer in our whole town. Her younger brother, Eddie, was with her; he’d be going into fifth grade next fall. Sam Carpenter was going into sixth grade, like Susan. I didn’t know him too well, but he seemed like a sweet kid even though he was kind of shy and had never spoken so much as a single word to