Curtain Up Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2015 Lisa Fiedler

  Copyright © 2015 Anya Wallach

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Fiedler, Lisa. Curtain up / written by Lisa Fiedler and Anya Wallach. pages cm. -- (Stagestruck ; book 1) Summary: After twelve-year-old Anya fails to make the soccer team, she decides to pursue her true passion, musical theater, and, with the help of her sister and new friend Austin, pulls together a summer theater troupe. ISBN 978-1-58536-923-2 (hard cover) -- ISBN 978-1-58536-924-9 (paperback) [1. Theater--Fiction. 2. Musicals--Fiction. 3. Friendship--Fiction. 4. Sisters--Fiction. 5. Community life--Fiction.] I. Wallach, Anya. II. Title.

  PZ7.F457Cs 2015

  [Fic]--dc23

  2014035452

  ISBN 978-1-58536-923-2 (case)

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  ISBN 978-1-58536-924-9

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Cover design by Jeanine Henderson

  Printed in the United States.

  Sleeping Bear Press™

  2395 South Huron Parkway, Suite 200

  Ann Arbor, MI 48104

  © 2015 Sleeping Bear Press

  Visit us at sleepingbearpress.com

  To Shannon, my favorite theater kid.

  Always a star!

  LISA

  For Lisa Pitliuk—

  it wouldn’t have been possible without you.

  ANYA

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Hello!

  The story you are about to read really did happen. Well, not everything exactly the way it’s written, but in 1995, I did create the Random Farms Kids’ Theater. And it’s still around today! Only now it’s become this internationally recognized organization. If you had asked my younger self if I ever could have imagined that happening, well, I probably would have said that I could imagine it, but I’d never have believed it would actually happen.

  You’ll read in this book how it all worked out, but let me skip to something you won’t read about.

  In a local newspaper article that was printed a few weeks after our first show, it said “Though her directorial debut was a success, Anya said she is unlikely to again take on such a responsibility in the near future.” Of course, reading that now makes me laugh. Running Random Farms became my career. And now I see Random Farms kids everywhere—when I turn on the TV, see a movie, or (my favorite) go to a Broadway show. They make me proud, and it gives me the chills when I remember our humble beginnings.

  When I was growing up, I wasn’t the smartest or the fastest or the most popular. I didn’t have any special skills, besides just really loving theater. I just made stuff up as I went along, even when people thought I was kind of crazy or told me it was impossible. I hope you will be inspired when you read this—inspired to do whatever it is that you imagine. Because that’s how things do happen.

  Curtain Up!

  Anya

  “Anya, look out!”

  I spun around just in time to see the black-and-white comet barreling toward my head.

  I dropped to the ground, hearing the whoosh of the soccer ball as it zoomed over my ponytail. A split second later it landed with a thud in the grass about ten yards beyond me.

  Great, I thought, I may have avoided a concussion, but I just made a total fool out of myself in front of the entire soccer team!

  As if to confirm it, someone from the sidelines started to giggle; then someone else said, “Shhh,” but I could tell the shusher herself was trying not to giggle. That would be Daria Benson, the rising team captain and without a doubt the coolest girl at Chappaqua Middle School. Daria was one of those girls who matched her lip gloss and eye shadow to her soccer uniform. Meanwhile, I didn’t even know it was acceptable to wear lip gloss and eye shadow with a soccer uniform.

  What am I doing here? I wondered. Because seriously, I had absolutely no delusions about my athletic ability. I liked sports, and I wasn’t completely uncoordinated, but I was definitely not a natural-born jock. The only reason I’d agreed to try out for the soccer team in the first place was because my best friend, Becky Mezan (who was a natural-born jock, maybe even a natural-born superjock), had talked me into it. And to be honest, if a person were going to be stuck in middle school with the Daria Bensons of the world, wouldn’t it better to be on their team . . . literally?

  But as I reached up to remove a clump of dirt from my hair, I realized there were about a zillion other places I’d rather be right now. My first choice would be New York City, at a Broadway theater, watching Aladdin or Newsies or even Wicked again (I’d already seen it twice, but so what? I would go again in a heartbeat!).

  Across the field, somebody asked, “Is she alive?”

  I opened my eyes and saw Becky staring down at me, looking pretty concerned. She was the one who’d shouted the warning that had kept me from being decapitated by the speeding soccer bomb. As she reached down to help me to my feet, I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. I suppose I should have been thanking Becky for saving my life, but at the moment, with all the other sixth- and seventh-grade soccer hopefuls (not to mention Daria and the rest of the returning players) staring at me, being decapitated suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad thing after all.

  “Are you okay?” Becky whispered, and then grimaced. “Um, you’ve got some grass stuck . . . right there . . .” Mortified, I sputtered the grass pieces from my lip.

  “Okay, everybody,” said Daria, swinging her thick auburn braid and smiling around at the twenty-two of us who’d come to try out for the team. “Coach says we can wrap it up. Awesome job today! As you know, we can pick only six new girls for next year. The new team members will be posted outside the gym first thing tomorrow morning. Good luck, you guys!”

  With that, Daria and her glittering circle of athletically gifted besties turned and sauntered back to the school building. The other candidates broke into groups and pairs and walked off, chattering excitedly about what they thought their chances were of making the team. A couple of girls turned to peek at me over their shoulders and chuckle.

  I wanted to dig a hole right in the middle of the center circle and crawl in.

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Becky, reading my mind as she hoisted her hot pink, glitter-encrusted gym bag onto her shoulder. “By tomorrow everyone will forget what happened.”

  “Which part?” I grumbled. “The part where I fell on my face, or the part where I had to spit grass clippings out of my mouth?”

  “Both,” Becky assured me with a smile.

  I seriously doubted it, and Becky could tell from my expression.

  “Well, if they don’t,” she continued, “it’s no big deal. Tomorrow’s the last day of school anyway, and once the roster’s posted, nobody will give the soccer team a second thought until September.
”

  Becky would make the team, no question. She was that flawless combination of girly-girl and superjock (did I mention the glittery gym bag?), and half the boys in school had crushes on her. My best friend was basically a perfect human being, which, when you were twelve, was the kind of thing that either totally impressed you—or made you sick to your stomach. If I were going to be truthful about it, I’d have to say in my case, it was a little of both.

  “Too bad there’s no middle-school theater program,” she said with a sigh. “That would be great for you.”

  “Yeah,” I grumbled. Then I stopped walking and turned to look at her. “Why don’t they? Have a theater program, I mean.”

  “I don’t know.” Becky shrugged. “They have one at the high school.”

  True, but that meant I wouldn’t get to do a play until I got to Chappaqua Central High, and that was two years away. The thought of having to wait until I was a freshman in high school to do anything theatrical was pretty depressing.

  “Let’s go get pizza or something,” I suggested when we reached the front of the school.

  “Can’t,” said Becky. “I’ve got swim practice and then a diving lesson, and after that I’m meeting my brother for golf.”

  I smiled. This was pretty much a typical Becky Mezan daily schedule. I’d forgotten she’d joined the town’s summer swim team, and I felt a twinge of sadness because I knew that all the swim practicing and competing would take up a lot of her summer vacation time.

  We said our good-byes, promised to Skype later, and she went to meet her mother in the parking lot while I headed to the side entrance of the school to await the late bus.

  Ugh. Late Bus. Honestly, are there two more horrendous words in the entire English language?

  A handful of kids were already assembled there—some of the soccer hopefuls who’d witnessed my embarrassment, Kevin something-or-other who spent pretty much every afternoon in detention, and a few student council members who’d stayed late to decorate the gym for tomorrow night’s eighth-grade semiformal dance.

  And Austin Weatherly was there.

  That was weird. Austin was in my grade. We didn’t know each other well, but I did know that he lived only one block from school. That was the weird part, because why would he be waiting for the late bus when he could just walk home?

  I got my answer when I saw that Mrs. Warde was the Late Bus Duty Teacher today.

  Mrs. Warde was head of the English Department and pretty much everyone’s favorite teacher. And since everyone knew that Austin Weatherly was the best writer in the sixth grade, maybe even the whole school, it made perfect sense to me that he was there to discuss something with the most creative teacher on the faculty. Austin was the sort of guy a lot of girls would overlook, but I’d always kind of noticed him. I didn’t have a lot of experience with boys (the overlookable type or otherwise), but it seemed to me a smart, quiet guy would be much easier to be yourself around than one of those high-profile guys who thinks a varsity jacket actually passes for a personality.

  “I agree with you completely, Austin,” Mrs. Warde was saying. “And I think your idea to form a drama club for next year is brilliant. Really, I do.” She paused to stop Kevin what’s-his-name from pickpocketing one of the student council kids.

  Talk about timing! Maybe this was what was known as kismet. Or karma? Or maybe just dumb luck. Whatever it was, my heart did a happy little somersault in my chest. I had just been wishing for a drama club, and now Austin was getting the school to start one!

  But then Mrs. Warde turned back to Austin. “I’m so sorry, Austin. I presented your idea to Principal Morris, but unfortunately, there’s just no room in the student budget at this time.”

  Austin looked utterly defeated.

  “I would love to provide you with an outlet for the musical you’re writing,” the teacher continued, “but there’s just nothing I can do.” She gave him a warm smile, the kind that made kids like one teacher better than all the others. “Tell you what, though. If you make any headway on your play over the summer, shoot it to me in an e-mail. I’d be more than happy to read it and tell you what I think.”

  Austin thanked her, but he still seemed pretty bummed.

  I, on the other hand, was kind of amazed. Austin Weatherly was writing a musical? That was pretty ambitious for a sixth grader.

  I thought about telling him so, but that was when the late bus pulled up and Mrs. Warde had to get down to business, herding us into a single-file line and making sure Kevin whatever-his-name-was sat somewhere up front where the bus driver could keep an eye on him.

  As I flopped onto my own seat, I watched Austin through the window, skulking off across the parking lot. I knew exactly how he felt.

  In the next moment I heard myself cry out, “Stop the bus, please!”

  The driver hit the brakes, and the big yellow vehicle squealed to a halt. I popped up from my seat, bolted up the aisle, and thanked the driver when he opened the door and let me out onto the sidewalk.

  Then, barely able to believe I was doing it, I turned and ran off after Austin Weatherly.

  I had a proposition for him!

  I caught up to Austin just before he turned the corner onto his street.

  “Austin!” I called. “Wait up!”

  He stopped walking to glance over his shoulder, and when he saw me, a very confused expression came over his face. I suppose this was because I had never really spoken to him before in my life (except once in third grade when I’d lent him an orange gel pen and he’d said, “Thank you” and I’d said, “You’re welcome”), and suddenly here I was sprinting down the street after him, shouting his name.

  Or maybe I still had grass stuck to my face.

  “Hey,” I said when I reached him. “So . . . I was listening . . . I mean, well, I wasn’t really listening—it was more like I just happened to overhear what you were saying to Mrs. Warde back there. Ya know, about a drama club? Starting one . . . next year? At school?”

  “Oh, right.” Austin nodded. “I just thought it would be fun. Plays can be really cool.”

  I was momentarily sidetracked by how different his voice was from how it had sounded the time he’d thanked me for that pen.

  “I totally agree,” I said. “My family goes to at least two Broadway shows a year, and back in elementary school I played Mouse Number One in the fifth-grade production of Cinderella.”

  “I remember that,” said Austin. “Didn’t one of the mice mess up the dance number and Sophia Ciancio almost trip over his tail?”

  “Right!” I giggled, picturing it. “And Sophia was so mad, she tried to push poor Mouse Number Three off the stage and into the orchestra pit.”

  “Luckily, you grabbed the back of his coat before he landed on the oboe player.” Austin shook his head, smiling. “What ever happened to Mouse Number Three?”

  “Not sure,” I said, shrugging. “I think he transferred to a private school right after the tail incident.”

  Then Austin and I stood there for, like, a zillion years waiting for one of us to figure out what to say or do next. Austin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and I tugged on the end of my dark brown ponytail. He took off his metal-rimmed glasses and put them on again.

  “I’d like to read your play,” I blurted out finally.

  He looked confused again. “Why?”

  Because there’s no way I’m going to make the soccer team, that’s why, I thought. And freshman year is forever from now. But I didn’t want to say that out loud. “I have an idea,” I replied instead. Austin went from confused to curious.

  His blue eyes behind his glasses seemed very interested. “What is it?”

  To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure. Not completely, not yet. All I knew was that the idea was starting in the back of my brain, and it was on its way to being amazing.

  “Let’s go grab a cup of coffee,” I said, smiling at Austin. “My treat.”

  We walked three blocks to Main Street. It wa
s just the amount of time I needed to formulate the basic principles of my big idea. By the time we’d reached the coffeehouse, I was ready to make my pitch.

  I held the door open for Austin. “After you,” I said.

  “Um, I should probably tell you,” he said, stepping inside. “I don’t drink coffee.”

  “Me either. I was just using it as a euphemism for sitting down together and having a chat.”

  Austin grinned. “A euphemism, huh?”

  As planned, my use of writing terminology had impressed him.

  We grabbed two sodas out of the cooler, paid, then found a table by the window and sat down. At this time of day the coffeehouse was pretty empty except for an older couple eating scones, and a few high-school kids who were trying to seem grown-up by drinking soy and skim double lattes and other drinks I couldn’t pronounce.

  As I watched Austin twist the cap off of his soda bottle, I noticed that behind those glasses, his eyes were even bluer than I’d realized. I opened my own and took a drink.

  “So, what’s this idea of yours?” Austin asked, sipping his soda.

  “Well, it’s kind of still in the planning phases,” I admitted. “But Becky Mezan and I were talking earlier—”

  “Becky Mezan, huh?” I noticed Austin was blushing. I have to admit: I wished he weren’t. So, here was another boy who was crazy about my BFF. I decided not to think about that at the moment. I also decided that if Austin’s name ever came up in conversation with Becky, I might refrain from mentioning how blue his eyes were.

  “Well . . .,” I began. “We were talking about the fact that our school doesn’t have a theater program, and how crummy that is for kids like me”—I motioned to him with my straw—“and you, too, actually—who really like that sort of thing.”

  “Agreed,” said Austin. “Although, I have to say, I never realized you were so into drama. I thought maybe the mouse thing had been a fluke.”

  I shook my head. “Not a fluke at all. I’ve always been a theater geek. In fact, my most prized possession is a Playbill from Wicked, signed by the entire Broadway cast. My dad had gotten it for me at some charity auction, and he’d given it to me with a bouquet of roses after Cinderella. I’d almost cried when I’d seen Kristen Chenoweth’s name! When Sophia had heard about it, she’d had a fit and tried to get her dad to buy her an autographed Playbill too. Sophia’s mom had told my mom that Dr. Ciancio had tried for weeks, but he couldn’t get his hands on one.” I paused, remembering how, at the time, I’d secretly been glad about having something Sophia didn’t. “But the point is, Cinderella was actually my second performance. Before that, I was in a regional production of Annie. It was kind of a big deal. We even had some professional actors in the cast. Auditioning for that was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life!”