Showstopper (24 page)

That evening, as the stars began to twinkle over our amphitheater, we had our dress rehearsal.

Any actor or director would tell you there was just something about “dress” that was both thrilling and nerve-wracking. It wasn't quite the show, but it was more than just a rehearsal. It was the culmination of long weeks of preparation and exhausting work.

It was your last chance to get it right.

Your show—your precious show—that had been once just a script and some songs, was now a living, breathing thing. And you knew in your heart that even if a thousand different companies were to perform it a thousand different times, it would never look or sound or
be
exactly the same as your show. Every play was the result of some unique and magical alignment of talents, personalities, and events, all coming together (or, in some cases, falling apart) to be something utterly original.

But for me, the truly poignant thing about dress rehearsal was this: it was the very last time your play belonged to just you. On opening night, you would give it away. That was what a performance was, after all. . . . It was you giving your show to the audience, offering it, like a gift, to these people
who'd come to enjoy it. You would kiss it good-bye and send it out into the world, with all its perfect moments and silly mistakes.

Dress rehearsal was the last time you and your cast could say this was ours . . . because tomorrow it would be
theirs
, too. To enjoy and to remember. And you could only hope the audience would love it every bit as much as you did.

“Anya?”

I snapped myself out of these thoughts to see Austin looking at me expectantly. “Ready?”

I wasn't, not really. I wanted to keep this play to ourselves just one second longer. But that was not what a director did. So I nodded.

“Bon voyage, Odysseus,” I whispered to the sky. Then I took a deep breath and smiled at my cast. “Places, everyone!” I called.

It was time to begin.

As dress rehearsals go, this one was pretty tame. We had a few forgotten lines and some costume delays, and there were some technical issues to work through.

Getting the wind effects right, for example, was tricky. On
the high setting, the fans made the backdrops whip and flap so ferociously, it looked as if the Aegean were in the throes of a monsoon. “Try low,” I suggested to Deon. It worked.

The actors spoke clearly and loudly, and the acoustics were totally in our favor. Austin positioned himself at the top of the slope and swore he could hear the actors' every word. Even the ones they got wrong!

For example, in the scene where the Greek chorus (known in the script as the Eyewitness Muse Team) reports that Aeolus, the god of wind, has given Odysseus a bag of breeze, Gracie got tongue-tied and said
Aioli
had given our hero
a bag of fleas
.

“Bet that would have really ‘bugged' Odysseus,” Susan quipped. “And who is Aioli? The god of mayonnaise?”

Poor Elle! She played the swift-flying Hermes with a huge amount of heart and energy, but she just could not seem to nail the weird pronunciation of Calypso's island.

“O-guy-guy-yay?”

“No,” I told her patiently. “Oh-jee-jee-yuh.”

She tried again. “O-giggy-goy-ah?”

“Closer.” Then I said it again more slowly. “Oh. Jee. Jee. Yuh.”

Elle nodded and repeated after me: “Oh-jee-jee-yuh.”

“Yessss!” cried Austin, running down the slope to give her a high five. “Perfect.”

Sadly, our six-headed Scylla monster needed a bit of rethinking. Since we no longer had the CCC's risers to work with, we settled for lining up the five additional actors behind Spencer and having them poke their heads out one at a time. It wound up being pretty hilarious, but deep down I'd really wanted to create the illusion of disembodied faces floating around.

“Maybe next time,” Maxie said.

It was close to ten thirty by the time we were ready to rehearse the curtain call.

“Sorry, there's still no theme song,” said Austin.

Believe it or not, I had almost forgotten about it, what with all the other issues that had come up. “It's okay,” I told him. “We've been busy.”

“I promise,” he said, “we'll have it for the next show.”

“The next show,” I repeated, smiling. “Okay.”

Because this time I had no doubt in my mind there would be a next show. Random Farms was in business for the long haul now. And there was nothing that could stop us.

CHAPTER

22

There was only one way to say it:
The Odd-yssey
was a complete triumph, a full-on crowd pleaser, and an enormously huge success.

(Okay, so maybe there were three ways to say it.)

From the moment Teddy walked onstage and sang his opening number, “Everything Is Epic,” we knew we had a hit on our hands.

Brady and Susan got roars of laughter when surfer boy Poseidon complained to Zeus that Odysseus had “O-dissed him big-time, dude.” And Sophia was by turns terrifying and hilarious as Cyclops.

“Maxie, you did a great job with that costume,” I whispered while we watched from backstage.

“Never underestimate the power of a well-tailored bath mat!” Maxie replied.

The best undisputed laugh line of the night wasn't actually from the script at all; it was an ad lib from Elle (as Hermes), who shouted to Odysseus as his ship left Calypso's island:

“Oh-jee-jee-yuh . . . wouldn't wanna be ya!”

If we'd actually had aisles, the audience would have been rolling in them.

All in all, our production wound up being a combination of moments so right and perfect, they surprised even us. But there were also plenty of silly goofs and unlucky pitfalls of the sort that have actors silently reminding themselves the show must go on.

Our “perfect moments” went as follows:

The lights Gina's father's electrician set up for us were great, and Deon's rented follow spot worked like a dream.

The clashing of swords and spears booming through the pizza car's speaker created a truly chilling effect as the sounds echoed into the darkening night. And the fact that there were no actual weapons gave the battles a weird and eerie quality.

“Let's hear it for pantomime,” said Susan.

Nobody missed a single line of dialogue, and the comic timing was flawless.

Nora cried on cue. Athena was amazing. And the Cyclops scared us all half to death.

It was the costumes that really blew me away, though.
The togas looked awesome, and even the pigs looked professional, but the undisputed wardrobe highlight was Jane's Charybdis costume—a work of artistic genius and incomparable creativity! Maxie had taken an old Hula-Hoop and draped it with jagged strips of sheer blue fabric and green tulle of varying widths and lengths, and embellished these shreds of material with glittering sequins and crystals. Deon used one of the colored gels that came with the portable spotlight to shine a circle of aqua-blue shimmer on her, and when Jane set the hoop in motion, the fabric fanned out and fluttered, spinning and twinkling. She really did look like a furiously churning whirlpool.

The only noticeable mistake (that totally had us cracking up) was a scenery glitch; Gina and Brittany forgot to roll down the sunset backdrop and left the interior of Odysseus's house in place for the Siren scene. It looked as if our hero's ship was sailing through his living room.

When the cast finally came out to take their bows, the crowd rose from their blankets and lawn chairs and applauded wildly.

We'd done it again.

“It was an adventure,” said Austin, giving my shoulder a congratulatory squeeze. “But in the end, the theater gods smiled on us.”

I turned to Deon, a huge smile on my face. “See, D?” I said. “Even without the lights and the microphones, it all turned out great, didn't it? And now that we know we can rent portable lights and stuff, maybe next time when we're back in the clubhouse theater we can—”

Deon cut me off with a shake of his head. “You might have to find another tech guy for next time, Anya. One who doesn't mind that his opinions don't matter.”

My mouth dropped open. “What?”

“D, what are you saying?” asked Austin.

“I'm saying I'm not sure if I'll be back for the next Random Farms performance.”

Onstage, the cast had their arms outstretched to acknowledge the stage crew. With a shrug, Deon jogged out to join Maxie, Brittany, and Gina for their bows.

“What just happened?” I asked Austin, my eyes wide, my heart racing. “Did he just . . . quit?”

Austin frowned. “I think he's just still upset about the vote. Give him some time to cool down and think it over. He'll be back.”

“Are you sure?”

Austin's answer wasn't exactly an answer. “Let's enjoy the moment,” he said. “After all, if there's one thing we learned from this odd odyssey, it's that there's no telling what the
gods have in store.”

I managed a smile and shifted my focus from Deon's shocking words to the joyful sound of cheers and applause. It had been an exciting journey, with all sorts of challenges, and what I'd learned was that while heroes and battles might be thrilling, when you got right down to it, friendship was the most epic adventure of all.

As I watched my cast take one final bow, I knew Austin was right: the theater gods
were
smiling on Random Farms.

And I didn't want to miss a second of it.

I woke up Saturday morning feeling proud and a little sad. I loved that the show had been a success. But I hated that it was over.

When I went downstairs, I found Susan already at the kitchen table, counting our ticket money.

“We made a fortune,” she informed me. “In case you were wondering.”

One look at the amount of cash and I knew she wasn't exaggerating. Between the box office earnings, our advertising revenue, and our bake sale income (minus the cost of the CCC theater rental, the follow spot, and a few other
various expenses), we were left with what Susan called “some serious bank.”

When my dad came down to breakfast, I took a ten-dollar bill from the table and met him at the coffee maker.

“Here,” I said handing him the cash.

He looked perplexed. “What's this for?”

“It's . . . um . . . well, what's it called when someone hires you to be their attorney?”

“A retainer.”

“Okay,” I said, smiling. “That's what this is . . . a retainer. Random Farms is hiring you to be our lawyer.”

“I'm flattered,” said Dad, opening the bag of coffee and scooping some into the machine. “But why in the world do you need a lawyer?”

“Yeah,” said Susan, squinting at me. “Why in the world do we need a lawyer?”

“Because we used all those songs and scenes in
Random Acts of Broadway
without paying the licensing fees, that's why.”

“Oh, that,” said Susan, pushing aside the piles of money and reaching for the Cheerios. “I forgot about that.”

“Well, I haven't,” I said firmly. “Dad, we need to settle up with all the people or companies who own the rights to everything we used in our first show. I'm not sure exactly
how we do that yet. . . . I guess I'll have to research who owns the rights, then write letters or send e-mails explaining that when we used the material, we didn't know about permissions and licensing fees. Now that we do know, we want to do the honorable thing and pay what we owe.”

My dad was staring at me with a weird expression.

“What's wrong?” I asked. “Is ten dollars not enough to secure your legal services?”

“It's not that,” said Dad. “I guess I'm just a little thrown off by your bringing this to my attention after the fact.”

“I think what Dad's trying to say,” said Susan, pouring some cereal into a bowl, “is that you already got away with it, so why bother?”

“I'm not saying that at all,” my father said. “I'm saying that I feel like maybe I dropped the ball a little by not advising you on this issue for the first play.”