Tech Week had arrived. We couldn’t hold rehearsal on Monday, because of the Fourth of July holiday, but I told myself this was a good thing. We all needed a break, and what could be better than a long weekend with fireworks and patriotic parades to put us all in the right mind-set? Musical theater was, after all, the great American art form.
On Tuesday I got up early and decided to make a to do list for this final and crucial week of rehearsal. It was only just beginning to sink in how close we were to opening night. The show went up on Saturday—in exactly five days. And we still had a ton of kinks to work out. The thought made me feel excited and nervous. Confident and at the same time completely and totally in over my head.
But I never turned away from a challenge. So I sat down at the kitchen table and made my checklist.
Director’s TECH WEEK To Do List
1. ASK AUSTIN ABOUT THE THEME SONG!
2. Remind Madeline W. to take the gum out of her mouth before she goes onstage
3. Hand out T-shirts (surprise!)
4. Make sure restrooms are clean and stocked
5. Have Maxie H. triple-check that all straight pins have been removed from costumes after alterations
6. Write blurb about silencing cell phones and no flash photography
7. Remind Madeline W. again about the gum
8. Begin advance ticket sales
9. SERIOUSLY . . . THE THEME SONG!
10. ???
I read my list over three times but feared that once again I’d forgotten something important.
I was almost certain there was something else . . . a tenth to do item, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of what it could be. All the way to the clubhouse theater, I wracked my brain trying to think of what it could be.
One slight problem was that I had no money to use for change in the cashbox. I’d already spent ninety-seven dollars of our one hundred and thirty dollars in dues money on the T-shirts. Then I’d given Maxie twenty-five of the remaining thirty-three dollars for makeup essentials. This left me with a whopping eight bucks in our theater fund (barely enough to replace Mom’s economy-size bottle of Windex). For now I would just hope that anyone who wanted to purchase tickets today came with exact change.
Lugging my trash bag full of custom Random Farms T-shirts, I unlocked the theater door and stepped inside. I knew this was the beginning of what might just be the most important week of my life. I quickly tucked the bag under the stage with the folding chairs. My plan was to hand out the shirts sometime before Friday’s dress rehearsal. This way the cast could wear them during their bows while singing Austin’s original theme song!
Which Austin was still working on and therefore we hadn’t rehearsed yet, with or without the harmonies that may or may not be still stuck in his head.
As if by some unspoken agreement, every member of my cast (well, almost) arrived good and early—they knew this was a big day, and it did my heart good to know that they were taking it seriously. Even Sophia managed to show up on time, which for her was a major accomplishment.
After referring to my to do list, I decided that my first task was to make Madeline turn in her pack of bubble gum at the door. Then I sent Eddie to refill the soap dispensers in the restrooms.
So what hadn’t I done?
I decided not to dwell on it, whatever it was. Sooner or later it would come to me.
Today was to be our first day of the process known as tech rehearsal. That was when the show was rehearsed using all the technical aspects—like sound and lighting and set changes—to be sure they would run smoothly for the performance.
For us this would be ridiculously easy, since we didn’t really have all that much tech. For stage lighting there were only the simple overhead canister lights, which didn’t do anything but go up and down. The only additional lighting element was the strand of holiday lights Deon had staple-gunned to the front edge of the stage. Unfortunately, there were no spotlights.
“No spotlights?” Sophia threw her hands up in disgust. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“You would have known it,” I said tightly, “if you hadn’t skipped out on the first rehearsal to go to Daria’s pool party.”
Sophia ignored the barb. “How am I going to sing my solo without a spotlight?” she fumed. “I pictured myself haloed in a glowing circle of pale pink light.”
“Sorry,” said Deon, “but look at it this way: without a spotlight, people might not notice how raggedy your costume is.”
Maxie shot him a look.
“Whatever!” Sophia rolled her eyes. “Just body mic me and get it over with.”
“About that . . .,” said Austin.
“No mics, either?” Sophia looked stricken. “You can’t be serious. First you aren’t going to light me, now you won’t even mic me?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Teddy. “You’re plenty loud enough without one.”
“That’s because I know how to project!” she screamed.
“So it’s not a problem,” said Austin. “You don’t need a mic. You can project.”
“That’s one word for it,” Susan mumbled.
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Sophia huffed.
Since we didn’t have a stage crew, Deon and Maxie had been appointed co–stage managers; they would be responsible for changing backdrops, switching out props and set pieces, and of course, operating the curtain.
The curtain!
That was what I’d forgotten.
I felt like I’d just been punched in the gut.
“What’s wrong, Anya?” asked Susan. “You look like you’re gonna be sick or something.”
“I never got around to finding a curtain,” I confessed. “How could I forget the curtain? It’s, like, the first thing people think of when they think of a theater.”
No one disagreed. I vowed silently to handle it before the end of the week. I wanted a curtain. My cast wanted a curtain. Who would ever take us seriously if we didn’t have a curtain?
But right now I had to focus on rehearsal.
“Let’s get started,” I said, clapping my hands briskly.
Everyone hurried into the wings (although without a curtain, they really weren’t all that winglike). There was a cacophony of whispering, giggling, and shuffling of feet.
“It’s going to have to be a lot quieter back there on opening night!” I warned.
But this accomplished nothing; in fact, it made things worse by setting off a series of overly loud shhhhhhhhs.
Susan and Austin lowered the old roller shades on the windows, and when Deon hit the main light switch that controlled the house lights, the whole interior of the theater turned dusky gray.
This did the trick; the noisy fidgeting from the wings stopped instantly, and a hush fell over the place.
“That’s more like it,” said Austin with a grin.
“Places for the opening number!” I commanded.
Everyone crept onto the shadowy stage.
“Move over, Elle.”
“Teddy, you’re supposed to be over there.”
“No, Jane stands there. I stand here.”
“How can you stand here when I’m supposed to stand here?”
“Mackenzie has to be in front. If Mackenzie’s not in front, I won’t remember the steps.”
“Mackenzie is in front.”
“Eddie!”
“What?”
“We haven’t even started to dance, and you’re already stepping on my foot.”
With a sigh, I turned the main lights back on. Twelve faces turned to me.
“What’s the problem?” asked Susan.
“We forgot to spike,” I said.
“Spike?” Spencer repeated. “That sounds kinda dangerous.”
I explained that spiking was the practice of marking places onstage with small pieces of tape so the actors would always know exactly where to stand. Spike tape came in all different colors, and some varieties even glowed in the dark.
“So, let’s spike now,” Susan suggested.
“Great idea,” I said. “Except we don’t have any tape.”
“Check the bag of art stuff my mom brought,” said Deon.
I hurried over to where we’d left the shopping bags and, sure enough, there was a roll of ordinary masking tape. It wouldn’t glow in the dark, but at least for the moment it would keep my performers from clobbering one another on stage.
I was just tearing off the first piece of tape when I heard a car horn out front. I looked out the box office window. A silver minivan was parked at the curb, and a black station wagon was pulling up behind it.
I checked my watch, surprised as always to see that the time had gotten away from us.
“I guess we’re done for today,” I said glumly. “See everyone back here tomorrow.”
Needless to say, the next day we found ourselves in a spiking frenzy. I had my actors walk through the blocking for every scene while Maxie, Deon, and I scrambled around on our hands and knees, sticking pieces of tape to the floor.
We only had to use Mrs. Becker’s boring masking tape to mark the places where set pieces should be placed because Austin had surprised me with several rolls of electrical tape in a whole array of colors. Each performer got to pick out his or her own color, which would make it even easier for them to find their precise places—all they had to do was look for the X in their chosen color. Eddie picked blue and orange (Mets fan) for his Xs while Travis picked yellow and black to express his loyalty to the Boston Bruins.
After we’d spiked ourselves silly, we finally got around to doing the cue-to-cue.
It was, as expected, pretty simple: we basically walked the acts on and off the stage, one after the other, while Deon brought the lights up and down between every act.
Lights up. Dance. Lights down. Exit.
Lights up. Monologue. Lights down. Exit.
Lights up. Song. Lights down. Exit.
If we had had a more sophisticated system, we’d have been able to program all kinds of cool changes and effects into a computerized lighting board. I hated to admit it, but I was almost glad we didn’t have one, just so Sophia wouldn’t get her “pale pink glow.”
Overall, I was pleased. The spike tape made things go a lot more smoothly and efficiently. Sophia complained only once through the entire exercise, which was some kind of a record, I think.
While the cast rehearsed, Susan got proactive and pushed the Quandts’ donated table beneath an open window to create a box office. She made a hand-lettered sign that said TICKETS and propped it in the window. Five minutes later, to my surprise and delight, Becky’s face appeared in the window.
“One please,” she said, handing over five singles.
“Great!” cried Susan. “We’re not technically open yet, but since you have exact change, we’re good to go.” She slid the bills into the empty cashbox and gave Becky her ticket.
“Hey!” I laughed, hurrying over to the window. “I was planning to comp you a front-row seat. That’s kind of a perk of being the director’s best friend.”
“Thanks,” said Becky, grinning. “But I’m happy to pay. From what I hear, this show is worth way more than the price of admission!”
“Come on in and look around,” I said.
“Wish I could. Golf lesson. Then a tennis match. Diving practice after that!” She waved through the window and disappeared.
Susan spent the entire morning at the box office window. The good news was that a bunch of neighborhood kids came by asking about the show. The bad news was that none of them plunked five bucks down on the windowsill like Becky had. They did say they were planning to come to the show, which was very encouraging but still didn’t change the fact that there were only five measly dollar bills in the cashbox.
I was working with Travis and Mackenzie on their dance number when the door opened.
“Hello there!”
I was surprised to see my mother entering the theater. I left my dancers and rushed across the theater. “Hi, Mom! What’s up?”
She handed me an envelope. “This came in the mail for you,” she said. “I imagine it’s theater related, so I thought I’d drop it off.”
I glanced at the return address in the corner of the envelope—The Soft Peddlers, Inc., Port Chester, NY. It took me a moment to realize it was the bill from the piano tuner. I stuffed it into my pocket, deciding I’d deal with it later when the cast was gone.
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, staring purposefully at the door.
Mom laughed. “Okay, okay, I’m leaving. I know you want the show to be a big surprise.”
“Hey, wait!” cried Susan. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What’s that?”
“You forgot to buy your tickets.”
“Susan!” I cried. “Mom and Dad and Nana and Papa are our guests. They get house seats for free.”
“No, no,” said Mom quickly, opening her purse. “Susan’s right. This is a professional operation, and I’m happy to purchase our tickets. At full price.”
“Good! They’re five bucks apiece.” Susan held out her hand with a big smile.
Four front-row seats and twenty dollars later, Mom left the theater.
And I went back to Kenzie and Travis, forgetting all about the bill in my pocket.