I quickly closed my computer as Sophia Ciancio dropped her super-expensive hot pink bicycle onto my front lawn and headed for the porch.

“Hi, Anya.” Sophia swung her long dark hair over one shoulder and smiled at Austin. “Hi. You’re that guy in my English class who writes all those poems, right?”

“For your information,” Susan pointed out defensively, “he doesn’t just write poetry. He’s also writing an original musical revue for—”

I gave my little sister a firm nudge with my elbow to cut her off. But it was too late.

“Oh, right. I just saw something about that on Twitter.”

Since I was pretty sure Sophia Ciancio didn’t follow my sister (or anyone else who wasn’t world famous or at the very least part of Chappaqua’s middle-school elite popular crowd) on Twitter, I realized that someone must have already retweeted it.

Sophia laughed. “I actually thought it was a joke.”

“Well, it’s not,” I said curtly. “We’re creating a theater.”

“Seriously? Where?”

“Here,” I said. “At my house.”

“Who’s going to be in it?”

I gave her what I hoped was a careless shrug. “Just . . . ya know . . . people.”

“Hmmm.” Sophia treated us to another hair toss. “I might be interested in that,” she said coolly. “I mean, if Austin’s writing it.” She actually batted her eyes at him. I kind of wanted to puke.

Then, without even saying good-bye, she sauntered back across the front yard, got on her neon bike, and glided off, calling, “Let me know the details.”

Um, yeah, that is so not happening, I thought.

Back to business.

But as I opened my laptop again, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d forgotten something.

Something big.

Then the front door opened behind me, and my mother stepped out onto the porch. She was holding her cell phone and looking very upset.

And that was when I realized that, unlike Sophia Ciancio, my mother did follow Susan on Twitter.

“Girls,” Mom said, her eyebrows knit low. “Is there something you think I should know?”

I sighed. That was what I’d forgotten.

I’d forgotten to ask my parents!

Slowly, patiently, my mom folded her arms across her chest. “Anya, what exactly is the Random Farms Kids’ Theater?”

Before I could answer, Dad’s car pulled into the driveway.

“Hello, there,” he said cheerfully as he headed up the walk. “I caught an early train.”

My dad’s a big important lawyer in the city and it was unusual to see him home at this time of day.

Just my luck—a slow day in the world of law.

He looked from me to my mom and became instantly wary. “What’s up?”

I took a deep breath and explained my theater idea to them, just like I’d explained it to Austin.

“It’ll be great, don’t you think?” I finished confidently. “And I promise we won’t make a mess in the kitchen or stomp on the rose bushes in the yard or swing from the chandelier in the dining room or anything like that. All I want to do is put on a play. Well, several plays, actually. But one at a time. Naturally.”

Mom had a strange expression on her face. It was a mix of concern and something else. Pride, maybe? She smiled and reached out to hold my hand. “I’m sorry, Anya,” she said. “I love that you’re thinking so creatively and that you have such confidence in your idea. But we can’t have a theater in our house.”

“Well, it won’t be in the house, exactly,” I clarified. “It’ll be in the basement, mostly. And I’ve thought it all out.”

“Have you?” Mom cocked an eyebrow.

“Sure. . . . We’ve got tons of sheet music in the piano bench, and you’re always complaining about the old clothes cluttering up the closets. Those would make a great start for a wardrobe department.”

“And what about the fact that this house also happens to be my workplace?”

Ugh. Okay, so maybe I hadn’t thought it all out. I was so excited about the theater that I hadn’t even considered the fact that my mom ran her own PR consulting business, which, after I was born, she’d relocated from a giant skyscraper in New York City to the paneled den space just off our living room. She even had a separate entrance for clients so they wouldn’t have to come through the house for meetings.

“Maybe your clients wouldn’t mind,” I offered lamely.

“They pay for my professionalism,” Mom said gently. “And I don’t think I’d be able to get much work done, let alone hold any meetings with a hundred singing, dancing middle schoolers traipsing around the house.”

I brightened. “You really think I’m going to get a hundred people to join my theater?”

Mom sighed. “That was just a ‘for instance,’ Anya,” she said, handing my dad her cell to get him up to speed via Susan’s tweet. “And it doesn’t matter what size turnout you get. The point is, you simply can’t have a children’s theater in my place of business.”

“So, you’re saying even though Austin and Susan and I have spent the entire afternoon making plans, we can’t have a theater?”

“She’s not saying you can’t have a theater,” Dad clarified. “She’s saying you can’t have a theater here.”

Same thing. I needed a place to have rehearsals and perform the show. If my own house was off-limits, that meant I was pretty much out of venue options. I turned a hopeful look to Austin.

“Sorry,” he said. “My little sisters are two and four. They take naps. My parents would never agree to having a theater in our house.”

“How about we take a look at the parks and rec summer program brochure,” Dad suggested. “Maybe they’re offering a theater camp you can join.”

“No!” I sprung up from the porch step, feeling a lump forming in the back of my throat. “You don’t understand. I want to do this. . . . I need to do this! No kid in our town has ever done anything like this before. Maybe no kid in any town has ever done it! I want to put on this play more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life!”

Mom and Dad did that parent-telepathy thing where they only had to exchange one glance and each knew what the other was thinking.

Unfortunately, so did I. They were thinking no.

Suddenly I needed to get out of there.

“Come on, Austin,” I said, going down the steps. “I’ll walk you home.”

But I wasn’t actually walking; it was more like a very furious stomp.

We were all the way to the end of Random Farms Circle when Susan caught up to us.

“Anya, wait!”

I slowed from a stomp to a heated walk. But I was too upset to stop moving entirely.

“I asked Mom if we could have rehearsals in the backyard,” she said, panting to catch her breath. “She said it might work as long as we stay outside and as far from her office window as possible.”

“That might not be so bad,” said Austin.

“And what if it rains?” I grumbled. “And what happens when someone needs to use the bathroom?”

“Maybe no one will,” said Susan, trying to be helpful.

I rolled my eyes. “Susan, sooner or later someone’s going to have to use the bathroom.”

We walked on in grim silence until we reached the next block, where the old neighborhood association clubhouse stood behind a tangle of overgrown rhododendron and climbing vines. The grumpy groundskeeper, Mr. Healy, was there, pulling up dandelions.

“Don’t know why I have to bother keeping up a place nobody uses,” he muttered, yanking a weed and tossing it over his shoulder. “Waste of time, if you ask me.”

“Who’s that?” Austin whispered.

“Mr. Healy,” Susan whispered back. “He takes care of all the common spaces in the neighborhood. He’s kind of grouchy.”

We watched Mr. Healy jerk another dandelion out of the earth and fling it into the growing pile behind him.

“Doesn’t seem to enjoy his job very much,” Austin noted.

“Can’t blame him,” I allowed. “Nobody’s used the clubhouse in years. It seems silly to bother keeping it tidy.”

“The older ladies in the neighborhood are always complaining that it’s an eyesore,” said Susan. “That’s why the president of the Neighborhood Association insists that Mr. Healy keep the place neat.”

I gave my sister a sideways look. “How do you know this?”

“Don’t you ever listen when Mom talks to Mrs. Quandt next door?”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “Because I’m not a spy.”

“I’m not a spy either!” said Susan. “I just like to stay in the loop.”

Despite my gloomy mood, I had to smile.

As Mr. Healy continued to attack the yellow weeds and chuck them over his shoulder, my eyes went to the enormous old clubhouse building behind him. It was a giant barn with fading red paint and white trim around the large paned windows. In spite of its shoddy appearance, I could see that the building was still sturdy.

I had been inside only once, six years ago. Just before the Neighborhood Association had closed the clubhouse’s doors for good, they’d used it to host an old-time ice cream social on the Fourth of July.

I could still picture the interior: a big wide-open space with great light and a tall ceiling. The contractor who’d built our subdivision had done a great job of turning it from a barn into a gathering spot. He’d added restrooms, electricity, and even a stage.

A stage! Complete with a PA system, which came in handy because somehow they’d wrangled Mr. Healy into reading the Declaration of Independence in a Thomas Jefferson costume.

There was even an old upright piano, on which one of the older neighborhood girls had played “Yankee Doodle.”

Thinking back, that whole delightful day was just like a scene out of The Music Man.

Without warning, an idea hit me. An idea that seemed to announce itself as loudly as . . . as . . . seventy-six trombones!

“Ye Gads!” I cried.

“Anya,” said Austin, narrowing his eyes, “Why are you quoting The Music Man?”

I didn’t answer him.

Because I’d already taken off across the clubhouse lawn, heading straight for Mr. Healy.

Ten minutes later I returned to the curb where Austin and Susan were waiting for me, looking totally baffled.

“What was that all about?” Austin asked.

“Just a little business deal,” I said, grinning. “We’re going to rent the clubhouse as our theater venue.”

Austin blinked. Susan’s mouth dropped open.

I giggled. “Okay, well, not rent, exactly. More like barter. See, I told Mr. Healy that I . . . actually we . . . would be glad to take over all the clubhouse landscaping duties in exchange for being allowed to use the barn for our theater rehearsals and performance. I told him we’d clean up the inside, too.”

“Anya, that’s brilliant,” said Susan.

Austin was shaking his head in amazement. “You really are an expert producer. This place will be perfect. And cutting the grass and sweeping out the inside is a small price to pay.”

“Well, there is one slight problem,” I said, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my shorts.

“How slight?” asked Susan.

“Mr. Healy says it’s all right with him, but he doesn’t have the final say.”

“Who does?”

“The president of the Neighborhood Association does.”

“Ugh.” Susan, who was “in the loop,” understood immediately why this constituted a problem.

“I don’t get why that’s an issue,” said Austin, his eyes shooting from me to Susan then back to me. “Who is the president of the Neighborhood Association?”

“Dr. Ciancio,” I said, letting out a long rush of breath. “Sophia’s father.”