Curtain Up Read Online Free PDF

not a spy.”
    â€œI’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 socialon 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!
    â€œ Ye Gads! ” I cried.
    â€œAnya,” 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.
    â€œWhat was that all about?” Austin asked.
    â€œJust 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.”
    â€œAnya, 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.”
    â€œWell, there is one slight problem,” I said, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my shorts.
    â€œHow slight?” asked Susan.
    â€œMr. Healy says it’s all right with him, but he doesn’t have the final say.”
    â€œWho does?”
    â€œThe president of the Neighborhood Association does.”
    â€œUgh.” Susan, who was “in the loop,” understood immediately why this constituted a problem.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œDr. Ciancio,” I said, letting out a long rush of breath. “Sophia’s father.”

The next morning I hurried downstairs, eager to talk to my sister. It had taken me forever to fall asleep the night before, since my mind was reeling with ideas for the theater. At midnight Austin had texted me (a boy texting in the middle of the night? How cool was that?) to let me know he’d been working on the revue from the minute he’d gotten home. I texted back that he just might be the most dedicated playwright in the history of the universe. I got a smiley face in response.
    I finally dozed off only to wake up again at three in the morning in a complete panic. What if, despite Susan’s