“The Bard” was Shakespeare. Calhoun’s father loved quoting him.
Set decoration? I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. Mostly I was just flabbergasted. I had no interest in being a “crowning glory,” whatever that was, especially not onstage, and especially not while wearing the shimmertail—which was currently banished to the back of my closet, where it couldn’t remind me of last night’s disaster.
“Of course she’ll do it,” said my father, pinning me with his steely-eyed gaze. The message couldn’t have been clearer: This was to be my punishment.
“Wonderful!” said Dr. Calhoun, rubbing his hands together happily. “Rehearsal starts tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock sharp at the Grange. I’ll see you there!”
My father closed the door behind him as he left, then turned to me, looking pleased with himself. “A little community service never hurt anybody. After all, if I’m not mistaken, it was Gilbert and Sullivan who came up with the phrase ‘let the punishment fit the crime.’ ”
“Yes, but that was The Mikado, J. T., not The Pirates of Penzance,” Aunt True told him, emerging from the kitchen just then. She and my mother had been deep in conversation about wedding plans since breakfast. “And for the record, I think Truly has been punished enough.” She crossed the hall and put her arm around my shoulders. “If she doesn’t want to perform, she shouldn’t have to.”
I shot her a grateful look, but I could tell by the way my father’s jaw was set that his mind was made up. Like it or not, I was going to be in The Pirates of Penzance.
CHAPTER 24
“Welcome, players! Come in, come in!” Dr. Calhoun flung open the door to the Grange.
My friends and I filed inside, along with all the other kids who’d gotten parts in the play or who were there, like me, to work behind the scenes. It was hotter indoors than out, thanks to another July scorcher of a day and the Grange’s lack of air-conditioning. Overhead, an anemic ceiling fan was straining to stir up a breeze.
I looked around curiously. I hadn’t been here since I was younger and Gramps and Lola had brought my brothers and sisters and me to see a production of The Sound of Music. “Shabby” was probably the kindest word I could think of to describe the Pumpkin Falls Grange. It was a wonder the place hadn’t been condemned. In addition to the garden-variety old building issues—creaky floorboards, peeling paint, cobwebs on the light fixtures, moth-eaten curtains on the stage—there were more serious problems. Some of the glass panes in the dusty windows were cracked, there was a bird’s nest in the rafters overhead, and I could actually see daylight through a hole in the roof.
“Ella Bellow is right—this place is a dump,” said Cha Cha in a raspy stage whisper.
Calhoun’s father pursed his lips. “It is somewhat lacking in charm,” he admitted, “but as the Bard says, ‘The play’s the thing.’ And once our stage crew weaves their magic, I guarantee you that by opening night these humble surroundings will be transformed and the audience will be transported.” He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, as if seeing it in his mind’s eye already. “And in this case, we’re going to transport everyone to the 1950s!”
This stirred a ripple of interest.
“I was inspired by last week’s film festival,” Dr. Calhoun explained. “I had been thinking to myself, What can we do to present Gilbert and Sullivan in a fresh new way?—and there was my answer! Instead of nineteenth-century Cornwall, we’ll give them midcentury modern, complete with malt shops, poodle skirts, and bobby socks.”
I had no idea what he was talking about. And from the looks of it, neither did any of my friends.
Dr. Calhoun had us divide up into our respective groups—actors, costumes and makeup team, and stage crew. Mr. Henry, Lucas’s mother, the Farnsworth sisters, and a few other people I didn’t recognize were helping with costumes and makeup. The stage crew consisted of me, Lucas, and three “old hands,” as they called themselves: Bud Jefferson, Elmer Farnsworth (who may have been hard of hearing but who apparently was a whiz with a hammer), and Belinda Winchester.
“I’ve been working stage crew since 1963,” Belinda told Lucas and me. “Same year that ‘Surfin’ USA’ was on top of the charts.” She popped an ear bud in and hummed along to the Beach Boys as Dr. Calhoun started taking roll call.
My eyes slid over to the wooden bench along the wall, where Augustus Wilde was seated with his laptop perched on his knees. Wherever Belinda went these days, Augustus went too, so it looked like we were getting him as a kind of bonus. Or mascot, more likely. I doubted he’d be much help when it came to actual work—at the moment he was ignoring us completely. He frowned at his laptop, typing furiously. Augustus was on a deadline for his new novel.
“Where’s my Frederic?” Dr. Calhoun called, and Calhoun held up his hand. “Ah, there you are, R. J. How about Mabel?”
Cha Cha raised her hand too, and Dr. Calhoun checked her off on his clipboard.
“Major-General Stanley?”
Hatcher, who was seated next to Cha Cha, jumped up and saluted, which got a laugh.
“And Ruth, Frederic’s nanny”?
Calhoun’s sister Juliet waved from the back of the room. “Hi, Dad!”
Her father smiled and waved back, then checked her name off too.
I noticed that Chanda Patel, my new piano teacher, was the accompanist. She was about Aunt True’s age, with dark hair and eyes, and a shy smile.