Free Showstopper by Lisa Fiedler Page B

behind the line, and tried again.
    I was amazed at how graceful she looked; her motions were every bit as choreographed and elegant as any dance steps I’d ever seen Mackenzie execute.
    And this time the serve was perfect. It sailed at top speed, with a fierce, slightly downward trajectory, landing with a pop against the green-painted concrete. Blondie gave her best effort but missed the ball entirely.
    Austin started applauding like mad.
    I clapped too, although with slightly less excitement.
    Becky served again; this time Blondie ran, pleats flapping, and managed to return it, but Becky was so fast and agile, she was practically a blur. Her backhand was like a lethal weapon. She scored.
    Then she scored again . She simply could not miss. She seemed to have a knack for directing the ball to whereverher rival wasn’t.
    Becky won the first game, and they switched sides. She returned Blondie’s first serve like a rocket, scoring easily.
    This went on until Becky had thoroughly trounced her opponent. Austin and I cheered, laughing as the Harrison girl offered the winner the requisite good-sportsmanlike handshake while wearing the most unsportsmanlike expression on her face.
    Becky came right over to us, grinning broadly. It was hard to tell whether she was smiling because of her victory . . . or because of Austin.
    â€œI guess you were my good luck charm,” she said.
    â€œHappy to help,” Austin replied.
    I cleared my throat to remind them I was there. When I had their attention, I congratulated Becky, then took a step toward my bike. “We should get going. We’ve still got to put the finishing touches on the cast list,” I said.
    â€œOh, that’s right!” said Becky. “So what exactly is your play about?”
    I gave her a quick synopsis of the epic adventure—the war, the suitors, the unpredictable nature of mythological bad guys.
    â€œBut the real depth of the play comes from Odysseus’s longing to be back home,” Austin concluded. “With the ones he loves.”
    I gave him an eye roll worthy of Susan’s. “Don’t you think you’re overstating that love stuff a bit? I mean, the real meat of this play is the action.”
    â€œAction?” said Becky, pressing a towel daintily to her damp forehead. “What action?”
    â€œSword fights, daring escapes, hand-to-hand combat,” Austin rattled off. “I just hope it turns out to be as exciting as the action I saw on that tennis court.”
    Becky beamed. “Thank you, Austin.”
    â€œI’m not kidding,” he said enthusiastically. “I mean, if Odysseus could handle a spear the way you handled that tennis racquet, he’d be unstoppable.” Suddenly his eyes lit up. “Hey. Maybe you could be our fight choreographer!”
    â€œYour what?” said Becky.
    I frowned. But not because it was a bad idea.
    A fight choreographer is the person who designs and blocks all the physical violence in a play. Onstage scuffles may look improvised, but that was the genius of theater—every punch is planned, every attack rehearsed. This not only makes the fight scenes look better, it keeps the actors from getting unintentionally clobbered. I had to admit, after seeing Becky wield her racquet, what Austin was suggesting was actually brilliant. Her athleticism would translate perfectly into fight choreography, and it might just save us a few broken noses.
    Becky would rock the job of fight coordinator.
    So why did the idea bother me so much?
    Maybe it had something to do with the way Austin was now offering to carry Becky’s tennis bag for her. While I’d been mulling the suggestion over, he’d explained the job to Becky. Her eyes were now shining with interest.
    â€œWhat do you think?” he was asking her. “We’d work the rehearsals around your sports schedule.”
    I laughed (it sounded more like a choke). “Well, that’s not