Page 63 of The Cul-de-Sac War

Luke, who preferred the millennial man-bun look, eyed the property. “So this is the notorious Evie’s house. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of this place.”

Bree frowned, and Luke amended, “And your house.”

She motioned to the cleared front porch. She had meticulously moved every pot and plant to the yard. Thankfully this was not a typical Virginia April, when the sky eked out one final, surprise blizzard before giving in to green trees and mossy undergrowth. The sun hovered overhead, the sky rich and blue, the air a crisp fifty-four degrees.

The group looked at the freshly hand-mopped porch, the stack of water bottles, and the folded hand towels. Bree was ready.

She checked her phone again: 11:48 a.m.

They spent the next five minutes slipping on their tap shoes, warming up, and lining the porch walls with the props they’d need, mostly umbrellas and fedoras. “This is really nice,” Myra said, stretching one leg on the porch railing as if it were a ballet barre. “Built-in studio, fresh air, lots of space. Good acoustics. Man, if you’d let us, Bree, we could practice here every day.”

“Let you!” Bree practically barked. “I’d like to force you!”

Their expressions tempered her tone. “Because I’m committed to us getting cast in this play.”

“Musical,” Luke corrected.

She shook a finger at Luke. “Right. Musical.”

“Let’s be honest,” Myra said, lifting her foot off the makeshift bar. “The chances of all five of us getting a spot are pretty much nil.” She turned to Evan, the one who, amazingly enough, was even less talented than Bree. “Have you guys made plans for if you don’t get cast?”

“Why does everybody look at me when you ask this question?” Evan retorted.

“All right, guys, we don’t have time for another pity party.” Birdie released her leg from a stretch that looked debilitating. “Bree, where can we play the music?”

Bree dropped her phone on the pack of water bottles. The time now: 11:56 a.m. “My car. I’ll go turn it on.”

Birdie put her hand on her hip, her arm slender like that of a prima ballerina. She raised a quizzical brow. “Your car?”

“Yeah,” Bree called behind her as she stepped off the porch. “The stereo will be perfect.”

Birdie moved to the railing. “Won’t that be too loud for the neighbors?”

Bree waved away her question. “Stonewall Heights couldn’t be more loyal to the Barter. They’ll probably all come and watch in support. It’ll be like a free show for them.”

Bree threw her car door open just as Russell, again, jumped out from behind the car and started barking.

Even at this distance Bree heard the group take in a breath, several hands flying to their chests at the sight of the murder dog.

Bree turned the key and pressed Play. Then lowered all four windows, releasing the music from its captivity.

“Perfect,” Birdie said, giving her a thumbs-up as the group began to move into formation.

Bree cranked up the volume to the max.

Birdie shouted something back, but Bree could only read her lips as the music poured through the neighborhood like a flood. She jumped out of the car, walked around to the back, and popped open the trunk. There, two fat subwoofer speakers plucked straight from the 1990s took up every square inch of trunk space. The world was completely overcome with the music of “Singin’ in the Rain.” No other sound could compete. Not the birds on the electric lines overhead, who were flying away en masse. Not the chickens clucking and clamoring to get inside their henhouse. Not the enormous beast of a dog who had turned tail and run toward the backyard. She smiled at the speakers like they were her newborn twins.

She put raging tailgate parties to shame.

The cast had taken to shaking umbrellas at her to get her attention, but she just kept smiling blissfully.

Why?

Because it was 12:01 p.m.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

“Are you sure it’s not too loud?” Birdie shouted into Bree’s ears as she hopped back up on the porch and took her place in the back of the group. Bree shook her head, her slap-happy grin glued to her face.