The Showstopper. Mary Casanova

out for rats. To the top! she told herself. We are on our way to the top!

      …

      Emerging from the stairway, Rebecca looked for Mr. Hammerstein, or someone who looked like a stage director, until a woman waving from outside the barn caught her eye.

      “Over here, girls!” the woman called. Her white puff-sleeve blouse, red corset-style bodice, blue skirt, and white apron showed off an hourglass figure. “Mr. Hammerstein told me to expect you!” She waved them closer.

      As they walked toward the barn, Rebecca looked back across the expanse of empty seats to the stage. “Mr. Hammerstein offered us supporting roles in the theater. Shouldn’t we be over there?”

      The woman’s laugh was high and breezy. “Well, you’ve got ‘supporting roles’ all right! You’re just where you’re supposed to be. I’m Flora. What are your names?”

      “Rebecca Rubin. But my friends call me Beckie.”

      “I’m Ana Rubin.”

      “Sisters,” Flora said.

      “Cousins,” Ana corrected her.

      Flora took a moment to study the girls from their boots to the crown of their heads. “You look perfect,” she said. “The question is, are you serious about chores? I can’t do all the farmwork myself.”

      Chores? As Ana nodded, Rebecca could only look down at her clunky rubber boots. She had a sudden feeling they had made a terrible mistake.

      “Do you like farm animals?” Flora continued.

      Ana’s face lit up. “I love all animals!” she said, then her face grew serious. “Except rats. I am very frightened of rats.”

      “Don’t worry,” Flora said soothingly. “You won’t be in charge of any rats here.” She put her hand on Ana’s shoulder. “You have a sweet accent. Where are you from?”

      “Russia,” Ana said, her smile widening. “We do not have farms on rooftops in Russia.”

      Flora laughed. “No, I suppose not. It’s unusual, even for New York City!”

      “But I thought…” Rebecca began. She swallowed past a growing lump of disappointment and tried again. “I thought we were going to be onstage.”

      Flora put her hands on her hips. “Everything’s a stage here, Beckie. This farm is a kind of theater. Customers come for the shows, food, and drink. That’s where I come in. They love to watch a Dutch maid milk the cow. I give them milk fresh from the bucket. They bring their children and spend hours enjoying this little piece of heaven on a summer evening. And it is your job to keep the farm tidy and in working order so that they may enjoy it.”

      Rebecca’s heart slid down a few notches. There would be, she realized, no singing or dancing, no comedy routines—only buckets and boots and boring chores. “I think there’s been some mistake,” she blurted, holding back tears. “I’d better talk to Mr. Hammerstein.”

      “No point in that,” Flora said matter-of-factly. “We may not be the Ziegfeld Follies, but we are one of the most popular stops in the city. If you want a job, this is it. Take it or leave it.”

      “We take it,” Ana said enthusiastically before Rebecca could respond.

      Flora smiled. “Good. I’ll show you around.”

      Rebecca trudged behind Ana as Flora led them through the barn, past animal pens, and alongside one of the vegetable gardens. Their work, Flora told the girls, would consist of cleaning stalls, washing out milk buckets, pulling weeds, keeping goats brushed, and making sure everything was “shipshape” before the customers arrived. When they returned to the barn, she handed each girl a broom.

      “May as well get started,” she said brightly.

      Outside the barn, Rebecca flicked her broom halfheartedly at a small clump of hay. She was working up the courage to tell Flora she was quitting when she spotted a lovely young woman approaching. The woman’s dress had so many layers of soft green fabric that it made a gentle swishing noise as she came closer.

      “Gee,” the woman said. “You look like you could be my little sister!”

      “I do?” Rebecca gazed up at the woman’s heart-shaped face and the soft tendrils of auburn hair escaping from beneath her wide-brimmed hat. That face! Rebecca would know it anywhere. “You’re Olivia Berry!” she gasped. “Prettiest Shopgirl in New York City!”

      “Shhh,” the woman said, holding a finger to her perfectly painted lips. “Call me Ollie.”

      Rebecca introduced herself and Ana. Ollie smiled, and Rebecca understood instantly why Olivia Berry had won the contest. She was pretty in a way that somehow made you feel as if you’d been friends forever and ever.

      “I’m here for my daily glass of fresh milk—for my complexion,” Ollie said, pressing her palm to her cheek theatrically. “It’s all the rage, you know.”

      Rebecca nodded, mesmerized. “I’m not sure where…” she began. Flora had said something earlier about fresh milk, and Rebecca suddenly wished she’d been paying more attention.

      “We are new here,” Ana explained.

      “Follow me, girls,” Ollie said.

      Rebecca and Ana put down their brooms and trailed behind her. Just then, Michael’s boss, Mr. O’Hara, appeared around the corner of the barn, adjusting the collar of his paint-splattered work shirt.

      “Good morning, Miss Olivia!” he said.

      “Good morning,” Ollie answered without even turning in his direction.

      Mr. O’Hara continued in a lilting voice:

      “‘Go and love, go and love, young man,

       If the lady be young and fair.’

      Ay, penny, brown penny, brown penny,

       I am looped in the loops of her hair.”

      Rebecca recognized the lines. Her teacher last year had loved to read poetry by William Butler Yeats. Mr. O’Hara’s singsong accent made the poem sound even more beautiful, she thought.

      “Lovely, Mr. O’Hara,” Ollie said, not breaking her stride. It didn’t seem to Rebecca that she meant it.

      With a flourish, Mr. O’Hara opened the door and bowed his head of red curls as Ollie passed, as if she were a queen. As he did so, a metal flask dropped to his feet. Thunk. Mr. O’Hara swept up the flask and sheepishly stashed it back in his shirt pocket as Ollie fluttered past him.

      “You’ve not seen that, girls,” he whispered. Then he gave Rebecca a wink.

      Rebecca looked away quickly. She was pretty sure that flasks like that were used for carrying whiskey and other strong drinks. Was Mr. O’Hara drinking on the job? She heard Bubbie’s disapproving voice in her head, and wondered for a moment if she should tell Michael. But as she hurried behind Ollie into the barn, she swiftly dismissed the thought. Telling Michael about Mr. O’Hara’s flask might make Michael decide their job was unsuitable for young girls. And thanks to Miss Olivia Berry, the job suddenly seemed much more interesting.

      Inside the barn, a sweet aroma rose from the hay bales stacked against the wall. On the opposite wall, a row of low windows cast soft light onto a wide ceramic sink, counter, cabinet, and icebox.

      “Hello, Flora,” Olivia said, her voice cheerful. “I’m here for my milk.”

      “Hello, Ollie,” Flora said, rising from a wooden bench. She opened the icebox, and cold air rushed out. Six pitchers of milk filled the shelves. Flora withdrew a pitcher, filled a glass from the cabinet, and handed the milk to Ollie.

      “I see you have new helpers,” Ollie said. “That’s perfect, because