Musical moppets: kids onstage.

It's 6:45 on a rainy autumn evening, and Kathryn Zaremba has just reported for work. She scampers up a staircase to the balcony of New York's Variety Arts Theatre and perches restlessly on the arm of a chair. For the mement, with her purple sweatsuit, mouthful of chewing gum, and impish grin, she looks exactly like what she is--a bright-eyed, just-turned-ten-year-old who likes dogs, cartoons, and Michael Jackson.

But within minutes a haridresser yells up from the stage, and Kathryn dashes off. When she next appears, promptly at eight, in her trademark red dress and dyed-red curls, she's Annie Warbucks, star and namesake of New York's hottest off-Broadway musical. Center stage for much of the two-hour show, Kathryn looks as if there's no place she'd rather be. She sings with the heft of Bette Midler, dances with the enthusiasm of Liza Minnelli, and sparkles like Shirley Temple. And she knows precisely how to zero in on the heartstrings. When the first act closes, leaving Kathryn's tiny Annie alone in a railroad yard, there's hardly a dry eye in the audience.

"She like a force of nature," murmured a man seated nect to me at thge show. The critics agreed, deeming Kathryn Zaremba "a giant in the talent department" (the New York Times) and "an infant phenomenon" (the New Yorker). Martin Charnin, the show's diector and lyricist, summed up performing abilities in a single word: "frightening."

All this has made Kathryn, who stands four feet tall and weighs forty-seven pounds. the kid of the moment, the toast of the New York theater world. In fact, the last kid to kick up this kind of excitement was probably Andrea McArdle, who created the title role in the original production of Annie back in 1977. Besides its legacy as one of the most successful musicals in Broadway history--it ran for 2,377 performances, won seven Tony Awards, and earned a profit of between $20 and $30 million--Annie has become the preferred starter show for scores of baby belters, from film actress Sarah Jessica Parker, one of the four Broadway Annies, to countless stage-struck preteens in community theaters. Small wonder a sequel has been in the works since 1983.

But Anne Warbucks is not the only juicy role this season for the under-fifteen set. The show, which continues the Depression-era adventures of the plucky comic-strip orphan who is adopted by the richest, and baldest, man in America, features a full house of moppets--six in all--who sing, emote, and, when called for, bump and grind. Kids also play prominent roles in several current Broadway shows, including Tommy, Les Miserables, and Miss Saigon. And if the new musical version of Paper Moon, based on the 1973 Tatum O'Neal film, finally makes it to Broadway, some precocious talent could find herself giving interviews, posing for mazine covers and signing autographs at F.A.O. Schwarz, just Kathryn Zaremba.

Acting is one of the few professions open to children, and though kids with nerve and ambition may be eager to strut their stuff, many adults still quake at the notion of show-biz kids. Grown-ups, after all, tend to think of disrupted school days, missed Scout meetings, and Hollywood horror stories about all those youthful performers, from July Garland to Jay North, whose early careers seemed to scar them for life. Mama Rose may come to mind--hardly an inspiration for prospective stage parents. Being a child star is also no guarantee of an adult acting career; for every Jodie Foster, there's a Brooke Shields. And rejection, at least some of the time, is the cold reality for any kind on the audition circuit. Nearly a thousand little girls tried out for the seven roles in the current production of Annie Warbucks. Not every eleven-year-old is as thick-skinned as a congressional candidate.

Still, talk to the Annie Warbucks kids, and you'll learn there's nothing as much fun as playing to a live audience five nights and three afternoons a week. "If they gave me a week off, I'd be restless," says Missy Goldberg, a self-assured twelve-year-old who plays Pepper, a mischievous orphan. "I worked on Rosh Hashanah." Tiny Jackie Angelescu, a lively ten-year-old who plays C. G. Paterson, is even more succinct. "I love being out there," she says, pointing to the stage. "I like having people see me and clap."

Talk to the mothers, who accompany their daughters to each performance, and you'll hear pride with a touch of bemusement: They're thrilled that their daughters are on a big New York stage even if they still can't quite believe it. Talk a bit more, however, and you'll learn just how disruptive having a kid in an off-Broadway show can be for a family. It can mean giving up a job, as most of the Annie Warbucks mothers have, to ferry a child to an from the theater for each performance. (Several moms work as ushers, since they don't get complimentary seats for each performance.)

if can mean a forty-five-minute commute each way from Brooklyn of New Jersey, longer when the traffic's bad, or a move to New York from another state. It can mean drafting grandparents to stay homw with the other children or bringing younger kids to the show every night. It usually means tutors or transferring the kid with the budding career to a professional children's school, which can be expensive,

And, inevitably, it means Mom stays up late. "I find myself doing laundry at 3:00 A.M.," says Sheryl Goldberg, Missy's mother. Does she mind? Not a bit. "I'm enjoying this," she says. "I'll go back to my job when this is over."

For a prospective child performer, the business of getting roles is pretty clear-cut. You get a manager. You go to auditions. You learn to say the same line four different ways. And you memorize the words to "Tomorrow" if you're up for a role in Annie. After that, it helps to have stamina, discipline, and boundless energy. "We hire children who are very quick and bright," says Annie Warbucks choregrapher Peter Gennaro who also choregraphed the original Broadway production of Annie.

Indeed, only one of the Annie Warbucks kids had studied dance, but that didn't hamper Gennaro. "I had to teach some of them to dance, but I got what I wanted," he says of the rambunctious bump-and-grind that's become an Act I showstopper. "They're supposed to look like orphans, not as if they're in a chorus-line number. If'd had School of American Ballet kids it would have been all wrong. They'd point their feet and stand around in Fifth Position."

Once you're cast, you learn the fine points--never to eat sugary foods before a performance ("They make kids hyper," says Missy) and to avoid snacks of chocolate or cheese, which can coat your throat, during a show. And you learn to do homework betweeen scenes--no big deal, according to jackie. And while desire is a greater motivation than money for most kids, you can expect $900 a week, the current union rate for kids and adults, a nice little college nest egg.

You also make new friends. Even if you're the only child actor in a show, you're never alone because there's always your understudy. But Annie Warbucks has so many children, they rate their own dressing room, where they hang, out together, play cards, and, once in a while put out a cast newspaper. Their moms have grown friendly as well, and occasionally they compare notes.

"I haven't the slightest idea where she got this," says Sheryl Goldberg, referring to Missy's acting ability. Sheryl and her husband, who are both teachers, live in Brooklyn with their three children. Neither of them ever wanted to perform. Still, when a dancing school teacher told them Missy's older brother had talent, then took him to auditions. Missy went along, discovered she loved performing, and, eventually, picked up the title role in a ten-month world tour of Annie. "When we were learning about China in school," Missy recalls, "I said, "I've been there.'" To be precise, she's performed in forty-five states and four countries, including Malaysia, where she sang for kids "in real orphanages."

The downside has been in her personal life, which has suffered a bit. Her friends in Brooklyn, apparently jealous of her success, have drifted away. She's happier this year, having transferred to the Professional Performing Arts School, where classmates include Daisy Eagan, from the musical The Secret Garden, and "the boys who was in Conversations with my Father," as Missy puts it. Living near Manhattan also has helped her career. She's done voiceovers and commercials, and, between the ages of eight and ten, she did announcement on a Saturday-morning cartoon show on television. "The money is in TV," Missy confides, "But theater is fun."

When she was five, Jackie Angelescu announced that she wanted to become a famous actress. Her mother, Sarina, who acted briefly in her native Romania, was delighted but not particularly surprised. "All Romanians are theatrical," she explains. Sarina signed up Jackie for lessons in every imaginable art--ballet, tap, jazz dance, gymnastics, voice, ice skating. At nine, Jackie played Molly in a touring production of Annie, an experience she adored. Less fun was filling in for the show's understudy for two weeks. She didn't make it on stage once, but she learned to be a good trouper. "The understudy has to understand she probably won't get to go on," Jackie says. "But she also can't wish for the person playing her part to get sick."

"There's no way you can push a child," Sarina declares, noting that her older daughters simply weren't interested in performing. "So I didn't push them. They have to love it. It can be very tough. I know Jackie's going to get hurt sometimes," she adds with a sigh, as her youngest girl looks up at her and smiles. Sarina shrugs. "She wants it, and she's touggh enough to put with the rejections."

Both of Terrie Zaremba's daughters are in Annie Warbucks, which still atonishes and delights her. Besides Kathryn, fourteen-year-old Elisabeth appears as an orphan. "I look up at the stage and I'm amazed," Terrie says. She seems only slightly less incredulous as she describes Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, near Tulsa, where the girls grew up. Thery sang in the church choir, and Elisabeth did a bit of regional theater. Then in 1992 the sisters appeared together in a hign school production of Annie, which led to roles in a professional production of Annie in Tulsa. There William Berloni, a trainer working with the dog used in the the show, spotted Kathryn and contacted Martin Charnin.

After four months as an orphan in the Annie Warbucks touring company, Kathryn was cast as Molly for the New York production. Then, as fate would have it, the girl originally chosen for the title role grew too tall. Nine-year-old Kathryn, then just three feet eleven, became the youngest--and smallest--Annie ever. Elizabeth was cast as orphan Tessie, and Terrie, who is seperated from her husband, moved her girls to New York.

"The biggest shock is that we like New York," she says. "Of course, we came here on the best possible terms. This is such an opportunity for both of them. Very few children get a chance to do this, and as long as I'm here with them, I see no harm in it." Elizabeth and Kathryn attend the Professional Children's School where they have a shortened class schedule on matinee Wednesdays and start late Thursdays and Fridays, after performance nights. In between are rehearsals, voice-over auditions, and Annie Warbucks promotions, including interviews, photo opportunities, and public appearances. Kathryn also gets her light brown hair dyed red once a month at Manhattan's stylish Louis Licari Salon.

It hasn't all been a breeze, of course. Terrie misses her job-she worked for a medical computer company. Elisabeth didn't get high school with her Oklahoma friends. And Kathryn pines for her dog, a miniature schnauzer. Still, it's not exactly a hard-knock life. The Zarembas rent a roomy apartment near the theater, and Terrie attends every performance. "I go back and sit with Kathryn during intermission," she says fondly. She's still a little girl."