Page 13 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

Macey

“OKAY, BUT WHAT IF WE gave the kids more structure, like a scripted play?” Verity asks, her blond ponytail swishing around as she talks. She’s wearing a T-shirt that saysCurtain Call Enthusiast, and I’m sitting across from her in her coveted, naturally sunlit office, in a chair that’s not from the 1980s (not sure how she swung that), ready to punch something.

“That’s kind of the point of the program,” I say, holding back the colorful words I’d like to add in. My face feels heated because I’m flustered. Freaking redhead skin. “To give the children the ability to write their own plays.”

You are strong. You are brave. You can do hard things, but you don’t want to. You hate this day.

As predicted, Verity is ruining my program. I really don’t want to deal with this right now. In just two days, I leave for England, and then I’ll be immersed in the life of Elizabeth Bennet. It’s just the day after tomorrow, but it feels like it’s twenty years away right now as I sit with Verity. If only I could channel some of Lizzy’s spunk. If only, like her, I hada stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others.

Instead, I remain a chicken.

Now Verity needs my help with the program I wrote before I leave on my “little fantasy adult dress-up trip,” as she so kindly referred to it. And while that is basically the truth, I didn’t like her tone when she said it.

Here’s the thing: I don’t want to help her run it. I want to run it myself. And now she’s digging her almond-shaped, sparkly, pink-painted claws into it and wants to change everything. And I am powerless to do anything about it.

Basically, she’s trying to make it like any old program we’ve done here before. She’s already changed it so there are no sets to build, like I had wanted the kids to take part in, because that can get “messy,” and she wants to add a musical number thatthey all do at the end. My program was supposed to help them branch out and learn to do things behind the scenes, giving them opportunities to grow even more. Verity’s changes do none of that.

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

Verity taps her chin with the end of a purple glitter-covered pen. Everything is glittery in her office, which, as a fellow thespian, I can totally appreciate. We all enjoy a little glitter here at Horizons. My T-shirt, which saysI Speak Fluent Stage Whisper, has been bedazzled by yours truly. It annoys me that Verity’s glittery decor gets to sparkle in actual sunlight, while my own embellishments are sentenced to a dim supply room existence, where they couldn’t catch a glint if they tried.

“I see what you’re saying,” Verity says, “but I think I’m going to go in this direction instead, since this has been assigned to me, after all, and I get the final say.”

See what I mean by the tone? If I didn’t have what I’m sure is the beginning of carpal tunnel in my wrist right now from stapling more packets of paper for Christine earlier today, I’d consider swiping Verity’s sparkly supplies off her desk.

“Got it,” is all I say.

She smiles. “Maybe you can help me find some scripts we can use?”

I should tell her no. I should tell her she can do whatever she wants with my program but I’m not going to help her change up what I worked so hard to craft.

“Sure. Happy to,” I say.

Okay, listen: I wanted to say those things, but Verity, as the program manager, technically outranks me. Christine is my direct boss, but Verity has enough sway to make my work life difficult if she chooses.

But whyyyyy did I sayHappy to? Gross, Macey.

At the end of the day, this is about the kids. That’s what is most important. So what if it’s not exactly how I want it? It’s for children to get excited about theater. They can do that even with a prewritten script and all the other things Verity has messed up. The children are what’s important here.

“One more thing,” Verity says, just as I get up to leave her office so I can probably go scream into a bolt of tulle in the supply room. I think it would be the second-best thing we have in there for muffling. Felt would have been my first preference, but we just used it for our “Felted Forest Friends” summer program—a dozen kids crafting woodland animals out of felt.

“Yes?” I ask from her doorway, ready to escape.

“I think it would be best to change this to a teen program instead of a children’s program.”

“Um ... why is that?” I ask, seeing theit’s for the childrenpep talk I just gave myself sputter and flatline right before my eyes.

“Just because it seems more appropriate for that age group, don’t you think?”

No, I do not. I don’t think so AT ALL. Teenagers don’t need this the way kids do. By the time they’re thirteen, they’ve already decided if theater is their thing. This was supposed to be for the ones still figuring it out. The ones like me, who needed that spark. But Verity has changed so much of it, I guess it really doesn’t matter at this point.

“It’s your program to run,” I say. My voice is bland, and I’m hoping she can hear the subtext beneath it, which is YOU’RE RUINING EVERYTHING, but instead, she gives me a full smile, all her pretty pearly white teeth on display, before thanking me as I walk out the door.

LATER THAT NIGHT, I STARE at a pile of laundry, still warm from the dryer, sitting on the bed of the guest room, taunting me to fold it, when Amelia walks in.

“Are you finally packing?” she asks, nodding toward the pile of clothes with a disapproving look that only Amelia can pull off. She would have had everything packed last week—neatly folded into organizer bags, of course. I like to tell myself that waiting until the last minute is part of my process—a result of all my overthinking. But the truth is I’m just a procrastinator at heart.

“I’m just thinking about what I even need to bring,” I tell her.

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