Page 10 of Rules for Second Chances

“Tell me what I need to do to fit, and I’ll learn it. Like I learned the rest of the job.”

He shakes his head. “Leaders are born, not made.Naturallydynamic, supportive, positive. They’re idea machines. The life of the office party. On the golf course Saturdays, networking. They’re not spreadsheet types. Not that there’s any shame in that.”

His tone implies thereisshame in that. But I didn’t order a special sweat-proof undershirt (and pay double for overnight delivery on a weekend) to back down now.

“All I need is a chance to demonstrate my, uh, relevant skills. That I will learn. And that I already have. In this area of skills.”

That isn’t atotallie. Sure, I don’t talk in meetings, but I’ve golfed. Okay, mini-golfed. And maybe I’ve skipped a lot of office happy hours, but I’ve never missed West by North’s annual corporate retreats, where the pitch competition is held. Never mind that I glued myself to Tobin and relied on his sparkle.

Just the thought of my husband—my ex-husband? Oh no, that’s not better—makes my eyelids tingle with a horrible threat of tears. My tear ducts are betrayers at the best of times, sometimes triggering when I’m not even sad. And today I’m so sad I bawled all the way from Eleanor’s school to work, drowning out a song ironically titled “What Makes Rain.”

Tears are a promotion killer at this company. There is no crying in wilderness tourism. I take a pretend sip from my empty mug, then fake a coughing fit to explain away my red eyelids.

Craig’s eyes narrow, his gaze darting to my tissue-chapped nose. “Take the day if you’re sick, Liz.”

“I have allergies.” I do, although these are not them.

He resumes breathing. “Why don’t you throw your hat into the pitch competition if you want a promotion? But if you’d like to develop your leadership skills in the lead-up to the retreat, everything we just discussed should do it.”

“Everything…?” I ask, dismayed, before switching to a confident “I mean, yes. Everything. Very good.” Networking, and positivity, and golf, all in the eight weeks before the pitch competition? And ideas, when Craig’s always hated mine?

What have I done?

“And! This reminds me.” He rummages through his desk. Oh, god, there’smore?

He hands me a brochure titledGrey Tusk Community Centre: Spring-Summer. “Naheed pitched me a fantastic idea. He teaches improv comedy. He wants to add an improv segment to our leadership skills training at West by North to develop flexibility and quick thinking in our management team. His evening class starts next week. You should sign up.”

“Oh.” I scan the brochure. Our standard leadership training happens on company time. “Three hours a week for eight weeks? Would I clock this as overtime?”

“This is for your personal development, on your own time, Liz. Unless you’d rather not?”

“No,” I say quickly, noticing my demotion from Lizzeroni to Liz. “I’m excited to take on any kind of leadership opportunity.” Deep down, Craig’s not a bad person. He’s just single-minded inpursuing his goals. West by North is constantly outrunning our shaky bottom line, trying to find the breakout tour that puts us on a level with the likes of Keller.

He claps his hands together in satisfaction. “Excellent talk, Lizzeroni. Carry on. See you at the pre-pitching meeting.”

Terror smacks me across the mouth. I forgot the pre-pitching meeting, where the field of hopefuls gets narrowed to three, is a month away. Andimprov comedy?! Fuck. I’m doomed.

But he’s giving me a recipe for success, like Naheed did for David. If I wasn’t sure before, I am now: magic has a formula, and I can replicate it.

I scuttle back to my desk to enact my plan B: plowing through leadership books and assembling the ingredients for a big batch of magic.

Chapter Four

There is no such thing as a “bad idea” in improv. Players take each other’s ideas—no matter what they are—and make them work.

—Truth in Comedy

Somehow, I thought the Grey Tusk community center would smell different at night. In my imagination, its eternal scent of crafting supplies and little-kid sweat gave way to an erasers-and-coffee vibe that would permit people a smidge of dignity during Improv for Beginners, which might as well be called A Cry for Help.

“Your voice sounds like you’re hitting turbulence over the Himalayas. You should try to get your pulse under a hundred. If possible.” Stellar’s calling me from her tiny clinic near a hard rock–mining town in Alberta. “That does not constitute medical advice, by the way, for the purposes of my malpractice insurance.”

Stellar and I have been best friends since she fed me a pickupline at a university keg party. Something about every medical student having a fantasy of rumpling a hot, starchy librarian.

The next morning, post-hookup, she rolled over in my dorm room bed, scary-cute with her pixie undercut and chiseled arms, like a chipmunk with filed teeth.

“Look at you, Liz. You’re smart, you’re talented, you’re even hotter when you’re messy. I almost wish I did relationships. Just this once, I’m gonna be late to study group and buy you a coffee.”

She mainlined a vat of Americano, black, and told me about the time she disastrously hennaed her pubes. I sipped chai and let her prod me into spilling the story of attempting to sexy-walk past a crush, tripping over a garbage can, and going down in a storm of trash.

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