We went through the last lesson, repeating so that she could remember what to do for practicing before building further on what she learned.
Kitty looked up at me then, and I saw the exhaustion behind her effort. It was not dramatic exhaustion. It was the kind that lived in the way her shoulders sat and the way she blinked a little too slowly.
“How much have you taken on with the talent show?” I quietly asked.
Kitty let out a long breath. “A normal amount, I guess.”
“That’s not an answer,” I said.
She hesitated, then reached for the folder and pulled it closer. “Talent show forms, scheduling notes, committee messages… Plus a list of things Lydia volunteered me for.”
“She volunteered you?” I questioned.
Kitty’s mouth curved in reluctant amusement. “She meant well.”
I wondered why her sister didn’t do it herself instead of volunteering Kitty.
Kitty gave a small laugh, then tried to shut the folder but pages spilled out.
I reached over and caught a few pages before they hit the floor. One listed an act assurprisein bold letters. Another had been stamped with an inked star and the wordsapproved.
Kitty took the papers from me, cheeks warming. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I murmured.
“I’m organizing the talent show,” she said, voice turning practical as she forced herself into task mode. “Right now we have too many acts and not enough clarity.”
“I can help with that,” I found myself saying, and I realized I meant it.
Kitty looked up sharply. “You can?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I want to be clear about what that means. I’m not going to be on stage. That’s still a hard boundary for me. But I can handle sound. I have all the equipment and I can make sure nothing screeches and ruins someone’s solo.”
Relief crossed her face so quickly it made something in my chest tighten. She had been holding so much alone, I realized.
“That would be amazing,” she said.
“I can also help you with the flow of the show,” I replied. “We start with a list. We can figure out what kind of acts you have, then decide what equipment each act needs and group thosetogether. We build a run-of-show template with buffer time so you’re not feeling rushed.”
Kitty smiled, genuine now. “Thank you. I would really like that.”
I pulled a notepad and pen from beneath the counter and set it between us. “Tell me what you have. Musical acts first.”
Kitty flipped through her papers. “There are lots of singing acts. One kid with a violin. A group that wants to do carols but in harmony, which feels ambitious.”
“Okay,” I said, writing quickly. “Anything with music tracks?”
She frowned. “Possibly. And one man who wrote ‘emotional silence’ on his form.”
I paused. “What does that even mean?”
Kitty let out a short laugh, then covered her mouth like she was surprised by it.
“Good,” I said. “Laughing is allowed.”
She lowered her hand, still smiling faintly. “I can’t tell if he’s serious.”
“He might be,” I said, and kept writing. “If you have enough acts, I would tell him he has to audition, then if you don’t like it you can axe him from the show.”
