Someone started tuning a violin. Someone else started singing over them. A child ran across the stage chasing anescaped rabbit, which was now hopping confidently toward the chairs.
I took control because there was nothing else to do.
“Everyone,” I said loudly. “We’re going to reset.”
No one listened.
I climbed onto a chair and turned on the microphone.
“We are rehearsing in order,” I said, projecting the way Lucy did when she meant business. “If you are not scheduled, you wait. If you did not bring equipment you listed, you improvise. If you brought equipment you did not list, you will not use it today.”
A man raised his hand. “What about the fog?”
“No fog,” I said firmly.
He looked wounded.
“Please be respectful of the other acts and quiet while they perform.” I pointed to the kazoo player. “You’re first.”
The kazoo player beamed.
Mr. Humphreys applauded again and went back to sleep.
I sat down in the front row to enjoy the rehearsal. As the first notes squeaked through the microphone, I felt an unexpected pride rise beneath the stress.
I was doing this. Not gracefully, and not perfectly, but I was standing in the middle of it, making decisions, redirecting chaos into something resembling order. People were looking at me for answers, and I had them. Or I made them up fast enough that it didn’t matter.
By the time Lydia returned with a bag of batteries and a dramatic story about the hardware store clerk, I had reorganized the schedule twice, confiscated a tambourine, and convinced the tap dancers to share the stage.
Lydia watched me for a moment, surprised. “You’re good at this.”
I snorted. “I’m surviving.”
She tilted her head. “I thought you liked organizing events.”
I hesitated, then shook my head. “I like helping. That’s different.”
She nodded slowly, something thoughtful flickering across her face. “I didn’t realize.”
Neither had I.
The rehearsal stumbled forward, messy and loud and somehow still standing. We found the magician’s reluctant bunny, only one person fell off the stage and was thankfully unhurt, and remarkably no one had stage fright.
The day finally dissolved into exhausted goodbyes, my feet ached and my head buzzed like I had spent the afternoon inside a drum. I locked up the community center with Marjorie hovering cheerfully behind me and Mr. Humphreys offering to carry a chair he absolutely did not need to carry.
“You did wonderfully,” Marjorie said as we stepped outside. “I can’t remember the last time we had so much enthusiasm.”
I watched them head off down the sidewalk, my clipboard finally tucked under my arm instead of clutched like a life raft. I should have gone straight back to the inn. There were lists to revise and emails to send and Lydia to debrief before she rewrote the entire evening as a personal triumph.
Instead, I turned toward the town’s sports complex.
The place was already loud when I walked in. Music played faintly over the speakers, something cheerful and tinny, and the sound of skates scraping ice echoed through the open space. Kids darted past the boards in bright helmets and puffy coats, some confident, some clinging to the edge like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
Eva spotted me immediately and waved me over, her smile wide and welcoming. “Perfect timing, we’re rotating stations.”
“I was just coming to watch,” I said, suddenly aware of how tired I was.
“That’s fine,” she said easily. “Watching turns into helping around here.”
