Backstage, a prop went missing. I pointed, redirected, handed someone else a substitute, and made a mental note to check the lost and found later in hopes of getting the item back to the owner.
Between acts, Mr. Humphrey leaned into the microphone again.
“And now,” he announced confidently, “we welcome—”
I hurried forward and whispered the correct name.
He nodded and announced the wrong one anyway.
Laughter rippled through the crowd. The performers rolled with it, bowing dramatically before beginning. What could have been awkward became a running joke.
I laughed too, though the sound came out thinner than I expected.
I cleared my throat and kept moving. I took a sip of water, swallowed carefully, and ignored the way it didn’t help.
We were almost to the intermission.
Another act finished. I stepped toward the microphone to cue the next performer since Mr. Humphreys had disappeared at some point during the last act.
“And next- ” I said.
My voice cracked, brittle and unreliable. I paused, inhaled slowly, and tried again. “And next…
Behind the judges’ table, Great Aunt Cathy leaned toward Anne, speaking loud enough to be heard by everyone. “This would be the perfect moment for someone with actual experience to step in.”
Anne stiffened.
Before I could respond, Caleb straightened from the sound board and met Cathy’s gaze calmly.
“This evening is running exactly as planned,” he said evenly, not into the microphone, but clearly enough to be heard by those nearest.
The murmurs that followed were approving.
Great Aunt Cathy looked at him sharply. “You could elevate this by performing.”
Caleb did not raise his voice. “That isn’t the goal. Tonight is everyone else’s night to be a star, even if it’s just here in Maple Ridge.”
The crowd applauded. I felt something tighten behind my eyes, a mix of gratitude and relief that made me look away for a moment.
“Please welcome Triple Threat,” I managed to squeak out into the microphone and three girls tumbled onto the stage, doing a gymnastics routine.
As the first half of the show wound toward its close, the square seemed to lean in closer, the cold forgotten in favor of warmth and shared laughter. Mistakes became features. Recoveries earned cheers. Parents beamed and took photos as children waved from the stage.
I checked the clipboard again, swallowing against the steady burn in my throat. Just one more transition before intermission. I could manage that.
I stepped up to the microphone.
“We’ll take a short break,” I began, but nothing came out.
I blinked, startled more than alarmed, and tried again. My lips moved, my throat ached, but there was no sound.
The silence stretched, magnified by the microphone. The audience shifted, confused but patient.
Heat flooded my face. I swallowed hard and tried once more to force the words. The ache in my throat sharpened into something unmistakable. I stepped back instinctively, heart pounding as the realization settled fully.
I had lost my voice..
The stage lights glared back at me. The crowd waited. The show was only halfway through.
