Caleb joined us a moment later, his gaze flicking over my face with quiet concern.
“Are you okay?” he asked softly.
I tried to speak but nodded instead.
“She does this sometimes. Kitty takes on too much, then gets sick and doesn’t ask for help,” Lydia mentioned.
“It’s not always easy to ask,” Jane sympathetically replied.
“Do you still feel up to gesturing to people, with your clipboard or do you want to sit with me?” Meri questioned.
I rolled my eyes and gestured with my clipboard. I wasn’t entirely useless, I decided.
The intermission passed in a blur. People laughed and talked, children darting between chairs while parents chatted. The judges leaned together in conversation. Great Aunt Cathy looked irritated but contained, her attention diverted by someone eager to flatter her.
When the lights brightened again, Caleb stepped back to the microphone.
“Before we continue,” he said, pausing just long enough to gather attention, “there’s something I want to say.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“This evening didn’t come together by accident,” he continued. “Every performer, every sound check, every moment that’s worked tonight happened because someone made it happen behind the scenes.”
He turned slightly, gesturing toward me. “Kitty Bennet organized this entire show. Every detail, every schedule change, and every last-minute fix.
“She’s been running this evening since before the lights came on,” he went on, his voice steady but warm, “and she’s been doing it without asking for credit or attention. “So before we continue. I think we owe her something.”
He gave me a warm smile. “Let’s have a round of applause for the real star of tonight.”
For a split second, no one moved. Then someone clapped, another joined in, then another. The sound swelled quickly, applause spreading across the square until it surrounded me completely, loud and unmistakable. People stood. Someone whistled. I saw familiar faces smiling, nodding, clapping like they meant it.
My chest tightened painfully, emotion rising fast and unmanageable. I lifted a hand instinctively, shaking my head, but the applause only grew louder.
I had no voice to deflect it. No words to minimize it. No way to make myself smaller.
So I stood there and let it happen.
Caleb met my eyes once more, a quiet question in his gaze.
I nodded.
The applause slowly faded, the crowd settling back into their seats with an energy that felt warmer, more connected than before.
“Alright,” Caleb said lightly as he turned back to the microphone. “Let’s finish the show.”
And just like that, the evening moved forward again.
But something fundamental had shifted.
For the first time in my life, I wasn’t standing at the edge of something important, watching it happen.
I was standing at the center of things and I didn’t feel invisible at all.
The rest of the show unfolded with a gentler rhythm, as if the square itself had exhaled.
I stayed near the side of the stage, wrapped in Lydia’s scarf, my clipboard resting uselessly against my hip now that my voice was gone. It was strange to be present without directing, to watch something I had shaped continue on without me steering every moment.
Caleb handled transitions smoothly, never drawing attention to himself. He announced performers clearly, thanked them briefly, and moved on without commentary.
