Page 61 of Just Ten Seconds

“Why wouldn’t I? I literally spent years of my life taking you to acting classes and making costumes and going to your workshops.” There’s a muffled sound as she walks around her apartment. I hear a creak of the hall closet. “This is very good actually. I’m clearing out the house, and I found a box of your stuff. I’ll send it to you.”

“I don’t need it,” I state.

“Well, it’s either that or it’s going to Goodwill.” She sounds annoyed. I hear it in her exhale.

“No. Don’t give it away. Can you mail it to me?”

“While I’d prefer you come down and get it, I suppose I could stop by the post office this week. When am I going to see you?”

Her question has me closing my eyes in indifference. While I’d love for her to come here, I know she’d criticize everything. It’s just her way. And as much as I hate it, I can’t stop it or change it about her. And going back home is out of the question. There are too many memories and too many people who know my story.

While I won’t go home, I know she won’t come here. We have a strained relationship that keeps us apart.

“Soon, Mom. We’ll get together soon.”

She doesn’t argue. Instead, she ends the call without saying good-bye. Because that’s what my mother does. She just hangs up.

I put the phone back in my bag and look up at the theater.

“Let’s do this,” I say and walk through the door.

Inside is a sweet, little, ornate stage with blue crushed velvet curtains and gold tassels. The pews are mahogany—scratched and worn from years of use, yet lacquered and well cared for, well loved. A burgundy indoor/outdoor carpet lines the aisles up to the orchestra pit.

Along the walls are past posters of My Fair Lady, Godspell, Bye Bye Birdie to name a few. I look through all of them, breathing in the years of art that have taken place in this room.

“All right, everyone, line up. That includes chorus members!” a man yells from the center aisle toward the stage where the kids are all goofing off.

I walk up next to him and tap him on the shoulder. “Hi, are you Paul?”

“Mara Williams? Mr. Kenner said you were coming by. Thanks so much for this. I can only take care of so many kids at once.” He chuckles lightly, yet from the way his eyes are darting toward the stage, I know he’s also very serious. “We usually break them up by age groups. I can work with the little ones on the musical numbers while you go over lines with the older kids.”

“And me.” Amanda enthusiastically raises her hand. “I’m playing Flounder, so I’m with the older kids.”

I give her a wave, noting the forty sets of eyes staring at me. I rub my hands down the sides of my jeans and talk to Paul, “Sounds good. Full disclaimer: I’ve never taught theater. And I’ve never worked with children before.”

“Do you have the script?” he asks.

I hold up my copy that Mr. Kenner brought by the café this week.

Paul seems to take this as a good enough answer. “We practice three times a week. The hardest part is getting the kids to remember the lines in a short time. Mrs. Needleman should be back in a week, but you know, with this measles crisis, we have to keep her away until the doctor says she’s absolutely not contagious.”

“So, just get the kids to memorize lines over the next week or two? I can do that.” I nod.

“I’ll leave the principle characters with you for the next hour, and then we’ll switch. Mr. Kenner mentioned that you were professionally trained, and you did remarkable work with Amanda. I was hoping you’d be able to bring some of that to the kids. Mrs. Needleman likes to tell the kids how to act more than show them,” he says with a genuine plea.

I open my mouth to once again say I’ve never done this before, but he halts me. “Dean said you’re the best.”

“You know Dean?” I ask, acting way too interested at the sound of his name.

Paul gives a tilt to his head. “Of course I know Dean. He’s building the set.” He lifts an arm and points to the back of the stage where Dean is standing with a tool belt around his waist and a tape measure in his hand.

“If you’ll excuse me.” I smile at Paul and make my way up the side stairs of the stage. Making a silly face, I pass Amanda, and then I walk up to her father.

Dean. Blue jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and that gorgeous Portuguese complexion. He’s holding a tape measure and a clipboard, both of which he lays on a table when I walk up to him.

I let out a sigh. “I can’t say I’m surprised you’re the man building the sets.”

His blue eyes glisten. “They said they needed someone who could build a set, and I spent the night on Pinterest.”