He crossed his arms.
“How about this,” he said. “You don’t tell me how to direct and I’ll let you continue to embarrass yourself with a sequence that is clearly out of your range.”
I gritted my teeth.
“I don’t want your pity choreography,” I said.
Cal sighed.
“Jesus, Kathleen,” he said. “I’m not doing this out of pity.”
I wanted to believe him.
“I can do the number,” I said. “As is.”
“You can’t,” he said.
“I can,” I said.
“There’s not enough time,” he said.
“One more try,” I said. “If I can’t get it then I’ll give up.”
Cal pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “It’s not giving up,” he said. “I’m trying to help you.”
I narrowed my eyes at him.
“That’s the problem,” I said. “I don’t want your help. I don’t want special treatment.”
Cal looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was.
“It’s not special treatment,” he said.
“Really?” I asked. “Are you changing the choreography for anyone else?”
He was silent.
“I can do it,” I said. “One more try.”
Cal pointed a finger at me. “One more try,” he said. “If it doesn’t work, then maybe you could trust me? Let me direct for once?”
I snorted. “Please,” I said. “We all know you’re the boss.”
“Sometimes I wonder,” he said.
He glanced across the room and seemed to catch the attention of Statler. Or Waldorf. I could barely tell the producers apart and just thought of them as interchangeable. Like the real Muppets.
Cal sighed.
“One minute,” he said. “And then we’re going from the top.”
“I’ll be ready,” I said.
The moment he walked away, and my indignation faded, I realized what an absolute idiot I was being. What was I trying to prove? I wasn’t in my twenties anymore. I wasn’t the workhorse I’d prided myself on being during my first decades. Why couldn’t I let Cal give me a break? Why couldn’t I accept that I needed help?
All very good questions for a therapist. I made a mental note to schedule an appointment.
The break ended and I shoved my water bottle back into my bag. Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I shook out my hands, trying to focus. I went over the choreography in my head once more, my feet tapping out a quick and dirty version of it.
I knew I could do it. I knew I could.
We took our places. Smiled. The music started.
And I missed my cue.
It was like my feet had disconnected from my brain. Not only did I not get the problem steps right, but I fucked up a bunch more. I tried to keep my gaze away from the mirror, but it was impossible to ignore the half-lame giraffe floundering in the middle.
Thankfully, every time I glanced over at the producers, they were both looking down at their phones.
It ended and I wanted to cry.
I’d never felt this way before. If anything, I was the perfectionist, the one who got things done. I’d performed with the flu, with a sore throat, with a sprained ankle, with back pain and knee pain. I’d performed after red-eye flights, after days on the road, after nights where I didn’t sleep.
That was my superpower—put me onstage and I flourished.
Not anymore, it seemed.
I’d lost the magic. Lost the part of myself that made me special. That made me worthwhile.
Cal came over, but I just stared at the floor. I couldn’t look him in the eye.
“You win,” I said, head down.
“It’s not a competition,” he said. “We’re on the same team.”
“Ha,” I said.
“Kathleen—”
“It’s fine.” I pushed my hair back and smiled, focusing on his left ear so I wouldn’t have to see my own disappointment reflected back at me from Cal’s eyes. “Just give me a moment and then we can do the new choreography.”
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I went to the bathroom, cried a single tear, splashed water on my face, and came back ready to work.
CHAPTER 14
I made it through the rest of rehearsal without a mistake. The whole thing was a blur, as I had long detached from my body and was floating above myself, buoyant with shame and embarrassment.
All I wanted was to go home, soak my muscles, and collapse onto the couch so Fish could stand on my stomach and look down at me with well-won superiority. It was late. I was exhausted and disappointed.
Thankfully, Cal was still chatting with the producers, so I was able to get out of there with nothing more than a half-wave and no eye contact. I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but most especially not Cal. It was bad enough that he had been right, I didn’t need to discuss it.
With my bag slung over my shoulder, I headed toward the elevator, already mentally running through my trip back, how many blocks, how many subway stops. Tonight it felt like I lived in the Bronx. Like I’d never get home.
I leaned up against the wall of the elevator. Usually, I’d take the stairs, but I wasn’t just physically exhausted, I was mentally drained as well. I desperately needed a good cry, but I also wasn’t in the mood for the soggy aftermath, swollen eyes, and sore throat.
The elevator doors dinged and opened.
“Fuck,” I said.
Rachel was standing there.
Does the elevator go straight to hell?
“Hello to you,” she said.
I stepped out of the elevator, expecting her to get in and leave. Instead, she just stood there and let the door close.
“How are you?” she asked.
It sounded like an innocent question, but I knew better.
“Living my best life,” I said.
It probably would have been more convincing if my voice hadn’t cracked halfway through.
Rachel’s smile was smug.
“I hope you’re enjoying your time on the production,” she said.
There was an ominous tone to her words. I didn’t say anything. Clearly there was something she wanted to tell me, and I wasn’t going to get in her way.