Page 11 of Not Home Alone

“What? No. I can’t. Can I? Noooo. This is supposed to be my vacation. Plus, I have to be on call for my job while I’m here, so I won’t have time.”

“You have to. You’re the best, smartest, most talented director this town has ever produced, and I know you’ll love doing theater again. You need to!”

She’s right. She’s right, dammit. I’ve missed live theater so much. The organized chaos of tech rehearsals that go four hours overschedule. The strange cocktail scent of dusty old costumes, hairspray, and that very specific kind of sweat that comes from a performer’s need for validation from total strangers. Actors, doing vocal warm-ups that sound like dying barnyard animals. I’ve been trying to get my boss to let me get more creative with the events I’ve overseen for years, but… this would be my first actual gig as a director since theater school. “Okay, you’ve talked me into it. But I’m going all out on costumes and set design because I have a million ideas already.”

“Great! Your dad gave us the tiniest micro budget in the history of small-town community theater, so you have one hundred dollars total for costumes and set. Can’t wait to see what you do with it.”

“You know I love a challenge.”

“Thank god! Because the woman we had cast as Clara is going to Disney World all of a sudden, and there’s no one else to play her—so you’re it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You have to. You’re the prettiest, most talented person alive, and your skin is amazing. You’ll love it!”

“You can’t even see how amazing my skin is right now, but fine. I still know every line and stage direction by heart. Who’s the Prince? It better not be Harold.”

“It’s Harold!”

“Ugh.”

“It’s been Harold every year for the past nine years.”

“Oh my god. What is he—eighty?”

“Yes! He just turned eighty. But he’s been spry and extra sassy ever since he got that hip replacement five years ago, and you don’t have to kiss him. We cut out the kissing part whenever he’s the Prince.”

“He is such a prima donna.”

“I can already tell the chemistry is going to be off the charts.”

“I am going to direct and star in the best production of The Notcracker this town has ever seen!”

“I know! I’m so excited for us! Now tell me everything about your life in thirty-five seconds because I have to get back to Wyatt.”

Suddenly, the most heinous, evil screeching sounds start blaring from the speakers in the ceiling.

Both Joy and I scream.

It sounds like a blender full of gravel is attached to a cat in heat that’s running down a flight of stairs.

“What is happening?” my friend shouts through the phone.

“I don’t know!” Why am I constantly being attacked by music that I can’t control? That’s it. If Grant Moody is going to play dirty, then I am too. “I think Grant Moody turned on the whole house sound system,” I say. God, I hope she can hear me.

“What? Did you say Grant Moody? Is he with you?”

“He’s here at the Home Alone House, yes!” And then I whisper, “But don’t tell anyone,” knowing that she won’t hear me. And it’s not my fault she can’t hear me—it’s Grant’s!

“Shit!” she says. “Wyatt’s texting me. I’ll call you back.”

I hang up, toss my phone onto the carpet, and slowly lift myself up out of the tub. I scan the bathroom walls to see if there’s a panel in here that controls the sound system, but no. Nope. Of course not.

As I towel myself off, I pick up my phone and see that Joy has texted me.

JOY: What?

JOY: WHAT?!