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Clearing my throat, I remind her, “It’s expensive to stage a musical.”
Her eyebrows lower, head still shaking. “The cost of the script alone . . .”
How is she not getting dizzy?
“That is a factor in any production, Dr. Moreau,” I say, hoping she can’t hear the exasperation in my voice. I can generally control what people hear from me, because actor. And as chancellor of the school, she doesn’t need to know all the pieces of my job. Handling every detail of a student production is my business, but everything costs money. That’s how script companies stay in business. They charge me; I charge audiences. It all works out. Everyone wins.
I take a second to weigh the risks of being demanding.
Head still shaking, she speaks again. “Not if you write an original script.”
What.
What?
WHAT?
Is she serious? Or is she threatening me? Does she expect me to seek out a free script that will somehow draw a crowd? Or is she actually saying she wants us to do a production that’s untested?
I’ve finally realized that she’s waiting for me to speak. I look like a fool.
I swallow. Twice. “Dr. Moreau, are you suggesting that you’d like Chamberlain to perform a show that I write?” I hate how my voice sounds right now, weak and soft. It goes against my training and my practice. But weak and soft is all I can manage. I can’t make more sound appear. I don’t dare hope.
Moreau nods once. I’m glad I didn’t blink; I might have missed it.
I glance over at Joey to see if she’s hearing this. She has one hand to her forehead, rubbing the spot above her eye.
Moreau continues. “I am not unaware that you have talents in playwriting. You must have several projects in varying stages of completion.”
How does she know that? I mean, yes. I do. Several. But why is she aware of this?
“Bring three to me before the end of the week, and I’ll choose one to present to the Board at our September meeting. You will both attend.”
She gives another single nod. If she’d said, “That is all; you are dismissed,” it would not be clearer. This interview is over. My brain buzzes with the weight of what she said. And what she implied. Bring her three scripts before the end of the week? This week? The first week of a new semester? She knows I teach classes here, right?
I cap my pen and stand. My head swims with warring thoughts: I can do this. I cannot possibly do this. I will do this. I might die trying to do this.
Joey is saying something to Dr. Moreau, but I can’t hear her over the sound of my pulse in my ears. Moreau wants to see three original scripts. Before the end of the week.
My original scripts.
It’s impossible.
And then I think about it. Of course, it’s possible. Anything is possible. And Moreau has to know that she’s asking for something insane. When I pull it off, she won’t be able to help it. She will have to give me the position.
I feel myself stand up taller. This is a problem. And I have a winning solution. Moreau has to know she’s setting me an unrealistic task. What better opportunity to show her what I can do? I’m going to nail it.
My script in the spotlight. My work, on the Chamberlain stage.
I open the door and turn back. Both of them, Moreau and Joey, are looking at me. Great. What did I miss? I smile and hold the door open for Joey. When in doubt, play the gentleman.
Some kind of look passes between them. Joey steps toward the door.
“Thank you, Dr. Moreau,” she says.
Oh. Right. “Thank you,” I echo, knowing I sound lame. But no worries. I might sound scattered right now, but the scripts I bring her by the end of the week will rock her world. Impossible that she’ll be anything but impressed.
I close the door as we leave the office.
