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She glances at the list, then puts the fingers of her free hand to her forehead, as if she’s holding a small ball against her eyebrows. Sighing the way you’d sigh if you were being very patient with someone who hardly deserves it, she says, “Mr. Ghibli finally answered the last of my seven emails yesterday, saying he’d love to have an hour or two for orchestral numbers, so I’ve rearranged the entire performance order to squeeze him in.”
She shakes the clipboard at me and says, “He wanted to know if I could seat his entire orchestra. At the same time. There.” When she points at the dais, I glance past it at Joey.
“Since it took him weeks to respond to my message, I’m not even sure he will see my reply that says, ‘Seriously? No.’ before the day of the arts show.”
I smile at her very understandable frustration. “I’ll give him a call and make sure he knows that this is a venue suitable only to small ensembles. And that he has a very stringent timeline to adhere to.” I tap the spreadsheet in my hand.
“Am I being unreasonable?” she asks, enough whine in her voice to tell me she just needs me to say that she’s not.
“I read your emails to the directors. You did a great job making it clear that this is not a full performance from any group. We’ll still have our winter and spring concerts. You were very clear,” I say again. “I’ll make sure it all goes fine.”
When she sighs again, I do the adult thing and tell her there’s not a problem. “My people are ready to do whatever you need us to do. This is going to be great.”
She looks either confused or annoyed, and I don’t know her well enough to read the expression on her face. “That’s very flexible of you,” she says, “but let me be clear. The orchestra teacher told me yesterday—as in the day before right now—that he would like to be involved.”
She looks like she wants me to acknowledge that I understand that yesterday happened directly before today. I nod.
“So you’re going to lose,” she glances at her notes, “Ninety minutes of scheduled performance time.”
I nod again.
Her tiny head-shake suggests that I’m being thick. “That means each of your slots is repeated only once. You’ll go through the whole set,” she says, pointing at her spreadsheet, “and then he’ll go through his set, and then you’ll do yours again.”
I do appreciate her clarity. “Got it.” I glance up at the top of the ladder again where Joey stands, and I want to get over there.
Dierdre scrunches up her nose in a look of confusion. “Aren’t you bothered?”
I smile at her. “That more people get to be involved in the show? No. I think it’s great.”
“Okay,” she says, dragging out the second syllable. “You’re not going to be a diva about the number of minutes your people get to be on stage?”
Why would she think that? Do I have a reputation for being a diva?
What if I have a reputation for being a diva?
I glance up at Joey again. She’s watching us with about half her attention, still perched atop that ladder. She grins at me.
Is she listening?
Maybe she’s responsible for a diva rumor. At this moment, I don’t care.
“If it would help,” I tell Dierdre, keeping my face serious, “I could throw a tantrum and demand that we bar the doors and refuse to admit anyone carrying an instrument.”
Joey laughs. She is listening. And I love that sound. I’d say the same dumb thing again just to hear her laugh again.
Dierdre is looking at me like she’s trying to puzzle me out. “Okay,” she says again.
“It is. It is absolutely okay. We’re going to have a great show. Look at all the work you’ve put in,” I say, my voice dangerously pep-talk-ish. But her brow is unfurrowing and her face is less red, so I think it’s working. “Another week of work and then it will be finished, and we will all sigh a breath of relief that we created something beautiful.” I glance at the list again and hope I’m right, because I do not want to approach this girl later and tell her something has to change.
I look again at Joey, who has her arms above her head, twisting pliers to tighten something on the wall. She must feel me watching her, because she turns and looks at me and gives me that smile.
That smile. I can only assume I’m getting it because I did not shred her favorite student to pieces over a completely expected last-second response from Lionel Ghibli. If it made her smile at me like that, I’d propose marriage to Lionel Ghibli.
I know that wouldn’t work, which is the only reason I even think it. Because no. A thousand times no.
I reassure Dierdre one more time that everything is going perfectly and walk over to Joey’s ladder.
“Looks good,” I say, determinedly keeping my gaze on the wire clips and anchors she’s working with, as opposed to her legs. Or her hands. Or her hair.
