A Cliché Christmas(16)

I carefully touched a dining table and chair set, thinking of the little girl who should be home playing with these, not lying in a hospital bed.

“I’m heading up to see her on Sunday. Thought maybe I could bring a couple of video clips of rehearsal to show her. It would make her happy to see what’s going on.”

“Sure. Whatever I can do for her.”

“Thank you.”

My stomach knotted at the vulnerability in his voice. I had no doubt he loved his niece, but I sensed there was something unique he shared with her.

As I turned to leave, he called my name.

“Yes?”

“If I promise to wake you up the next time you pass out on my couch, will you call me your friend?”

“You’re unbelievable.” I bit back a smile.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

I waved before walking out of the shop.

Halfway down the hall, I heard him bellow, “O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree!”

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t suppress my giggle.



Five minutes into the first rehearsal, I realized why I’d never dreamed of directing.

Half a dozen students ran around the stage aimlessly, while another few texted on their phones as if life itself hung in the balance. But the worst was the group who fought over what the ideal costume should look like for each modernized character. And those were the adults! At the center of that particular argument was Sydney Parker.

It was like watching Real Housewives of Lenox, Oregon. I realized that every one of the women who signed up to help with costume design had been a cheerleader.

Shoot me now.

When the arguing got so out of control that I could no longer hear the voices in my head, I turned to Misty and asked whether it would be appropriate for me to wear a whistle during future rehearsals. When she laughed, I took it as a sign I was in for trouble.

Finally, I stood up. “Okay, okay! I’m going to need everyone except for my cast to step out of the theater, please. We have a lot to get done here tonight.”

Sydney put her hand on her hip. “And just where are we supposed to go? We need to figure out these costumes or your cast will have nothing to wear!”

Calm down, Blondie.

“Well, why don’t you try a coffee shop or maybe one of your living rooms? You have a large house, right, Syd?”

She turned the color of Pepto-Bismol and clamped her mouth shut, glancing around nervously. “Well . . . I . . . fine. Ladies, let’s head to the coffee shop on eighteenth. I’ll buy the drinks.”

Snatching her designer purse off one of the theater chairs, she marched her crew out the side exit.

Thank God.

“All right, Mary and Joseph, please take center stage. You, there—kid with the plaid boxer briefs hanging out of his pants—please stop harassing the wise men. And . . . girl with the pink stripe in your hair, can you collect everyone’s chewing gum in a waste-basket? And for the love of all that is good and holy . . . No cell phones during rehearsal!”

Suddenly, all eyes were on me.

Fine. Good. Perfect.

Misty gave me a thumbs-up and flashed a you-tell-’em grin my way.

“Now, please open your scripts for our first read-through. We’ll do this three times tonight, and then I want this memorized by the end of the week. We have a lot of blocking and scene changes to learn. I do not want you to be fumbling with lines, understood? If you know your times tables, then you can memorize a script.”

“Um . . . not everyone knows their times tables, Miss Cole,” said boxer-brief boy in the back. Everyone laughed.

Gosh, I need to learn their names soon.

“Well, if you can memorize the script, I will memorize all your names. Deal?”

“Deal!”

Great. Who said teenagers are so hard, anyway? They seem perfectly lovely to me.

But by the third read-through, I was starting to have some serious doubts. Four weeks. No, twenty-seven days. Maybe we should just get a giant group of kids together to sing “Frosty the Snowman” and “Jingle Bells” and call it good.

This is not LA. These are not professionals.

I tried to remind myself of that fact—many times over.

“Okay, stop.” I stood and walked over to the stage, although I did not get on it.

I wasn’t exactly sure what to say, but I knew I couldn’t listen to another word without giving some kind of direction. It simply wasn’t working. My actors sounded like . . . well . . . high schoolers.

We just stood there, staring blankly at each other, waiting for a magic solution I wasn’t sure how to provide.

Um . . .

“No one sounds like they care.”

I spun around.

Weston. Naturally.

He sauntered down the center aisle, measuring tape in hand.

“Josie, pretend like you’re talking with Max whenever you have a scene with Justin. You two are supposed to be getting married. And Justin, you have to enunciate your words, bud.”

He was right. Dang it. He was so right.

I didn’t know who Max was, but given the blush on Josie’s face, he was obviously someone she had a crush on.

“Okay, Mr. James,” Justin said.

“Mary—I mean—Josie, let’s take it from page twenty-three,” I said.

They started reading again. I felt the eyes of Weston on me, but refused to turn around. Instead, I focused on the stage.