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Kat

As she surveyed the picked-over cheese platter in the lobby, Kat decided that there was nothing worse than a bad musical.

A bad play was one thing. You could cover up bad writing with good acting.

But once tunes (or a lack thereof) got involved, it was impossible to hide the true quality of a work.

Suffering through a full six (six! Just in the first act!) meandering songs was a level of pain Kat had never previously imagined.

The actors were doing their best, but Kat was developing a strong suspicion that Kafka’s The Metamorphosis just hadn’t been meant for a musical format.

And she still had another act to go. Kat moved to get in line at the bar, to receive a free plastic cup of the same cheap wine that seemed to be served at every single staged reading—early performances without costumes or sets, intended to convince producers to invest in bringing the show to a real theater.

Kat had been to five since she moved to New York, some for networking purposes and some for the sole purpose of becoming a known entity in the theater scene.

She wished Jude was with her—this would be a lot more fun if they could giggle through it together.

“Miss Katrina Kelly!” Richard Gottlieb joined her in the line for the bar, greeting her with an air kiss on each cheek.

“Richard! I didn’t realize you were here.” Kat infused the lie with a healthy amount of surprised delight. “How have you been?”

“Excellent, excellent.” They accepted their plastic cups of wine, then Richard pulled her over to a secluded corner of the lobby and leaned in furtively. “What do you think of the show?”

“It’s definitely…” Kat tried to remember if Richard was friendly with the playwright or director at all. “A daring attempt.”

Richard snorted and raised his eyebrows as he sipped. “That’s certainly one way to say it. That song about being a bug? I wanted to dig my eyes out with my program.”

“No, don’t go for the eyes,” Kat said. “It’s the ears that were really assaulted.”

“True, but it’s much harder to take off an ear with a piece of paper.”

Kat nodded gravely. “Yes, but worth the effort in this case, I think.”

Richard snorted. “Oh, you’re bad!” He lifted his cup of wine. “Drink up. That’s the only way we’ll make it through the second half.”

“Cheers.” Kat held out her cup, and they clinked them together. She expected Richard to melt back into the crowd to schmooze with someone else, but instead he stayed, narrowing his eyes at Kat studiously as he sipped.

“I see you everywhere these days, don’t I?”

Kat felt a little zing up her spine. “Well, I’m really enjoying exploring the theater world.”

“Mm-hmm.” Richard sipped again. “And I suppose there are no other reasons that I happened to run into you twice a week?” He raised an eyebrow.

Kat knew what she should say. She should recite the lines Jocelyn had given her about her passion for experimental theater. But strangely, it wasn’t Jocelyn’s voice she heard in her head at this moment. It was Jude’s, saying, Why the hell not? Why not just put it all out there?

She remembered Jude in the Old Navy, saying her gut wasn’t broken, she just needed to listen to it more.

Kat always listened to Jocelyn. They strategized together, planned things out in advance. But just this once, Kat could feel her gut saying that being strategic wasn’t the right play here.

Should she listen to it? Trust herself over Jocelyn’s instructions?

She rolled back her shoulders and looked Richard in the eye. “I want the lead role in your new play.”

He didn’t look surprised. “And why should I give it to you?”

“I have name recognition and a following,” Kat said. “A dedicated one. I can send you a list of publications that have reported on me in the last month alone, and I don’t even have a movie to promote right now.”

“If you’re so famous, why do you need this part?”

“You know why.” Kat took a deep breath. Again, she was going against the Jocelyn code by admitting this and making herself seem desperate, but Richard already knew that her career was floundering.

Everyone knew it. “I need a breakout role to help transition my career. Force casting directors to see me as a serious, adult actor and not just a kid. This play can get me there. And in exchange, I can fill your theater. We can help each other.”

Richard gave her a sly little smile. He was about to say something when the lights flickered, beckoning them back to their seats.

“Well, you’ve certainly given me a lot to think about,” he said instead. He swiped two more cups of wine off the bar. “Here. You’ll need this.”

“Thank you.” Kat felt slightly stunned as she accepted the drink and followed him back into the theater.

Sitting in the dark, clutching her plastic cup, Kat barely heard a word of the second act.

Which seemed like a blessing—the song about Gregor dying went on for a truly unfathomable length of time.

Instead, she thought over her conversation with Richard in minute detail, trying to remember every single twitch of his expressions and word of his responses.

Had it gone well? She couldn’t tell. Did he think she was a pathetic failure for being honest?

Had she just blown everything that she and Jocelyn had been working toward these past few months?

What would Jocelyn say when she found out that Kat had gone rogue? What had Kat been thinking?

When the lights finally came up, to a collective sigh of relief from the audience, Kat decided to hurry out.

She didn’t want to face her failure quite yet.

Unfortunately, everyone else in the audience seemed just as determined to leave before they came face-to-face with the playwright, and so Kat found herself stuck at the back of a desperate scrum.

“Miss Kelly.” Kat’s heart sunk as Richard tapped her on the arm. “I hope you enjoyed the second act?”

They were surrounded, very likely by people who had been involved in getting this work as far as it had gotten. “Oh, very much.”

Richard’s eyes twinkled in response. He pressed something into her hand. “A souvenir, to remember this lovely night.”

Kat looked down. He’d given her his program. She started to ask him why, but when she looked up, he had walked over to a man in a velvet suit. “Isaac!” she heard him say, throwing out his arms. “That was your best work yet!”

Puzzled, she rejoined the line of people shuffling for the door. It wasn’t until she made it outside to the safety of the sidewalk that she flipped the program over and noticed the words scrawled on the back:

It’s yours.