At home plate, Béa kicks at the dry gravel with the toe of a trail shoe that’s seen a lot of distance. To her left, Dick Head hops away from her dust, sending her an accusing look before leaning down to inspect the Italian leather situation on his feet.
“Will do,” I say, earning myself a McHuge-brand shoulder squeeze.
I check my phone as he walks away. Stellar said she wanted to talk tonight, and I want to rant to her about the eternal spring drama at West by North, where it’s goodbye, money season,hello, mud season and bug season. Off-peak visitors, too budget-conscious for our luxury tours, prefer free activities—like getting themselves marooned halfway to Hell, a hidden hot spring only reachable on foot.
More important, I want to bounce ideas off Stellar for the pre-pitching meeting. A couple of weeks from now, I’ll be trying to snag one of three coveted slots for the final pitch competition. In an effort to prove to Craig that I’m a fountain of innovation (and to feel out which project he’d greenlight), I’m pitching him an idea a day.
So far he’s shot down boardwalk tours of endangered wetlands (too boring and virtuous to be profitable), subarctic hiking safaris for photography enthusiasts (too much walking, not enough helicopters), and a mountaintop marriage proposal shuttle service (enough helicopters but only two paying customers).
Craig’s always dismissed my ecotour pitches, but I’m freaking out a little over him not listening to my ideas for loud, flashy stuff, which usually gives everybody in the C-suite a good solid chub in their Armani. I was counting on that corporate half boner to help me get seen and promoted. Then they’d have to listen to me when I pointed out the literal self-sabotage (not to mention the environmental sabotage) of tours that destroy their destinations.
My parents constantly drilled me and Amber to respect and protect fragile alpine ecosystems. There’s no reason West by North can’t do the same, but Craig’s eyes go unfocused when I talk about carbon. I spend a lot of time shutting down the storm brewing inside me from him ignoring me and brushing me aside.
Some days, I’m nothing but a primal scream in a beige blouse.
Instead of screaming, I text Stellar.
You want to remote-watch Romancing the Stone tomorrow?
Stellar doesn’t love rom-coms, but she does love popcorn and alcoholic milkshakes and criticizing what passed for progressiveness in the nineties. We trade picks, so I get a chance to make fun of bad special effects in her classic sci-fi flicks.
Sure. Can Jen drop some boxes of my stuff at your house? We broke up. Obviously.
Stellar’s girlfriend said she was cool with short-term long distance. They were discussing marriage. Stellar hasn’t even been gone a month. She must be devastated.
Nnnooooooo!!! You and Jen broke up?!?! I’m so sorry, are you okay?
With supremely poor timing, McHuge calls, “Circle up.”
Everybody takes half a step forward. Sharon’s madly whiffing arms barely miss Jason’s head.
“We’re outside for two reasons. Number one: no point waiting until the showcase to feel the vibe of doing improv in public. It’s a good energy, but it can feel like a lot in your body.”
McHuge makes improv sound like a cardiac defibrillator. Based on my knowledge ofGrey’s Anatomyand this class, his description of big, painful electricity arcing through you sounds right on.
“Tonight, nobody’s watching,” he says, sweeping his arm unironically at the hide-and-seek kids, who stand riveted by his performance. “Even so, you won’t have a room with a closed door to protect you. Make an open door in your heart to match the open door on this field. Lean into the vulnerability.”
McHuge has a strange talent for making sense even when he makes no sense, but that advice is not for me. I am not here to be vulnerable. I’m here for an eight-week crash course in social skills that will turn me into a pitch-competition magician. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to explore vulnerability and failure, and they are not as great as people make them sound.
“Everybody pair up for warm-up. We’re an odd number, so one person will work with me.”
Everybody scrambles away from David. For his part, David steps directly over to McHuge to reserve the highest-quality partner for himself.
Béa and I commandeer the home-team bench, glossy from many seasons of ass polishing. She’s a lot younger than me—twenty-four—but she seems cool and she’s new in town. Maybe she needs friends, too.
“Baseball is such a weird game,” I say, in my best friendly voice. “One person with a stick versus the entire other team. Gladiatorial combat could break out any moment.”
Béa looks over my head. “I played varsity for Duke. Second base.”
I love her accent. A Montreal lilt makes even a rejection sound almost delicious.
“Oh. Uh… oh. Right. I meant that Iloveweird sports. The weirder, the better.”
Not an improvement, judging from her expression.
“Should we get started? Um, stars,” I offer so I have an excuse to look away, up into the wash of sodium light.
“Celebrities,” she answers.
