Chapter One
MACEY
Ten Years Later
An email from Macey to her mom, Friday, September 6, 12:22 p.m.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Wish Me Luck
Hi Mom,
I hope you’re doing okay. I wish you could write me back, but for now, I’ll just keep sending these. I like to imagine you reading them and rolling your eyes at half the things I say—though maybe you’re shaking your head and smiling too.
Not much of an update from me yet, but I’m hopeful I’ll have something exciting to share soon. I don’t want to jinx it by saying too much. Just know I’m trying to figure things out—and not let life turn into an endless loop of meaningless tasks at a stupid job until I die.
If you do see this, send me some good vibes. I’m sure I’ll feel them from here.
Love you,
Macey
I TAKE A DEEP brEATH as I stand in front of the solid white office door and give myself a quick pep talk.
You are strong. You are brave. You can do hard things. You have a wedgie.
I say my little mantra to myself. The last line isn’t usually part of it.
Crap. Today, of all days, when things at work might finally be going my way for once, I do not need a wedgie.
I turn around, butt toward the door, and look both ways down the hallway before quickly taking care of the situation.
“Come in,” I hear Christine Choi, the program director and my boss, say.
Opening the door, I see her sitting behind her cluttered desk, her nearly black hair pulled up into a bun with a number two yellow pencil holding it in place. She’s wearing circular, rimmed glasses that are perched at the edge of her nose. Very schoolmarm. Except she’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt that says Exit, Pursued by a Bear —a famously odd stage direction from Shakespeare in The Winter’s Tale .
We like to get creative with arts-themed shirts at Horizons Creative Arts Center in the posh, smallish town of El Dorado Hills, California, where I’ve worked for the past four years. We invested in our own heat press machine so we can make all the shirts our little hearts desire, just so long as we buy the plain T-shirts ourselves, because there’s no room in the budget for that.
Today I’m sporting a graphic tee that says I’d rather be at Pemberley , with a little illustration of an English manor, and yes, I made it myself. I didn’t realize when I put it on this morning that I would, in fact, love to be visiting Pemberley right now—I’d even settle for a less desirable place like, say the DMV on a Tuesday morning, rather than here.
Yes, I’d rather sit in that crowded room—waiting for my number to be called, the smell of stale coffee, lingering cigarette smoke from when people used to smoke indoors (how was that ever a thing?), and the unmistakable tang of human impatience in the air—than be here right now.
Why? Because I have to do the thing I hate the most: assert myself. I’d much rather be the peacemaking chameleon that I’ve always been. I’ve done it for so long, it’s my comfort zone.
But not today, Satan. No comfort zone for me.
“Um, hi,” I say to my boss, like a moron. Like I haven’t worked for her as an administrative assistant these past four years. Like I don’t know how she takes her coffee or that she has a fear of staplers stemming from an unfortunate incident as a child where she stapled a paper to her finger and will now only use binder clips, even if it’s just two sheets of paper.
If we were to go paperless, it would probably help Christine immensely—and me as her assistant (because I do an awful lot of stapling for my job). But alas, we don’t have the budget.
Around here, our shoestring budget goes to programs, not paychecks. As a nonprofit, we rely on grants and donors, which means we’re all underpaid. We do it for the love of the job: building a creative community for all ages. The paycheck may be light, but at least our souls are well fed.
It would just be nice to feed my body as well. One cannot subsist on ramen alone. Sometimes I wonder if an OnlyFans account for my feet—which are mediocre at best—could be in my future.
“Macey,” Christine says, giving me a closed-mouth smile. “How can I help you?”
Her subtle encouragement gives me the nudge I need to say the words I’d been rehearsing. I tuck a strand of red hair behind my ear and remind myself to breathe as I take a seat in one of the eighties-style teal chairs facing her desk. Actually, they aren’t eighties-style—they’re literally from the eighties. Please see previous remarks about budgets.
“Um,” I start, but then stop, my nerves getting the best of me.
“Yes?” she prods.
“Right,” I say and then clear my throat, my face feeling heated. “Um ... It’s not a big deal or anything ... I know you’re super busy, so no worries if it slipped through the cracks, but I was just kind of wondering if you happened to see that program I sent you?”
A surge of adrenaline courses through me as I finally say what I came here to say, even if it’s a little rambling and sounded mostly like an apology of sorts. Why am I being like this? Put me onstage with a script and I’ll nail it—no hesitation. But speaking up for myself? That’s ... hard.
Christine’s eyes brighten at this. “I did,” she says. “It’s wonderful, Macey. I loved it so much.”
“Oh, really?” I say, little excited butterflies fluttering in my stomach. “It’s just something I threw together.”
That isn’t true, actually—I spent a lot of my free time on it. The program blends theater, visual arts, and storytelling, allowing children to create their own short plays, design props, and perform their scripts. It’s an idea I mulled over for a long time before finally finding the courage to write it and, after months of hesitation, submit it to Christine. I hoped it would be my chance to move from administrative assistant to program coordinator and finally use my fine arts degree from Sacramento State—a degree where only half of graduates actually work in the field. I could be making that stat up, but I swear I read it somewhere.
“I showed it to Jackie, and we’ve added it to the roster for next spring,” Christine says.
She showed it to the executive director? I think I’m glowing, possibly enough to be seen from space.
The idea for the program wasn’t the result of a random brainstorm—it was a piece of me. As a kid, community art centers like Horizons were my sanctuary. They let me escape the empty apartment, the unopened bills stacked on the counter, and the many bottles hidden in kitchen cabinets. This program felt like a chance to create that same haven for someone else—a place where their imagination could run wild, just like mine once did.
Now I need to psych myself up for the next part of this conversation. In my head, this talk I’ve initiated always ended with Christine saying the program was decent and handing me a stack of papers to staple. I hadn’t planned for her to actually love it or want to implement it. Guess I’ll have to wing it. I’ll think of it as improv. One of my skills that, like my feet, is mediocre.
I swallow. “So, then . . .”
“Yes?” she prompts.
“So ... since I wrote the program ... do ... I, um, get to run it?” I let out a breath because that was difficult.
Christine’s brows pinch, and she frowns.
“Oh, Macey ... I’ve already assigned it to Verity,” she says.
Something cold and dark falls like a bowling ball into the pit of my stomach. She assigned it to Verity? My program? On one hand, it’s great that she acted on it so quickly, but to not even consider me? Does Christine expect me to manage her calendar and staple her papers for the rest of my life?
I can’t help but wonder if it was the horse thing. Maybe Christine doesn’t see me as coordinator material because last month, when we did horse therapy at the center, I sort of freaked out. Well, not sort of—it was a pretty big freak-out. I’ve been scared of horses since I was a kid. I was riding a large, dark-brown mare when it spooked, throwing me off and knocking the wind out of me. Horses are beautiful, but they’re also terrifying. Maybe Christine doesn’t trust me not to panic when things go sideways.
I should say something. I need to tell her I wrote the program, and I want to run it. And maybe throw in there that I’ve gotten over my fear of horses. So ... lie.
“I think ... that ... Verity will do a great job with it,” I say, the last part of the sentence falling out of my mouth at double speed.
Okay, listen. I was going to say something, but between deciding to tell my boss I want to run the program and actually opening my mouth, I couldn’t do it. I want this job—I need it, really. What else am I supposed to do with my ridiculous degree? Teaching? That pays even less than this, which is honestly a disgrace. Teachers shouldn’t have to survive on ramen.
Christine gives me a quick bob of her head. “I think she’ll do a terrific job. And hopefully we can get you to write more programs for us in the future.”
I nod. That’s something, at least. If I’m given more opportunities to write programs, perhaps I might be able to parlay that into running one someday.
“Well, thank you,” I say, taking the win, even if it’s not the one I wanted. I stand up to leave.
“Oh, Macey,” Christine says, just as I reach the door.
I can’t help the surge of hope that courses through me at the thought that maybe she’s just now realized that I should be running the program I wrote. It’s a little far-fetched, but this is an arts center. We all tend to have a flair for the dramatic and the unexpected around here.
“Yes?” I ask, turning toward her.
“I’m out of town next week, at that conference in San Diego,” she says.
“Right.” I give her a quick nod, because of course I know this—I manage her freaking calendar.
“So I won’t see you before you leave for your fancy vacation,” she says, doing a small up-and-down bobbing thing with her shoulders. “I hope you have the best time.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing I haven’t thought of the trip since knocking on Christine’s door, which is strange given it’s been at the forefront of my brain for the past three months. “Yes, thank you. I’m excited.”
Momentary lapse aside, I’m beyond thrilled for my fancy trip—the kind I’ve never done before and likely won’t again, given I’m currently surviving on ramen. I’m only going because I won the trip. At a time when I was pretty much at my lowest, Lady Luck finally smiled on me with an all-expenses-paid trip to Pride and Prejudice Park. I get to fly to England, don Regency attire, and live out my Elizabeth Bennet dreams, reenacting scenes from my favorite book. It’s cosplay for Pride and Prejudice fans, and with the last name Bennet, how could I not be the biggest one?
I couldn’t believe it when I won. It was the bright spot in a long series of disappointments this year—a list which I suppose now includes Verity getting assigned to my program. Fantastic. Anyway, my flabbers were even more ghasted when I found out I would be playing the part of Lizzy. It’s just too perfect. I aspire to be her—with that quick-witted personality, always saying exactly what she thinks and taking nonsense from no one. She’s confident and outspoken, ready with a sharp retort at a moment’s notice. Basically, the opposite of me. She never backs away from a challenge, while I, as recently demonstrated, avoid conflict at all costs.
Elizabeth is my favorite, but I would’ve played any role. Well, except Jane. Because, according to the program I was sent, in the scene where Jane goes to Netherfield, she’ll be riding a horse. Please see my previous statement regarding my feelings on horses.
“Did you find your Mr. Darcy?” Christine asks, sitting back in her chair, weaving her fingers together.
“I did,” I tell her. “My friend Derek is coming.”
As part of the prize package, I get to bring someone to play Mr. Darcy. It’s a couples’ package, but since I’m very (extremely) single right now, I had no one to play my counterpart. After friends—and friends of friends—all passed, I turned to social media. Which is kind of a big deal for me because I hate social media. Who wants to watch your friends live their lives while you ... don’t? Not this girl. Still, I sucked it up and posted “Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy,” with a quick explanation of the trip. Derek responded almost immediately, and it turned out to be perfect.
Derek’s golden retriever energy is more Bingley than Darcy, but he’ll do the part justice. We met in college at Sac State in a production of Much Ado About Nothing . He was Benedick to my Beatrice. Though despite what often happens in the world of thespians, no actual romance bloomed between us. Falling for your counterpart is so common that it’s become almost cliché. Not to say I didn’t find Derek adorable, with his dark-blond hair and perfect nose, and immediately crushed on him, but I was aiming at the wrong target, since Derek, I found out after getting one of my friends to investigate, prefers men.
Still, we became dear friends, and have stayed that way, even if our correspondence is mainly through texting now. I’m glad he agreed to go with me and also grateful I don’t have to go alone, because I’ve only flown a couple of times, and this will be my first time overseas.
“Well, enjoy yourself,” Christine says. “I’ll want a full rundown when you get back.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing.” She points to something on her desk, and my eyes track to a pile of papers.
“Stapling?” I ask, knowing the answer already.
She gives me a sheepish sort of grin. “Do you mind?”
I let out a breath before walking over to her desk and grabbing the pile.
As I walk back to my office, stack of papers in hand, past hanging posters of programs and theatrical productions we’ve done at the center, the excitement for my trip fades, replaced by the sting from the outcome of my visit with Christine—and how I let my chance slip because I’m a big chicken.
My office, a corner of the storage room crammed with art supplies, props, and costumes, offers no solace. It’s crowded and windowless, but if I keep my door open, I can catch a sliver of light from Verity’s corner office window. Freaking Verity. She gets the nice office and now my program. She’ll dig her glittery, painted claws into it and ruin it like she’s done to other programs. I just know it.
I slump back in my chair, frustrated.
“Knock, knock,” I hear someone say in a singsong voice, and I look up to see Jordan and Kristen coming into my storage room.
Jordan and Kristen are my two favorite coworkers. They’ve been coaching me through my hang-ups over speaking to Christine. Which I’ve now done. And failed. I can’t wait to tell them their efforts were a complete waste of time.
Jordan is in a T-shirt that says In Case of Drama, Add Jazz Hands , and Kristen is in one that says Drama Llama with a llama dressed in Shakespearean garb—a feathered cap perched between its ears and a classic Elizabethan ruff around its neck.
“So, how did it go?” Jordan asks, her bright eyes and smile making it clear she thinks she already knows the answer.
“It didn’t,” I say, skipping the dramatics because I’m frazzled and have the patience of someone at the DMV on a Tuesday morning.
“She didn’t like it?” Kristen asks, her face scrunching like she’s ready to go to battle for me. She sits on the edge of my desk, since there aren’t any extra chairs in my prison of an office.
“She loved it,” I say, no joy in my tone.
“I knew it!” Jordan claps, her hands slapping together like a one-woman pep rally.
“What didn’t go, then?” Kristen asks.
“She gave it to Verity,” I say, bracing for impact.
“Nooooo,” they say in unison, dragging out the word like I knew they would.
“Yep,” I say, popping the p for emphasis.
“She’ll ruin it,” Kristen declares.
“Did you say something? To Christine?” Jordan asks.
I twist my mouth to the side.
“Macey,” Kristen says, her tone all scolding-mother vibes. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“She’d already given it to her,” I say, sounding whiny even to myself. “It’s not like putting up a fuss would’ve changed her mind.”
“Well, if you ever want to get out of here,” Kristen says, holding out her hands toward my makeshift office, a flickering fluorescent light behind her accentuating her point, “you’re gonna have to say something.”
“I know,” I say. “Next time.”
They exchange a look that screams, Sure, Jan.
“How’s the living canvas project going?” I ask, desperate to change the subject. It’s a giant canvas at the center where the community can add their own touches to it over several weeks. Both Jordan and Kristen have been working on it.
Jordan rolls her eyes. “Someone drew a penis on it.”
Kristen nods. “A very detailed one, actually.”
“I almost felt bad covering it up,” Jordan adds. “Almost.”
We chat for a few more minutes about other projects, most of which I’ll be doing administrative work for but not running. Blargh.
They say their goodbyes, and as the door clicks shut behind them, my phone buzzes on the desk. It’s an email from Pride and Prejudice Park. Just over a week to go. In ten days, I’ll stop being Macey, the stapling queen of the storage room, and become Elizabeth Bennet. Maybe I’ll learn a thing or two about speaking up—or at least get a taste of what that feels like.
Life might not be going the way I want, but soon I’ll be living a fantasy. With my very own Mr. Darcy. At least I’ve got that.