Chapter Nine Paperwork
Kitty
I arrived at the community center ten minutes early and immediately regretted my decision.
The folding tables had been arranged in a lopsided horseshoe, the sign taped to the door read TALENT SHOW SIGN UPS TODAY in uneven marker, and Marjorie was already there with a clipboard so full of papers it looked like it might give up under the strain.
“You’re early,” she said brightly, which told me she had been here longer than anyone should have been.
“I thought it would help,” I said.
“That’s what I thought too,” she replied, undeterred. “Mr. Humphrey is bringing stamps.”
That should have worried me more than it did.
People began arriving almost immediately. Not in an orderly line, but in drifting clusters, as if the very idea of standing single-file offended the spirit of a small-town event. Forms appeared from coat pockets, purses, folded into neat squares or crumpled like they had been an afterthought.
I took a breath and reminded myself that this was manageable. It was just paper. All I had to do was schedule them into the available time slots and make sure it was family friendly entertainment.
The first form I received listed the talent as “spoken word.”
“Wonderful,” I said, because that sounded encouraging.
“It’s interpretive,” the woman added.
“Of course it is.”
She smiled as if this clarified everything and moved aside.
Marjorie leaned over my shoulder. “Did she need special lighting?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do we have special lighting?”
“We have lights,” Marjorie replied.
That felt like the wrong answer, but it was the only one we had.
Mr. Humphrey arrived five minutes later with a small box tucked under his arm and a look of quiet triumph on his face.
He set the box on the table and opened it to reveal a collection of stamps, all different shapes and sizes, none of which appeared to have anything to do with approval or scheduling.
“These are very official,” he said.
“I’m sure they are,” I replied doubtfully as I looked them over.
He nodded and sat down, immediately stamping the top form with a flourish.
“I haven’t read that one yet,” I said gently.
“Yes, excellent,” he replied.
I closed my eyes briefly and reopened them with resolve.
The forms multiplied quickly. A father and son duo wanted to perform a comedy routine involving props that were not listed. A teenager wrote “surprise” in the talent description and smiled ominously. Someone else had written “singing (probably)” with a question mark.
I attempted to sort them into piles so we could organize them. The pile labeled other grew faster than the rest.
“Kitty,” Marjorie said, pointing. “This one says they need fifty minutes for their act.”
“That’s not possible,” I said.
“They said it’s for emotional buildup.”
“Everyone gets five to ten minutes,” I replied.
Marjorie frowned sympathetically. “Should I tell them?”
“Yes,” I said. “Please.”
She nodded and immediately told them twenty minutes. I quickly corrected her and Marjorie apologized. TThe person grabbed their form in a huff, muttering about how they were going to have to think about this.
Mr. Humphrey stamped something again.
A woman leaned forward conspiratorially as she gave us her form. “Will there be judges?”
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s just for the community.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “Then I might not do my monologue.”
“That’s fine,” I replied. “You don’t have to.”
She looked startled by this and walked away anyway.
“We had judges last year,” Marjorie revealed. “We have judges every year. And prizes in different categories.”
I paused. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I thought you knew,” she told me.
I scribbled notes, crossed things out, and tried to keep my handwriting legible. I reminded myself that the goal was not perfection. The goal was for everyone to feel included and for nothing to catch fire.
Plus apparently I was going to have to create categories, find prizes, and conjure judges out of thin air.
Then Great Aunt Cathy entered as if everyone had been waiting for her. Her coat was immaculate, her posture sharp, her gaze already assessing the setup.
“Well,” she said. “This is… quaint.”
Marjorie straightened. Mr. Humphrey looked up and stamped a form enthusiastically.
“Where is the schedule?” Great Aunt Cathy asked, skipping the lineup to come stand at the desk.
“We’re still collecting forms,” I said.
“Collecting,” she repeated. “Without a preliminary structure?”
“Yes,” I said, because it was the truth.
She turned slowly, her attention settling fully on me. “And you are?”
“Kitty, your great niece,” I dryly prompted. She knew full well who I was. Great Aunt Cathy had a memory that had never once forgotten a single thing, including the fact that I was the one who got caught spilling grape juice on her fur coat when I was five even though Lydia had knocked into me.
“Yes,” she said. “Of course you are.”
She picked up one of the forms and scanned it. “This handwriting is appalling.”
“That’s mine,” I said.
She nodded. “I assumed.”
Anne stood just behind her, hands folded, expression polite in the way that suggested apology without words. Our eyes met briefly, and something passed between us that felt like shared understanding.
“Anne,” Great Aunt Cathy said, not looking at her. “Come forward.”
Anne did, hesitantly.
“You should participate,” Great Aunt Cathy announced.
Anne blinked. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Nonsense,” Great Aunt Cathy said. “It’s good for visibility.”
Anne glanced at me, then back at her grandmother. “I was planning to help instead.”
“Helping is not memorable,” Great Aunt Cathy replied. “Talent is.”
She took a blank form and began filling it out herself.
Mr. Humphrey leaned forward eagerly. “Stamp.”
“No,” I said gently. “Not yet.”
He nodded and stamped it anyway.
I reached for the form, my pulse steady despite the noise in my head. “We can talk about this. While we are accepting forms, not everyone may be given a chance to perform considering the level of interest we have had.”
Great Aunt Cathy waved a hand. “My Anne will perform. While we’re discussing participants, I don’t see Caleb Green’s name.”
The room went very quiet and I could see people lean forward, trying to better hear the conversation.
“He’s helping with sound,” I said.
“That’s insufficient. He’s a country star. He should sing,” Great Aunt Cathy replied.
“It’s what he offered to do,” I said.
She looked at me sharply. “People like him do not hide behind equipment.”
I met her gaze. “He’s not hiding. He’s choosing to allow others to have their time in the spotlight.”
Something in my tone surprised even me.
Great Aunt Cathy studied me for a moment, then sniffed. “We shall see.”
I placed Anne’s form carefully in the Other pile, my hand no longer shaking.
The chaos had not lessened. But for the first time since the forms started arriving, I didn’t feel like I was drowning.
I felt like I was standing in it, feet planted, waiting for the next wave.
I did not have time to dwell on Great Aunt Cathy’s last comment, because chaos, once invited, never waits politely.
The door opened again and a man I vaguely recognized from the hardware store stepped in, holding three forms and a paper bag that smelled strongly of cinnamon.
“I brought extras,” he said, setting the bag down. “For morale.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely, because morale felt like a limited resource.
“We don’t accept bribes,” Mr. Humphreys looked inside the bag and shoved it back to the hardware store guy.
“Bribes?” I echoed in disbelief.
“They’re just donuts,” the man said.
“I’ll take one,” Marjorie said, grabbing for the bag.
Mr. Humphreys slapped her hand. “Now give us your form.”
He handed Marjorie the forms. She flipped through them and smiled. “Oh good, a trio.”
“They’re separate,” he clarified. “We just arrived together.”
“Of course you did,” Marjorie said, writing TRIO in large letters across the top of one form anyway.
I reached for it. “We’ll just—”
Mr. Humphrey stamped it.
“Yes, excellent,” he said.
I pressed my lips together and moved the form into the music pile, which was no longer strictly accurate but felt emotionally correct.
Another woman approached, clutching her form tightly. “I just wanted to make sure you received this.”
“Thank you,” I replied, checking the name. “You’re listed as tap dancing.”
“With a chair,” she added.
I looked up. “A chair?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s symbolic.”
“Of course it is,” I said, and placed the form carefully in the category other , which had now become a philosophical category more than a logistical one.
Marjorie leaned in. “Do we have chairs?”
“We have chairs,” I said, thinking if we had to, we could grab extra from the community center.
“How many?”
“Enough,” I replied, hoping this was true.
The meeting staggered on after that. Forms were handed in.
Questions were asked, answers were given, revised, and occasionally contradicted.
At one point, Marjorie promised a performer they could have background music without consulting anyone.
At another, Mr. Humphrey reassigned a time slot because he liked the handwriting better.
By the time the last person left, the tables were covered in paper and my head felt like it had been shaken.
Marjorie looked at me with wide eyes. “I think that went well.”
I smiled weakly. “It went.”
Mr. Humphrey gathered his stamps. “Very productive.”
“Yes,” I wanly agreed . “Extremely.”
My notes were scattered. My schedule was theoretical at best. My confidence felt thin.
I could do this. I knew I could.
But I didn’t want to do it alone.
That realization settled in quietly, without panic or shame. Just clarity.
Picking up the papers and shoving them at random into a box, I made sure Mr. Humphreys closed up the community center and headed back to the inn. I found my sisters in the kitchen, Lydia talking animatedly while Lucy poured tea and Jane listened with patient attention.
“I need help,” I said, before I could overthink it.
They all turned toward me.
“With the talent show. I’m in over my head,” I added.
Lydia blinked. “Really?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I don’t want to pretend I’m not.”
Jane set down her mug. “What do you need?”
Lucy nodded. “We can make a plan.”
The relief that washed over me was immediate and surprising. My shoulders loosened. My breath came easier. I put the box of paperwork on the kitchen table. “I need to figure out how to schedule the acts, who to accept and who to reject, prizes, categories, and some people to judge the acts.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Lydia said brightly.
And as we pulled chairs closer and began sorting through the mess together, I thought about how much easier life was when I simply asked for what I needed.
Now if I could only figure out what I needed from Caleb.