Wishing in the Wings Read Free Page A

they’d written a new play, when they were ready to unveil a masterpiece-in-waiting to a sympathetic audience.
    The whole idea, though, was supposed to be that we stalked them; we kept an eye on what they were writing. They weren’t supposed to come to us. They weren’t supposed to show up before the office even officially opened on a random Wednesday morning in the beginning of March. But Jennifer was obviously pretty invested in this whole thing. “Which one is he?” I asked, intrigued despite myself.
    Jenn twisted her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, Becca. I know I should have just sent him away. But he looked so cute, standing there, like a little boy turning in his English homework.”
    “Jenn, I just read four of the worst plays I’ve ever seen. You know that we don’t accept submissions over the transom.”
    “But we do, unofficially. And he’s on the list!”
    She had a point. Possibly. “Who is he?” I asked again.
    “Ryan Thompson.”
    I blinked. Ryan wasn’t on my stalking list. Jenn had found him, just a few weeks before. She’d read some comments he’d posted on a public blog, something about the role of the modern playwright in creating a communal dialog about social responsibility. She’d been intrigued by what he had to say. (Yeah, we folks in the Mercer’s literary department were total theater geeks.) Mostly, though, she’d been impressed with how he’d said it. In fact, she’d been interested enough to track down a copy of his first play, something that had been produced once, at a university in the wilds of Roanoke, Virginia.
    And now the guy was sitting in our office, waiting to talk to me. “Jenn, I don’t know anything about him!”
    She bit her lip and then said, “Trust me. Remember? He’s the Peace Corps guy.” Peace Corps… Ryan had just returned from a two-year stint abroad—in Africa, somewhere. I nodded slowly, vaguely recalling what Jenn had told me. She apparently interpreted my nod as acquiescence about reading his play. She clasped her hands in front of her, the very picture of riotous joy. “You won’t regret this, I’m sure.”
    “I haven’t agreed to do anything yet,” I grumbled.
    “Please, Becca? Just take his envelope. Tell him you’ll read it in the order received, and send him on his way.”
    “You could have done that!”
    “Yeah,” she said, sulkily. “I should have.”
    Before I could argue with her anymore, a phone started to ring out in the Bullpen. Jenn sighed and opened Hal’s office door, rushing to her desk to answer the line. Apparently, the caller wanted to reorganize the United Nations into something only slightly more bureaucratic—at least that’s what Jenn implied with her body language. She was clearly too busy to return to the matter at hand. Too busy to talk to Ryan Thompson and send him on his way. Too busy to save me.
    I sighed and threw back my shoulders, trying to look professional as I crossed the room. I’d take the stupid manuscript, remind this Ryan guy of our submission policy, and get back to the morning’s serious work of tracking down Dean. And then I’d tell Hal about the Crystal Dreams disaster. Joy, oh joy—the theater life just didn’t get any better than this. My belly churned again, as I glanced over my shoulder at the conference room.
    Our visitor stood as I approached him. “Ms. Morris, I’m Ryan Thompson,” he said. His shoulders hunched, as if he didn’t want to frighten me with his full height. He turned his head a little as he introduced himself, smiling shyly and looking at a point somewhere beyond my left ear. “Thank you for taking the time to see me,” he said.
    Well, technically, I hadn’t agreed to take the time. In fact, technically I didn’t have the time. I had to say something, though, so I introduced myself, even though he obviously knew who I was. “Rebecca Morris.” And then I remembered my manners. It wouldn’t kill me to be polite, for just a minute. “Jenn said