Dropping the Ball

11. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Kaitlyn

We hurtle through September at breakneck speed. Madison throws her formidable energy at getting my house up to standard. I leave her to it, coming home after long days at Threadwork to find new changes every time I walk through the door. An area rug. Curtains. A room in an entirely new color and reeking of paint. She runs it all past me first, but honestly, my boring house is the least of my concerns. I say yes to all of it, knowing if I hate it, I can change it later when I have time.

Time. Ha.

I work forty hours a week, which isn’t terrible. But I come home and hole up in my office to study for the bar exam. Most of my classmates started studying for it full-time the second we graduated in May so they could take it in July. But I already knew I’d be in Bangladesh until August, prepping to take over for Madison, so I’m studying for the February date. Those are the only two times it’s offered, so if I don’t pass in February, I’ll be a year behind everyone in my law school class.

This office is the only room I’ve forbidden Madison to touch. White walls. A glass desk. A single chair, no rollers. Plain curtains on the window. A lamp with a curved black arm dangling the shade above my study sofa. The only color comes from an art piece on the wall, a green ombre rug on the thickest carpet money can buy, and my back lawn through the picture window, unlandscaped, another carpet of green across my half-acre backyard. Even the love seat against the wall is pale gray with a single large throw pillow, cream with one green stripe the color of the rug.

She calls it sparse. I prefer Zen. Everything else, she can do with as she likes. And mostly I like it too. Maybe I like that she’s doing it for me. My big sister, big sistering in a way I’d craved through high school and college. Maybe she could turn my house into a neon EDM club, and I’d still like it because Madison did it.

She has excellent taste, of course. She’s brought in some items that I’m not sure about at first, but as each room fills in, those become the items I like best because I can see how thoughtfully she’s staging each space. She hired someone to construct built-in shelves, and she’s filling them in with classic books, clothbound in neutral tones. There’s an ottoman with a top woven of a twill the color of seagrass. A mirror with a mosaic frame in my entry.

She put the starling table in the formal dining area with a new set of chairs. It’s the only thing in that part of the open floor plan, and it gives the space a sense of calm movement, like watching someone move through a vinyasa in yoga. Gentle, controlled, but a distinct sense of flow. Over the last two weeks a ritual has evolved: every morning, I walk all the way around it, tracing the edge with my finger, following the pattern as it swoops and curls. I feel centered each time I finish the circuit, ready to head into my day.

I shake my head, bringing myself back to the here and now, which is sitting at my desk in my Threadwork office, staring at the calendar, clicking from October to November to December on a loop. Click click click. Click click click.

It’s like doomscrolling, only worse, because all it shows me is my failures so far in September, chances I can’t afford to blow in October and November, and the truly small number of squares before the gala is here.

What I haven’t told Madison is how badly I’m already screwing up even though she barely gave me full rein.

The day-to-day operational stuff is going fine. Shayak, our administrator in Dhaka, can run Marigold far better than I could, so mainly I meet with him weekly for progress reports. Here, there are only three other people, and they all know their stuff, so my job is to approve expenditures, basically. I don’t even have to do the hard director tasks like coming up with a fundraising plan for the next fiscal year or hiring new staff. Madison might hate to admit it, but she inherited Dad’s CEO brain, and she’s used it brilliantly, putting everything on cruise control before turning it all over to me.

The only thing left to do is solicit luxury auction items for the gala.

That’s it. I don’t have to find fancy guests or entertainment. I don’t have to figure out the menu or book catering. I just need to line up the auction items for our wealthy guests.

In terms of theme and ambiance, Madison may talk about competing with the Met Gala, but in reality, the best comparison is the Black and White Ball, the only other truly black-tie gala in Austin. My parents have gone in years past for the same reason our gala tickets sold out: it’s an opportunity to see and be seen in their couture evening wear by the Austin elite and a chance to publicly flex by bidding in the auction.

High-ticket items have to fall into one of two categories: first is experiences they don’t have to arrange for themselves. A South African safari with stays at wellness retreats. A food tour of Spain with cooking lessons in each region. The second is material goods that are one of a kind. A Louis Vuitton luggage set in a rare colorway. A diamond tennis bracelet once owned by Venus Williams.

My mom wears that last item to brunch at the country club where she never plays tennis. They won it one year at the Black and White Ball. But donating to the charity is secondary for them. I’m not sure they could name what the Texas Advocacy Project—the host of the ball—even does. I know though. They advocate for survivors in power-based abuse cases. The irony could choke a Texas longhorn, yes? Yes.

Irony or not, we don’t have anything like that in our auction items. No celebrity jewelry touched by greatness. We do have one luxury cruise around Nova Scotia, including a day on Prince Edward Island. That will sell for sure because I’m bidding on it. I may even try to win it. There’s also a Napa Valley getaway that will sell okay, but Texas likes to compete with California as much as I like competing with Micah, and we have our own wine country right next door in Fredericksburg. It’ll feel almost un-Texan to bid for the Napa Valley package.

At best, I can call that one-and-a-half bid items. That isn’t going to fund a year of Threadwork or the Marigold Institute.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and reach for the phone to place my next call to the executive assistant for Anne Harvey. The idea is to go down the gala guest list and squeeze some of those peaches for auction donations. It’s yet another level of status and generosity when your name is associated with donating a big-ticket auction item.

“Hey, Leo,” I say when I get Anne’s admin on the line. “This is Kaitlyn Armstrong with Threadwork. Did you see the email I sent to Anne regarding an auction item for the Threadwork Discovery Gala by Armstrong Industries?”

“Yes, hello, Kaitlyn,” Leo says, his voice brisk and professional. “I believe we let a”—he pauses—“ah, yes, a Madison Locke know that Anne will be attending with her plus-one.”

“We’re so pleased to have her,” I say. “We were hoping we can give her more time in the spotlight by highlighting her as a donor to our charity auction. This is a crowd that’s very interested in curated experiences in places or on properties they wouldn’t normally have access to. Private yacht excursions, for example.” The Harveys are well-known for spending a month on their yacht in the Mediterranean in the summer. That leaves their fully crewed yacht docked for the rest of the year. “It’s not even necessary for her to play host. Simply making it available for five days or so would be more than generous.”

“I imagine it would be.” His voice is very dry.

I want to cringe. I manage to find the most awkward way to say things. I’m not meant for sales. Or begging. But I’ll do anything to keep Threadwork healthy and doing its work. “Is that something she’d be willing to consider donating to our auction?”

“I can ask.” His tone is doubtful, and my heart sinks. “But I believe all of our charitable giving funds are earmarked through the end of the year already.”

“That would be wonderful if you would run it past her,” I say. It’s normal for an assistant to start with a no. They would never commit funds on behalf of their boss. But that doesn’t cheer me up, because I have only made it past one executive assistant so far, and that netted the Napa Valley trip. Every other follow-up has resulted in a no. If I’m lucky, the assistant emails to let me know. Most of the time, I have to call and nag, and that means a rejection every time.

I hang up with Leo, already sensing the way this is going to go.

“It’s okay,” I inform my empty office. “I’ve only been at this two weeks, and I’ve already improved my pitch.”

I’ve been watching YouTube videos and reading articles every day about how to be more effective in soliciting donations. That helped me pivot from “Would your boss like to donate anything?” to researching each guest on the list and determining something specific to suggest they donate.

Maybe I should also start listening to podcasts on the subject, something with a cheesy title like “How to Turn Every No into a Yes.”

I’m an expert on saying no. I don’t have room for much yes in my life, so I’m no help to my cause.

That’s a bad sign.

I’d probably offer everything I own or will ever own to someone who could figure out how to make time for me. A clock where I can add time to it when I start running out. A cosmic hourglass where I dump more sand in the top when it’s getting too low. Oh, but also, with no bad consequences like in every story ever where people mess with time.

I sigh and stand so I can stretch because I’m getting loopy. Time to reoxygenate my brain. A few reaches toward the ceiling and deep breaths later, I sit down again to tackle the tasks I can nail.

Except when I wake up my computer, I have an email waiting from Micah.

I am not nailing Micah.

Uh . . . I am so glad only my brain heard me say that, but a faint heat sweeps up my neck.

I mean to say that I’m not doing the best job of managing Micah or the facilities part of the project, mainly because he is so on top of it. He’s been updating me via email for the last three weeks since the tour, ending each short email by letting me know construction will start as planned at the beginning of October.

That’s next week. We’re scheduled to meet at the warehouse, something that will happen at least weekly because laying out the event space will be a collaborative process.

I stand, still restless and needing to move. It’s probably because Madison is due any day now, and it feels like everyone who knows her has been holding their collective breath, jumping every time our phones buzz.

I walk out to our small reception area. “Suz, I’m going to take a short walk. I need a brain break. Back in fifteen.”

“It’s nice out. Maybe I’ll take a turn when you come back.”

“I’m making it an official order. You’re going for a walk when I get back.”

She smiles and waves me off.

Our small suite of offices is on the ground floor of Armstrong headquarters, a six-story building in North Austin. It’s part of Dad’s restitution efforts. The company has already paid the settlement the courts ordered, but he’s been trying to show Madison especially that he’s willing to do more. That includes subsidizing Threadwork’s office space.

Of course, this, like all of Dad’s generosity to Threadwork, helps rehabilitate the Armstrong corporate image. Housing the nonprofit that works on making restitution to the victims of his corporate negligence? How big of him , he wants people to say. He’s changing.

He is. Slowly. Even if there’s a PR upside to his support of Threadwork, it’s still a big concession for Gordon Armstrong. We try to meet him where he’s at. It’s been easier for me since I can read him like a book, given that we function the same way. He’s the genetic culprit behind my perfectionism. But even Madi has softened since seeing his genuine pleasure at the imminent arrival of his first grandchild.

I walk out to the corporate reception area, a grand glass-and-marble lobby, wave to security at the desk, and exit into the parking lot. The weather has started cooling, the midseventies temperature perfect for a brisk walk. It will continue to cool over the next month until I’ll need a light coat by early November.

Armstrong Industries is housed in an unobjectionable business park with bland landscaping, but there are enough islands of grass and flowerbeds between the office buildings to make it a pleasant walk. As usual, I start by thinking through the tasks ahead for the day or week, which leads me to my meeting with Micah, which sends me straight into mulling over Madison’s unlicensed therapy. After almost a month to think about it, I’ve reached some conclusions.

In hindsight, I can see my intense perfectionism would have made me furious at anyone who swept in to take valedictorian at the last minute. I’d been so determined that despite the periodic media reports on the Armstrong Industries scandal, despite the constant speculation among the wealthy families who sent their kids to Hillview, being an Armstrong still stood for excellence and hard work. Being second best didn’t feel like it made the same point, not to me or my parents.

To be beaten by Micah specifically . . . Madison nailed why it stung more. I never showed anyone vulnerability, not even my friends. We might joke and laugh, but I didn’t let them in. So when Micah had caught me gawping at his bare chest, he’d seen the truth: I was into him enough to break my face and tank my shot at valedictorian. That had made me very vulnerable to him. We might have grown friendly through our senior year, but what would Too Cool Micah Croft say to the mousy nerd who suddenly revealed heart eyes for him when he’d only noticed her because of her brain?

It had been safer to be angry. Chilly, blaming him for overruling me and getting my mother involved, giving him an unfair advantage.

What does holding on to that eight years later say about me? At best, it says I hold petty grudges.

Not this one. Not anymore. I’ve let it go. And rather than deal with stressing and overthinking our meeting next week, maybe I’ll go the Band-Aid route and see if Micah is available sooner. Tomorrow. This afternoon, even. There’s a loosening in my chest, the stress I always carry there shrinking at this plan.

I open my email on my phone and dictate a short message.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Meeting availability?

Hi, Micah.

I appreciate the updates you’ve been sending. I know we’re scheduled for an onsite meeting next week, but I have some time this afternoon. Would you be available to swing by my office to discuss how the construction phase will go? I’d like to know how to best support your team.

Kind regards,

Kaitlyn Armstrong

Interim Director, Threadwork

I read it over and frown at the automatic signature. Kind regards? Stuffy. But also unobjectionable in ninety-nine percent of business communications. It’ll do. I hit send and turn back toward the office.

He answers me as I’m walking into the Threadwork suite, confirming he can make it this afternoon.

Good job, Katie . I can always be counted on to do the responsible thing, but this is leadership. Bonafide interim director leadership.

“Tag, you’re it,” I tell Suz as I pass her. “Go get that fresh air.”

At my desk, I text Madison before I tackle the next round of phone calls I need to make about silent auction items.

Do you have a baby yet?

Fun pregnancy facts from Oliver: only 5% of babies arrive on their due date. 11% arrive early. The rest come late. Went to doc yesterday. Harper hasn’t dropped since last week.

IS THAT BAD?

NO

It’s normal. She’ll drop when she’s ready to be born. She’s hanging out in Club Womb for a while.

You only have two days until your due date. It could happen.

Doubtful. Going to have a watermelon sitting on my bladder for another week. Distract me.

Decided to grow up and made a mature CEO decision. Bringing Micah in for a meeting this afternoon. Grudge? What grudge?

(Confetti emojis) Good job!

What time?

I’m coming

What no

Yes. Going crazy waiting. My back hurts. I NEED A DISTRACTION.

No. I don’t know how to deliver a baby.

ONE WEEK. What time?

. . .

. . .

Will call Suz to tell me your schedule

4:00. Don’t come.

She sends me a string of kissy lip emojis.