Chapter Text
You watched from behind the curtain, dreading what was about to come next. So far the kids had been performing without any serious mishaps, or rather, the play was still going. You weren’t delusional about the artistic qualities of the little play you had written for your very first children’s drama class. Not because you didn’t have faith in the kids’ acting chops, but simply because they were far too young to remember more than a few lines of dialogue or a few basic instructions on how to move and where to stand.
You hadn’t had to interfere yet, at least not in a significant way – nothing that would disrupt the continuity of the play. A few whispered lines here and gentle nudges there were all it took for the tiny actors to do more or less what you had practiced with them over and over again.
But now the time had come for the most hyperactive, unfocused little beast of the ensemble to come on stage as the Tiger, the main antagonist. And boy, you were waiting for that moment with anxious eyes hypnotizing the other side of the stage. The spazzy six-year-old, Ollie, had managed to miss his cue every single time during rehearsals. You cursed yourself for letting him enter the stage from the other side, where you couldn’t help him come out at the right moment. The small stage at the school auditorium didn’t really have any backstage area, making it impossible to get to the other side if you didn’t want to run straight across the stage.
Erin, the gifted girl playing the fairy – your personal favorite, not that you let her or any of the other kids know – had just delivered one of the more difficult lines of the play perfectly: “You didn’t listen and now the beast will come. What will happen to us?” As proud as you were of her, you were also very aware this was the Tiger’s cue. And sure enough, he was nowhere to be seen. You waited for a few seconds before you noticed a sign of confusion in the other players’ faces, and you knew you had to step in.
“The beast is coming! It’s a tiger!” you screamed from behind the curtain. “A tiger!” you repeated just to be sure, enunciating every syllable with precision that sounded almost dumb, to be frank. It did the job, however, as Ollie dressed in a fluffy tiger onesie finally jumped on stage with an impressive roar. The audience responded with a roar of their own, laughing at your intervention as well at the little tiger’s sudden appearance.
As the laughter was dying down, you heard a loud, obnoxious scoff. You leaned forward a bit to take a peak at the rows, about halfway filled with parents, grandparents, siblings and friends, to locate the source of such unasked-for negativity. Your guess was a bored teenage brother or maybe a particularly snobby grandfather. Your gaze was travelling from one smiling face to the next, until it stopped on a half-disgusted, half-distressed expression on a man you would have never expected to see in person. Not during your first year as a drama teacher at least. The unforgettable face currently contorted with intense negative emotions belonged to the infamous children’s theatre critic, Arthur H. Cartwright.
What the hell was he doing there? The school you worked at was a small one, nothing prestigious, the drama club had been founded by you less than six months ago and today’s performance had been advertised by exactly three badly-drawn posters made by the kids themselves, with a little help from you. It just didn’t make sense for Cartwright to sniff out your production and show up at a random school in Upstate New York, when dozens of much more desirable children’s shows were surely happening all around the States at the same time.
You spent the rest of the play biting your fingernails, metaphorically and sometimes quite literally. The thought of Cartwright’s horrified expression never leaving your mind, you were lucky to even pay attention to what the kids were doing. The performance wasn’t good, you were self-aware enough to admit that to yourself. But who in their right mind would expect it to be? Take a group of ten five to seven-year-olds and make them carry a whole play on their shoulders? Most of them weren’t even old enough to tie their own shoelaces properly, for God’s sake! The feared man couldn’t just come and force his critique on you or the kids, you were sure. You couldn’t stop him from publishing whatever verbal diarrhoea he felt the compulsion to spit out after the performance. You sure as hell could prevent him from ruining the kids’ self-esteem by giving them one of the entitled lectures he was so revered for, though.
When the majority of the audience erupted into a cheerful applause and you joined your little ensemble onstage, you kept up a wide, proud smile both for the kids and their parents. However, your eyes kept darting back to where Cartwright was sitting, slumping in his seat like he was embarrassed to be present in the same room as the rest of you. Well, nobody was forcing him to stay, that was for damn sure. Even buried in his chair, he looked ready to tear everyone taking their final bow apart, and you smiled even brighter, looking straight at him. He clearly wasn’t expecting such reaction to his obvious displeasure from you, his brows arching in confusion for a second. You would swear you even saw the corners of his lips twitch, almost turning up before shooting back down into an ugly grimace.
Once the applause was replaced by excited chatter of the families, you hurried to draw the curtains to give the children some privacy and, more importantly, let the critic know you weren’t eagerly awaiting his enlightening comments. To your dismay, the man couldn’t just take a hint. As you were about to close the remaining gap in the curtains, you saw him climb up on the stage and carry himself over to you in long, confident steps.
“You must be the teacher and the director,” he said without as much as a hello. You were still clutching both curtains in your hands, blocking the narrow gap with your body. You had to tilt your head up uncomfortably to look Cartwright in the eyes, his physique was as imposing as his reputation. You hated how puny his large frame made you feel. You straightened your back as much as you could, never breaking eye contact with him to compensate for his unfair physical advantage.
“And the writer. What can I do for you, Mr. Cartwright?” you asked with a pleasant smile, as though you hadn’t just spent the last thirty minutes hoping you would never have to speak to him. He gave you a smug little smile back at your acknowledgment of his name.
“I would like to have a word with the actors, naturally. And even you, should you care to know what you did wrong.” The nonchalance with which he spoke was making it increasingly hard for you to keep up your friendly façade.
“That’s very generous of you, but no, thank you. What the children need right now is to grab a mug of hot chocolate and have some fun. You saw how young they are, and this was their first performance.” You doubted your reasoning would deter him from doing his so-called job, but even futile effort seemed better to you than just letting him unfurl his whole “big bad critic” charade as he pleased. His thick, pronounced eyebrows shot high above the rims of his glasses and his large hands grasped your shoulders for a second, catching you off guard.
“Hot chocolate? Are you out of your mind? The actors require professional evaluation. Immediately,” he said, absurd urgency evident in his voice and in his almost manic eyes, magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. He took a determined step forward, making you clear the way, against your better judgment.
“Kids! They’re just kids, Mr. Cartwright.” You tried and failed to reach for his arm as he strode to where the kids were either rolling around on the floor in their costumes or running and pestering one another. Their joy from a challenging job well-done was evident, but it wasn’t destined to last.
“Excuse me, what is this-“ Cartwright stopped, gesturing all over the place as though he was offended by the mere sight of kids just being kids, “this anarchy?”
The kids slowed down, peering up at the man they had never seen before in their short lives. Ollie called out your name and the whole group joined him, asking who the rude guy was and why he was there instead of you, all in a high-pitched chorus of whines and giggles. You took a breath so deep it almost made your lungs burst as you struggled to find a suitable explanation for the unexpected presence of an angry, bald old man.
“Calm down now! This is Mr. Cartwright, he knows a lot about theatre and fairy tales and he’s going to give you advice on how to act. He’s something like a teacher, too,” you gave them an encouraging smile, feeling like a traitor for keeping the worst from those poor sweethearts. Cartwright turned to you in disbelief before giving the kids his attention again.
“That is a gross misinterpretation, not to mention an underestimation, of the complex art of critique,” he said, or rather declared. You barely stifled a sudden laugh at the sheer absurdity of the situation. You could only hope the kids wouldn’t understand anything he was about to overwhelm their brains with.
“No wonder a troupe where neither the actors nor the director seem to take the craft of theatre seriously would produce such an underwhelming performance,” he flashed another fierce look your way. Good, let him take it out on me and leave the kids alone, you thought.
“I have rarely seen a waste of potential this severe,” he went on as the kids gaped at him, too confused to even fool around or whisper among themselves, “A promising script and inventive stage design, buried underneath a muddy layer of hectic stage directions, childish humour and atrociously inconsistent acting. Can any of you imagine an O’Neill play where half of the actors are doing Beckett? I didn’t think so.”
A tiny hand shot up, and the enthusiastic girl, Lexi, didn’t wait for a permission to speak: “Mister, I have a hamster, his name is Neil!”
“Excuse me? Are you drawing a comparison between Eugene O’Neill and a… rodent?” the tension in Cartwright’s voice extended to his posture, his shoulders tensing up.
“Mr. Cartwright, Lexi’s five. She’s just learning to read,” you chimed in, though you knew at this point your input would have zero impact on him and his ridiculous, snobbish opinions.
“Then the blame is on you for not educating them properly,” he said, stern and still as serious as ever, “But even the best of teachers cannot save an utter lack of talent and discipline.” You watched in dismay as his glare fell on Ollie. Of course he would choose that poor kid as the target of his critique, you wondered why you hadn’t anticipated that. Now you could only hope Ollie was strong enough not to let what he was about to hear influence his sense of self for the rest of his life.
“You, young man, dressed in what appears to be your pajamas, delivered a performance as lazy and shapeless as your ‘costume’. Watching your slack attempts at intimidation, I shivered, not in fear but in embarrassment. With this attitude and your obvious disregard of your colleagues’ hard work, you will never contribute to a performance worth watching.”
Ollie, who usually had a wide smile on his face and a joke ready to tell, was staring at his orange and black tiger feet, blinking rapidly. He wasn’t crying, but it was obvious he felt the weight of Cartwright’s words, despite not fully understanding most of them. He mumbled your name along with a faint “I’m sorry”, and that served as the final impulse for you to act. Yes, Ollie was a difficult kid to coax into focusing, but you couldn’t complain about his warm-hearted nature and natural comedic talent. You often found him sharing his snacks with his classmates and entertaining them with jokes and impressions. If the five months you had had the chance to observe him were anything to go by, you would swear all he needed was to grow up a little bit and get a steady, patient guidance, and he could very well turn out to be an excellent artist in the future.
“Mr. Cartwright?” you called out to the critic, who appeared to be done with his review. You made sure to maintain a pleasant tone, as you were about to kill him with kindness rather than use his own method on him. You kept an eye on Ollie who was still looking quite bewildered – you would comfort him as soon as possible, but first you needed to have a good heart-to-heart with Cartwright.
“Yes?” he walked back to you, dismissing the kids with a firm nod. His energy had transformed somewhat, he caught on to your friendly tone and failed to register the tension underneath. To him, he had done his job as usual and the consequences didn’t concern him anymore. For the first time he smiled at you.
“I would like to have a word with you in private, is that okay?” you asked and he agreed immediately, still unsuspecting of your intentions. You let the kids run to their parents and excused yourself for a moment, noting that some of the parents clearly recognized Cartwright as well, based on their stunned stares at the man by your side. You led him into the office you shared with a couple colleagues. It was empty now, as you had chosen Saturday for the performance.
You gestured towards the most comfortable padded chair in the room for Cartwright to sit on.
“Coffee?” you offered. Cartwright sunk deep into the chair and watched as you poured yourself a cup from your favourite pot.
“Yes- actually, do you happen to have some tea?” he stammered and your eyebrows arched in amusement. What was he playing at again?
“I might. You’re not a fan of coffee then?” He shifted in his seat nervously, and now you really had to hold in laughter. He had to be the oddest man you had ever met, and you couldn’t wait to probe him further.
“No, well yes. I like coffee very much, I just thought-“
“I know you’re British, Mr. Cartwright, but it’s completely alright if you have coffee with me. Milk? Sugar?” you smiled as if you were having an ordinary conversation with an ordinary man. Against all odds, his cheeks turned muted pink as he cleared his throat.
“Both. Please,” he said, coming forward in his seat until his hands were resting on his spread thighs. You marvelled at how quickly his intimidating aura vanished, he thanked you sincerely when you handed him his mug, peering up at you with a smile. You couldn’t deny he was almost cute like this, when he let his guard down and showed more of his casual side instead of spewing his wisdom all around. Still, you weren’t about to forget he had just traumatized one of your pupils. To make it up to you, he had to do way more than agree to share a cup of coffee with you. You pulled out a chair and sat opposite him, adopting the same position he was sitting in to tune in to his peculiarities.
“Listen, while I don’t doubt you’re a professional, I really don’t appreciate the way you talked to my class back there,” you said, calm but sincere, locking your eyes with his. He blinked slowly; it was obvious the sudden change of topic took him by surprise. He leaned back as though he was trying to escape your determined stare or perhaps regain some of the dominance he had been so sure of up until moments ago. When he didn’t make to speak and instead proceeded to sip his coffee, you didn’t wait for his request to explain yourself.
“I know the play was no work of art, that’s something we can agree on. But for God’s sake, how are those kids supposed to get better if not by trying and learning from their mistakes? You could’ve shared your critique with me, I can handle it and I can use it to help the kids improve. Tell the same thing to them, and all they’ll take from it is that they did so poorly that a total stranger felt the need to let them know. But they don’t understand why - they’ll carry this awful feeling of failing with them, and I just hope they’ll listen to me when I try to undo the damage. All I’m saying is, you have a right to critique children’s theatre, but please, tailor your message to your audience,” you took a deep breath as the stream of words and emotions flowed out of your lips. How was that for a dramatic monologue, you almost felt like asking the critic.
He shook his head like he hoped the movement could sort his thoughts in a literal sense, and swallowed heavily before responding:
“Are you going to just disregard everything I’ve told the children just to avoid them getting upset? Does my work seem so insignificant to you? Does theatre, for that matter?” there was a hint of disappointment in his voice rather than arrogance, although you should have expected him to misunderstand your point. Still, you noted he acknowledged the ‘actors’ were literal children at last, so maybe there was the possibility of getting somewhere if you managed to stay patient with him and his rigid attitude. You understood you had to thread lightly now and assure him you felt no contempt towards him.
“No, Mr. Cartwright. I feel great respect for both, I just wish you and I would get on the same page. Do you have children of your own?” you silently cursed at yourself for attacking him with such a personal question, but to your relief he didn’t seem offended by it, though he looked away for a second before breathing out a simple ‘no’.
“And have you ever gotten the chance to watch children rehearse?” you asked further, satisfied when he shook his head, an unspoken question in his dark eyes. You felt bold when you slid forward again, hoping to make the conversation more open and ease some of the tension that had built up in the past minutes. Again, his reaction wasn’t unfavorable by any means. If anything, he appeared to relax a bit, his jaw unclenching and brow softening. You found it natural to smile this time as you proposed the idea that had been developing in your mind throughout the conversation.
“Well, I thought – if you would like – that you could watch my class, once or twice, as we rehearse the next play. I believe it could be beneficial to all of us. I could learn from your input and incorporate it into our rehearsals, and you’d see for yourself what it’s like to actually work with kids. Maybe you’ll find you can elevate your writing with some insight into the process,” you explained, praying you hadn’t struck a nerve by implying Cartwright’s writing could use some improvement. Your doubts vanished once again as he stood up, positively beaming. You followed him, taken aback when he placed his large hands on your shoulders again, only this time in a much warmer manner.
“I’d be delighted to-“ he paused, “I believe I’ve neglected to ask you for your name, I apologize.” You assured him you didn’t mind and introduced yourself.
“Thank you. Yes, I’d be foolish not to take this opportunity. You’re the first director to ever offer this to me. And you’re absolutely right, I can’t believe I have never thought of this before, either. In fact, I would love to be present during the entire process. I can’t wait to see where my guidance can take a group so desperately lacking in skill and consistent direction – no offense.” He adjusted his glasses and smiled wide in excitement, the upper row of his teeth showing. Strangely, the first thought on your mind as he belittled your work was that he struck you as quite charming like this, maybe too charming for a middle-aged man with obnoxious demeanor. You shook off the thought and hoped you hadn’t stared for too long, offering him a professional handshake.
“Yeah, I’m sure it’s going to be a very interesting experience,” you agreed, the slight sarcasm going completely over Cartwright’s head. You peeled a neon yellow sticky note from a stack on your desk and wrote down your name and three numbers – the time your class usually took place, the number of the rehearsal room and your phone number. You handed the piece of paper to Cartwright with a sunny smile matching his.
“We’re starting in two weeks, Thursday. Be on time, Mr. Cartwright, show the kids how it’s done.”