I stare.
“I mean, she’s seen me perform minor miracles in this job for four years. Pulling shows out of thin air, securing scholarships for kids, getting them into top-tier workshop programs. I produce exceptional actors. So she knows what I can accomplish. She knows my connections and my roots.” He shrugs, possibly in an effort to prove, as if his words didn’t do the trick, that he has nothing worrying him. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that I’m most of the reason they even decided to open the arts chair.”
I must have my mouth hanging open, I’m that shocked.
And he’s not done. “I mean, you’re probably a good artist, but you don’t have a track record here. You haven’t proven anything. Maybe in a few years, Moreau will give you a shot at some real responsibility. But for now, it’s enough for you to just do the teaching part of your job.”
Is he serious? Did he bring me to this beautiful place so he could cut down my confidence and intimidate me? To prove that he’s the better person for the job? Fully half of my neurons are firing in the direction of “run for cover; take shelter.” My body feels like it’s shrinking. I cross my arms tight.
I still can’t form words, and I wonder if I will ever be able to speak in front of him again. It’s just another version of my constant, repetitive fight with the entire adult world. You’re not enough. Let someone else handle that. You’re not enough. You can’t manage it. You’re not enough. Get out of the way and let the real grownups deal with it.
If he’s waiting for me to respond, he’s going to wait a very long time.
He gives me a big smile and says, “So, we’re good here?” His hands gesture around the building, and I give a single nod. It’s about all I have left.
“Great.” He moves toward the door. “I’ll let Moreau know that we have a venue.”
He opens the door for me and gestures me out, back into the forest of gorgeous green light, but it looks shadowy now. Stark and a little cold.