Page 19 of Dropping the Ball

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 luggageset 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 donateanything?” 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.

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