In the Beam

Devon’s hand, slick with summer sweat, slipped again on the projector’s casing. The damned thing hummed, a low, irritable growl that reverberated through the very bones of the old community hall, but refused to cast anything more than a wobbling, ghostly grey rectangle onto the makeshift screen. The air, thick with the scent of pine cleaner and Devon’s rising desperation, did little to cool his overheated brain. He glanced at the clock on the dusty wall – seventeen minutes until the community meeting, the one where they were meant to wow everyone with their Sustainable Development Goal pitch for the summer arts programme. This, clearly, was not going to be a ‘wow’.

He yanked at the VGA cable, a manoeuvre he’d performed a dozen times in the last half-hour, each attempt less hopeful than the last. The projector’s singular, unblinking lens, caked with a thin film of what might have been ancient popcorn residue or simply the accumulated sorrows of municipal neglect, seemed to glare back with malevolent indifference. It was a relic, a beige behemoth rescued from the depths of a storage cupboard, chosen by Briar, his co-coordinator, for its ‘retro charm’ – a charm that now felt distinctly murderous. The irony was not lost on him: they were trying to champion sustainable futures and community capacity, and here he was, wrestling with a piece of technology that predated the internet, its demise imminent.

A faint metallic tang, like static electricity before a thunderstorm, prickled at his nose – not the forbidden ‘ozone’, but something sharper, more industrial, hinting at circuits on the brink. He could feel the fine hairs on his arms standing on end. He adjusted the focus knob, then the keystone correction, then the tilt, each microscopic alteration yielding precisely zero improvement. His t-shirt, emblazoned with a faded, slightly-too-small graphic of a grumpy badger holding a tiny paintbrush, was already clinging unpleasantly to his back. The hall was far too warm for a mid-June evening, the kind of oppressive humidity that promised sudden, violent downpours or, in this case, a complete technical meltdown.

"Still wrestling that mechanical beast, I see?" The voice, sharp and laced with an affectionate sarcasm, cut through the projector’s irritable hum. Devon didn’t need to look up to know it was Simone. She always arrived precisely on time, an almost unnerving punctuality, dressed in sensible, stylish clothes that somehow managed to convey both readiness for action and an air of detached amusement.

He grunted, pushing a stray lock of dark, damp hair from his forehead with the back of a greasy hand. "It’s less a wrestle and more a philosophical debate, Simone. It’s contemplating the meaning of its existence and has decided to remain stubbornly mute on the matter of displaying our SDG presentation." He finally looked up, offering her a weak, lopsided grin. She was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow perfectly arched, a canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder.

"Perhaps it’s an artistic statement," she suggested, stepping further into the room, her sensible trainers making soft thuds on the worn linoleum. "The blank screen, a metaphor for the void of creativity prior to our intervention. Very avant-garde, Devon. I’m sure the Elders will appreciate the nuanced critique of modern society’s neglect of rural arts funding."

"Hilarious," Devon muttered, giving the projector a final, despairing pat. "Do you know if Briar actually tested this thing? Because I’m fairly certain she swore black and blue last week that it was ‘A-okay, just needed a good wipe down’."

Simone shrugged, her expression unreadable. "Briar’s definition of ‘A-okay’ has always been… fluid. Like quicksand, but with better hair. She probably looked at it, deemed it aesthetically pleasing, and moved on to more pressing matters, like coordinating the perfect shade of artisanal blueberry jam for the refreshment table."

Devon snorted. "Artisanal blueberry jam? We’re talking about Sustainable Development Goal 4, Quality Education, and Goal 11, Sustainable Cities and Communities, through accessible arts and recreation. Not a bake sale."

"Every detail contributes to the ambience, darling," Simone said, walking over to the projector. She peered at it with an almost clinical detachment, then without a word, reached down and simply unplugged it from the extension cord, then plugged it back in with a decisive click. The machine, as if shocked into submission, whirred, and then, miraculously, the faded ‘Welcome to PowerPoint’ slide shimmered into existence.

Devon stared, his jaw slack. "You… you just…"

"Sometimes," Simone said, pulling a stray thread from her sleeve, "the most ornate solutions obscure the simplest of problems. Or perhaps it merely needed a firm hand. Like a particularly stubborn child. Or a passive-aggressive colleague. Take your pick."

A sharp, almost too-bright laugh echoed from the doorway. "Oh, Simone, always the pragmatist! And Devon, still battling the inanimate! Honestly, you two are a comedic duo in the making!" Briar floated into the room, a vision in a flowing linen dress, her auburn hair catching the fading light like polished copper. She carried a tray laden with small, glass jars. "And for your information, Devon, this is indeed artisanal blueberry jam, sourced from local berries, prepared by community youth, and contributes directly to SDG 8, Decent Work and Economic Growth. Multi-faceted, darling!"

Briar placed the tray with a delicate thump onto a nearby trestle table, the jars clinking softly. She had a way of making everything sound both incredibly important and utterly trivial at the same time. Devon felt a familiar tightening in his chest. Briar, his nominal partner in this grand summer endeavour, was a master of performance, always framing her contributions, however tangential, as pivotal. He’d known her since childhood, growing up in this very community, and had seen that charming facade applied to everything from school projects to convincing their parents to let them stay out past curfew. But lately, a distinct chill had permeated that warmth.

"The projector’s working now, though," Devon said, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Simone fixed it. Apparently, it just needed a reboot."

Briar waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, good! See? I told you it was fine. Probably just a loose connection. Nothing to worry about. Now, are we ready? The Elders will be arriving shortly, and we want to present a unified, enthusiastic front for our proposal."

Unified. Enthusiastic. Devon swallowed a bitter retort about whose enthusiasm was genuinely invested in the nitty-gritty and whose was merely for show. He straightened his badger t-shirt, acutely aware of the greasy smudge on his forearm. "As ready as we’ll ever be, I suppose."

The Community's Vision and Hidden Agendas

The meeting began, as all important community gatherings did, with a generous potluck. The aroma of wild rice casserole mingled with the sweet pungency of bannock, creating a comforting, familiar scent that momentarily eased Devon’s tension. He sat beside Simone, across from Briar, who was already engaged in a lively discussion with Elder Margaret about her jam, her voice a melodious chime. He watched her, a knot forming in his stomach. She was good, too good, at charming everyone, at making herself indispensable, even when her actual contributions felt… ephemeral.

When it was their turn, Devon took a deep breath. "Good evening, everyone. As many of you know, Simone, Briar, and I have been working on a proposal for a summer-long arts and recreation programme for our youth, focusing on how we can achieve a few of our Sustainable Development Goals right here in Serpent River First Nation."

He launched into his prepared spiel, explaining how SDG 4 – Quality Education – translated into workshops for traditional crafts, digital storytelling, and even a basic coding club. How SDG 11 – Sustainable Cities and Communities – manifested in using local resources for art supplies, revitalising the old boathouse into a community theatre space, and promoting intergenerational knowledge exchange. His passion for the project was genuine, a palpable hum beneath his words.

Simone followed, outlining the logistical frameworks, the grant applications, the potential partnerships with nearby organisations. Her delivery was crisp, factual, and persuasive, peppered with just enough of her signature dry wit to keep the Elders engaged. Devon felt a surge of pride, a quiet satisfaction in their combined efforts.

Then it was Briar’s turn. She rose, her linen dress swirling gracefully, a confident smile gracing her lips. "And what truly makes this programme extraordinary," she began, her voice imbued with a captivating warmth, "is its emphasis on holistic wellness. We’re not just teaching skills; we’re nurturing spirits. We’re creating a safe, inclusive space where every young person feels seen, heard, and valued. It’s about building a future, not just on paper, but in the hearts of our community."

She spoke beautifully, painting a vivid picture that resonated deeply with the Elders, particularly when she touched upon themes of belonging and cultural pride. But as she spoke, Devon noticed subtle shifts. Her examples, while touching, were often vague. She used phrases like ‘our collective vision’ and ‘the team’s dedication’ but somehow managed to imply that the most profound, emotionally resonant ideas had originated with her. She even took credit for Simone’s meticulously planned fundraising gala, referring to it as ‘a little idea I had to bring everyone together.’ Simone, beside him, stiffened almost imperceptibly, but said nothing.

The Elders, however, were nodding, their faces alight. Questions arose, mostly directed at Briar, praising her ‘vision’ and ‘passion’. Devon felt a slow burn in his gut. He tried to interject, to steer the conversation back to the concrete details, the workshops, the budget lines, but Briar smoothly pivoted, offering another eloquent, if somewhat amorphous, answer that satisfied everyone.

After the meeting, as people lingered, exchanging recipes and anecdotes, Devon cornered Simone by the refreshment table, where Briar’s artisanal jam sat untouched next to a plate of half-eaten oatmeal cookies. "Did you hear that?" he hissed, keeping his voice low. "The gala? She practically said it was her brainchild! Your brainchild!"

Simone shrugged, picking at a loose thread on her sweater. "She always does that, Devon. It’s Briar. She’s like a magpie for good ideas. Polishes them up and presents them as her own. Don’t let it get to you. The Elders know the real work."

"Do they?" Devon countered, his voice tight. "Or do they just see the pretty package she wraps everything in? And the projector! You saw her face. She just… dismissed it. Like it was nothing. But she was supposed to check it, Simone! She volunteered!"

Simone sighed, running a hand through her short, dark hair. "Look, the projector works now. The presentation went well enough. Let’s just… let it go for tonight. We’ve got bigger fish to fry, like getting actual youth to sign up for these abstract ‘arts of the heart’ workshops."

He knew she was right, logically. But a tiny, insidious voice in his head, a voice that sounded suspiciously like his grandmother, whispered about rotten apples spoiling the barrel. He watched Briar, across the room, laughing vivaciously at something Elder Joseph said, her head thrown back, a picture of carefree charm. She caught his eye, offering a wide, disarming smile. It didn't reach her eyes, not quite. Her gaze felt a fraction too knowing, a hair too deliberate.

Later, as they were clearing up, scraping leftover casserole into containers, the three of them worked in a strained silence. The clatter of plates and cutlery felt overly loud in the quiet hall. Devon was stacking chairs, his movements stiff. Briar, humming a light tune, wiped down tables with a cheerful vigour that felt almost aggressive.

"So, for the pottery workshop," Devon began, trying to inject some normality, "we’ll need to order a new batch of clay. The stuff from last year is all dried out."

Briar paused, cloth in hand. "Oh, is it? I thought there was still plenty. I mean, I remember seeing… a lot of bags. Are you sure? We’re on a tight budget, darling. Every penny counts for our ‘sustainable future’, remember?"

"I checked this afternoon," Devon insisted, feeling his hackles rise. "It’s rock hard. Unusable. We need to order more. I’ve got the requisition form ready."

Briar walked over, her face a mask of concern. "Hmm. Well, perhaps we could… improvise? Use natural clays from the riverbed? It would be much more authentic, wouldn’t it? And free! Very SDG-friendly, Devon! Think of the cultural immersion!"

Devon stared at her, dumbfounded. "Briar, we need proper, purified pottery clay. You can’t just dig up riverbed mud for an introductory workshop. It’s full of grit, stones, organic matter. It’ll just crack and fall apart. It’s not about ‘cultural immersion’; it’s about providing quality instruction and materials."

"Oh, well, I’m sure it’s just a suggestion," Simone interjected smoothly, sensing the tension, her voice a calm balm. "Devon’s right, Briar. We need the right materials. I’ll make sure the order goes through first thing tomorrow."

Briar's smile faltered for a micro-second, a barely perceptible flicker. "Of course, darling. Just trying to be resourceful! Always thinking of ways to maximise our impact with minimal expenditure." She patted Devon’s arm, a gesture that felt less like reassurance and more like a gentle, proprietary claim. "You worry too much, Devon. We’re a team. Everything will be absolutely marvellous."

But as Briar turned away to collect her jam jars, Devon caught Simone’s eye. Her expression was fleeting, a flash of something unreadable – apprehension? Frustration? – before she quickly averted her gaze, bending to pick up a dropped napkin. It was an infinitesimal crack in her otherwise composed façade, but to Devon, it felt like a chasm opening up. He was watching Briar, yes, but he was also watching Simone watch Briar, and the geometry of their interactions felt increasingly unstable, built on a foundation of shifting sand.

The summer night was beginning to descend, painting the sky outside in bruised purples and deep, inky blues. The air, finally cooling, carried the distant, mournful cry of a loon across the lake. But the peace of the night didn’t touch the growing agitation in Devon’s chest. He looked at the perfectly arranged jam jars, then at Briar’s retreating back, her silhouette framed against the darkening doorway, a picture of serene accomplishment. He felt, acutely, that everything was not, in fact, going to be marvellous. Not at all. It was going to be, rather spectacularly, quite the opposite.