Chapter 1 #2
“It was the gum factory,” Marnie says. “Remember?”
“Wait, it was?” I frown, trying to remember, which I don’t.
“The mayor is really pushing the downtown beautification plan,” Maya says, weirdly emphasizing the word mayor . The others react to it too, which makes me feel like I’m on the outside of an inside joke. “Twenty-five by ’25. It’s this
whole campaign to try to be a Top 25 city by 2025. Murals, new lampposts, refurbishing buildings to try to attract more businesses...”
“Can we really call Pleasant Valley a ‘city’?” Marnie shakes her head. “More of a glorified rest stop.” We all laugh—me a
bit longer and louder—and I know I’m working overtime to sell my own happiness, and I beg myself to stop being so obvious.
Marnie brings the attention back to me. “So! What’s next for you? Are you sticking around for a while? Can we at least get
brunch in the morning?”
My heart aches.
I want to tell them the truth so badly.
I want to give up and admit that my life is in the toilet, that I’m virtually homeless, and that I’m very close to quitting
on the only dream I’ve ever had.
And also? That I miss them.
But I can’t say any of it. The fear of disappointing them is too great.
I mentally stiffen. I’m an actor. I can get through one baby shower, right?
I force a smile. “Oh, I had a bunch of auditions last week, so I’m just waiting. That’s the hardest part of this whole thing...
the waiting.” The image of the frantic self-taping, uploading, and résumé-submitting bender I’d gone on last week washes over
me.
Like a woman possessed, I’d submitted myself for at least two dozen jobs, some of them I’m probably not even right for. Some
acting jobs, some directing jobs—even one for a script doctor. And with every Send button I hit, I’d say a silent prayer that
this could be the one that would change my life.
I go on these panic-induced submission benders sometimes, usually right around the time rent is due.
“It sounds wild,” Marnie says. “I could never do that. Not knowing what your next job will be or who you’ll be working with, or—”
“Uh, it sounds exciting ,” Maya cuts in. “And it’s perfect for you, Rosie, since you’re such a people person.”
I smile. I am a people person. I do really well ushering people to their seats at the Winter Garden Theatre, which is the
steadiest of all of my jobs but keeps me watching the stage instead of performing on it.
“What about you guys?” I ask, really wanting to stop talking about me.
Maya reaches over and squeezes Marnie’s arm. “Tell her your news!”
My eyes go wide. “What news?”
Marnie tosses a quick glance around the room and settles on Taylor, who is stuck in conversation with Mrs. Copecki. The only
effective way to get out of a Mrs. Copecki conversation is to gnaw one of your own limbs off.
“It’s not a big deal,” Marnie says.
“Uh, it’s a huge deal.” Maya pushes her shoulder into Marnie’s. “Tell her, or I’m going to.”
“I got a new job,” Marnie says a bit shyly.
“She’s burying the lede. Come on , Mar, it’s in Milwaukee .” Maya’s eyes go wide. “And she’s the morning anchor!”
“Whoa!” My heart is instantly confused, and I hate it. I’m genuinely excited for Marnie, but her news makes me feel left out
and somehow... small. I shove the thought aside because I want to be nothing but thrilled for her. She’s one of my very
best friends, but I feel like I should’ve known this news already.
The fact that I don’t is my own fault.
“That’s amazing, Mar!” I say, meaning it. “So, wait. You’re moving?”
She nods. “I’ve already started hauling some of my stuff to my new apartment. I have a view of the lake right from my living room! I mean, you have to sort of crane your neck and look around a building, but it’s there, I promise.”
“I knew it was just a matter of time,” I tell her. “You’re so talented. And such a good reporter. I’d definitely want to have my morning coffee while you tell me what’s going on in the world.”
“You’d have to start watching the news to do that.” Marnie smiles.
“Oof. Yeah.” I shudder, then grin at her. In college, Marnie continued with the speech team and discovered she was really
good at public speaking. Natural. Honest. And incredibly witty. She became a broadcast journalism major and got a job in a
small market right after college. And now, an anchor in Milwaukee.
Her life is going according to plan.
“Maya has news too,” Marnie says. “You next. Tell her.”
Maya rolls her eyes, like she doesn’t want to brag on herself, but we all know better. She holds out her perfectly manicured
left hand and wiggles her fingers. It’s the first time I notice the giant engagement ring she’s wearing.
“Holy heck, Maya!” I grab her hand for a closer look at the ring. “You’re engaged ? Gil finally proposed?”
Maya’s face falls. “Not Gil, Rosie. Matty.”
“Wait. Matty?” I give my head a quick shake, trying to locate details I’ve obviously deleted from my mental hard drive. “Have
I been living under a rock? Matty Banks ?”
“Yes!” she gushes. “He’s the mayor.” She grins, and now I make the connection to the lilt on his title earlier. She lifts
her hand, admiring her ring. “I can’t believe it. I’m going to be a politician’s wife.”
“And she bought the salon,” Marnie says, giving our friend a squeeze.
“You bought the salon?” I can’t hide the surprise in my voice. Or the tears that spring to my eyes. “Oh my gosh, Maya! You’re a business
owner?”
Maya was not the one who was supposed to have her life together at this point.
As an actor, you’re taught to tap into feelings and emotions—to use them to make scenes more honest and believable. But one
of the most difficult parts of acting is that you have to portray your character’s emotions while burying your own contradictory
emotions at the same time.
This is what’s happening to me right now.
Thrilled for my friends. Guilty for lying. Embarrassed about my life.
“What is it?” Maya leans forward and lowers her voice. “Are you okay?”
I sniff and try to shake the tears away. “I’m just...” I take a breath. “I’m so happy for you guys.” I bring my attention
back to my two friends. “I really, really am.”
Maya lets out an “awww,” but Marnie only stares. She squints at me. “Spill it.”
I sniff again. “There’s nothing to spill,” I say. “I just miss you all. That’s it, I promise.”
She’s not buying it.
Act better, Rosie.
I shake my head and give her hand a squeeze. “I’m fine. I just need to get home more, that’s all.” That isn’t a lie. I do
need to get home more. I need the three of them in my life.
How I’d survived this long without them is a mystery.
I glance over in time to see Taylor’s pained look in our direction. As predicted, Mrs. Copecki is still gabbing, only now
she’s using her hands, which means she’s moved on to the “armchair medical advice” portion of her diatribe.
I nod at Taylor. “I think she needs a swoop and save.”
We all stand, silently and in unison, like we’re soldiers just called into battle, and I don’t miss how good it feels to be a part of this group again. To have people I fit in with. These three always accepted me, weirdness and all.
And they never, ever made me feel ridiculous for dreaming big dreams.
I make acquaintances easily, but friends are harder to find. There are always people to go out and do things with, but they’re
nothing like these three are to me. It’s tiring to be in a world where every friend is potential competition and no one is
ever telling the truth.
We all walk over to Taylor, each of us chatting very loudly about a random topic in voices that make what we’re saying sound
very important . I quickly realize we should’ve chosen a single topic to focus on because when Maya says, “I think he choked on a chicken
bone. You have to come immediately,” I start giggling.
Taylor tries to extract herself from a confused-looking Mrs. Copecki, who stops her with a hand on her arm and says, “Cabbage
leaves are the only thing that are going to help with your sore boobs, but don’t let that scare you off of breastfeeding.
You need to find the nice big ones, ones that cover the whole—”
“Whoa, Mrs. Copecki!” I say, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fantastic advice, but I read that, uh, peanut butter is
way better... for the skin. Right, Mar?” I widen my eyes, hoping for a “yes, and...”
She doesn’t disappoint. “Oh yes, it’s all the rage with our generation. You can even add jelly on the other one.” And with
divine timing that can only happen in the spur of the moment, we look at each other and simultaneously say, “PB&J boobs!”
This makes Maya laugh, which makes Taylor laugh, and leaves Mrs. Copecki stunned into silence (an achievement not seen since Reagan was president).
We rush Taylor out of the room and onto the rooftop terrace, where we all collapse into each other in a fit of laughter.
The kind that really makes no sense but somehow doesn’t have to.
Oh, how I’ve missed this. I ache from the laughing and the distance.
Maya can’t breathe. Taylor has tears streaming down her face. Marnie is doubled over, desperately clinging to me for support.
I know I’m going to spend the rest of the day coughing and clearing my throat because that’s what happens when I laugh this
hard.
Honestly, I’m probably laughing more than the situation calls for just because I need to laugh.
A stray thought hits me.
What if I tell them what the last seven years have really been like? They might have advice. They might not think I’m a disaster.
It might be just fine.
Then, another thought.
Their plans are working out brilliantly.
Mine are rife with rejections. They think I’m doing fantastic—and I can’t stand the thought of letting them down. Or of being
the one they have to worry about. Or of being the failure.
So I stay quiet. Today isn’t about me anyway.
“PB&J? Did you two plan that?” Taylor shakes her head, still wiping tears from her cheeks.
“Hey, she stopped talking about cabbage leaves,” I say. “And, Mar, way to go all-in there. Impromptu speaking for the win!”
I offer her a fist, and still bent over, she reaches up and bumps it.
Taylor giggles, then scans our little circle. “I wish we could ditch this shower and go hang out. We have so much to catch
up on.”
“Marnie and Maya told me their big news,” I say. “Everyone is doing so, so great.” The tears are back, clouding my vision.
I blink a million times to keep them from falling.
“Yeah, but you’ve told us almost nothing about what you’re doing, Rosie,” Marnie says. “Is there a show coming up? Should we get tickets? Or set our DVRs so we don’t miss some big debut?”
I push a hand through my hair, feeling like everything is about to come crashing down.
And I’m not about to be the sob story that ruins this shower.
I deflect. “Oh, there’s plenty of time to catch up on all of that.” I wave a hand in the air. “Today is about you.” I take
a step toward Taylor. “I’m so happy for you, Tay. And Aaron too.” I pull her into a tight hug, and after a few minutes, Maya
and Marnie join in. We stand like that for at least thirty seconds—enough time for the hug to affect me, and when I pull away,
I’m wiping tears from my cheeks.
“You’re crying.” Taylor reaches over and wipes my cheeks dry.
I point a finger at myself. “ Actor. I can cry on cue,” I say through a wonky smile. “This is just for effect.” I push the emotions away. Like usual.
It doesn’t seem to be working right now, though, which means I’m on shaky ground.
I do my best to get through the rest of the afternoon, like I’m performing a Saturday matinee of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof , the sixth show of eight, acting for a sea of blue hair in a three-hundred-seat auditorium.
And while I love seeing my friends and catching up with everyone, by the time I’m back in my parents’ house that evening,
all I want to do is hide.
I’m not thriving. I’m barely surviving.
This isn’t how it was supposed to go.
And I have no idea how to fix it.