Chapter 2 #2
“Agree,” Taylor says, then adds, “no offense, Marnie.”
Marnie holds up a dismissive hand as Taylor turns back to me, talking with her hands: “We want to hear about your big, amazing
life. We definitely want to come see one of your shows—anything you’re in, really—but the only time we hear about them is
from your mom.”
“After they’re over.” Marnie picks up a mini muffin from a basket at the center of the table. “I can’t keep doing this no-carb
thing. It’s killing me. Can I... just...” She takes two more muffins.
“Carbs are amazing.” Maya picks up a muffin and shoves the whole thing in her mouth. She practically moans as she chews, so
loudly she draws attention from an elderly woman at the next table. She grins at her. “It’s so good!”
The woman frowns and turns away. I smile to discover there is still a trace of the Maya I knew in this well-manicured, pristine
package.
Marnie pushes the muffins away and takes a sip of her mimosa. I pause to admire her for a second. She’s dressed in all black
with black sunglasses propped on top of her head, perfectly straight, shiny brown hair cut into a very professional shoulder-length
bob. She looks like a reporter.
“Rosie, what is going on with you?” Taylor asks. “I find out all your updates from social media. Do you even read our group
chat anymore?”
“Of course I do,” I say. “I just don’t text in there because...” I stop myself from saying, “ Because I have zero news and my life sucks ,” and instead complete the thought with, “Because sometimes the updates just aren’t that exciting. You know, little things.
Not the really big thing.”
“ Yet ,” Marnie says.
Yeah, I think. Yet will forever be tomorrow or next week or next month.
Or never.
“I won’t lie,” I say, knowing that’s all I’m doing. “It’s not easy. Lots of auditioning and waiting. Lots of prepping and
preparing and recording and refreshing your email. It’s just not, you know, exciting all the time.”
My updates would be things like: “Got a temp job in an office. I’ll be here three days, which is, apparently, long enough for me to spill coffee on three different
people and screw up the bagel order for the entire office.”
Nobody wants to hear these kinds of things. I’d be the lead in a new play called Head Above Water: Barely .
“So?” Taylor says, but they’re all looking at me now.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I ignore it for a moment.
“So...” This is the point in movies where the leading lady tells some outlandish lie that always, always comes back to
bite her. Like, “I’m secretly a princess hiding my identity by living this very mundane life.” Or, “I’m talking to this big Broadway director, and it’s only a matter of time, really, before I go on for the lead in Mamma Mia! ”
But these are my friends.
And friends don’t lie to each other.
Which is why I’ve been distant.
Because if I’m not texting or calling, I’m not lying. They all still believe I’m living the shiny life I set out to live.
The waitress appears at the table, along with a man who is carrying two trays. They arrange our meals in front of us, and
when they walk away, we all have to switch plates because they mixed up each of our orders. I glance up. My friends are now
occupied with their food, and something inside me squeezes at the sight of them.
I have to come clean. I have to tell them what life has been like for me.
I need one of them to tell me it’s okay to quit. Because I think that’s what I need to hear.
I say a silent prayer. Lord, please. Give me the strength to give up on this dream. And look, if You’ve got something out there for me, give me a
si—
My phone buzzes again. I pull it out and see a new email notification.
“How does everything look?” The waitress is back.
“Actually, I ordered the fiesta potato platter,” Taylor says. “I think this might be the siesta potato platter.”
“She’s here to party, not to nap,” Maya quips as she shakes an insane amount of salt onto her avocado toast.
The waitress laughs, and they all start chatting, diverting everyone’s attention away from me long enough that I can skim
the email:
Dear Miss Waterman,
We received your application for employment for our summer theatre program at Sunset Players. After careful consideration,
we feel like you would be an excellent fit to join the creative team for our upcoming production of Rodgers & Hammerstein’s
Cinderella . Attached, you’ll find the payment package, which does include room and board. Please look it over, and let us know as soon
as possible if you’re still interested in the job.
Auditions are next week, so we’ll need to get you here this Friday for a tour of the grounds and to get you all settled into
your living quarters right away.
We have a vibrant theatre arts program in Door County, Wisconsin, and we’re thrilled to welcome you to the family!
Because of the quick turnaround and preparation required, we will need your answer by this Tuesday. We apologize for the last-minute request. We had some staffing changes, and here we are. We look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sincerely,
Connie Spencer
Human Resources Director
I reread the email, more carefully this time, trying to remember whether I applied for this job during one of my panicked
root-beer-float benders. It seems like this would be one of the many jobs I clicked on, even though I have no memory of doing
so.
I click the attachment and open the payment package details.
Um. It pays.
Whoa.
Really, really well.
Not only does this job include room and board for the entire summer, but it also pays better than any acting job I’ve had
in my entire career. While it’s a little unnerving that this is all happening so quickly—plus being on the creative team rather
than on the stage, which suggests someone bailed on the job at the last minute—I just have to wonder.
Don’t give up yet, Rosie.
I navigate over to the Sunset Playhouse website and see that they are, in fact, a legitimate organization, so having money
to pay the creative team makes sense. I click around for a few minutes, looking for information on this particular production
of Cinderella , but I come up empty. So the website is a little outdated... not a big deal. If they’ve had staffing issues, it makes
sense. Maybe I can help.
And let’s be real, I don’t have any other options right now.
The timing of this isn’t lost on me. I was about to unload the truth about the last seven years, hoping one of my friends
would tell me to quit. It wasn’t what I signed up for. It didn’t pan out, and that’s okay.
But now this. An out-of-the-blue job I never could’ve seen coming.
I click back over to the email and type out a reply, half listening to the conversation that has now turned to the dating
lives of the waitstaff in this restaurant, because there is a story about every one of them and Maya knows them all.
Ms. Spencer,
It is wonderful to hear from you with such excellent news! I’ve looked over the materials, and I would love to officially
accept the job. I can be in Door County by Friday, and I’m excited to begin.
Sincerely,
Rosie Waterman
I hit Send and watch as the email disappears, noting the slightly giddy feeling rising up inside me.
I got a job. In a theatre. And it doesn’t involve showing anyone to their seats.
My mother’s words rush back. “Promise me you won’t let anyone steal your dreams, Rosie.” And I absently wonder if “anyone” includes me.
“So...” I interrupt their conversation now that I have actual news, which feels good. Especially since I’m telling the
truth.
“I wanted to let you know I’m going to be part of the creative team for a production of Cinderella .” I realize as I say it that I know very little about what this job entails.
They collectively gasp, wide-eyed.
Dropped silverware, hands raised, there’s overlapping, “Like, directing? Have you done that?” with “I knew you were keeping something from us!” and “Where? When can we come see it? I love Cinderella !”
And as I smile—and as they genuinely are happy for me—my reservations fall away, and I can’t help but wonder if this is the one.
Is this the job that’s going to change my life?