Chapter 12 #2
I muster a thank-you and slip the lanyard over my neck, but the subtext of this whole scene is me trying to find a way to say: “I don’t know if I can stay.”
I cross one leg over the other and mentally prepare myself for a potentially difficult conversation. “Connie, I have to admit,
this job isn’t exactly what I thought it would be.”
Her painted-on eyebrows pop up. “Oh?”
I wince. “I wasn’t aware I’d be directing a show all by myself or that the entire cast would be made up of... senior citizens.”
She looks genuinely shocked. “Oh dear. Was the job description not clear?”
I’m sure the job description was as clear as a Montana sky in summer, but I didn’t exactly read it. Admitting that out loud
feels like a mistake, so I don’t. “Um, somehow, I failed to”—there is no way to make this sound okay—“Well, I guess I just
missed it.”
“So what are you saying?” She blinks a few times, probably trying to balance my feelings while also weighing options in case
I quit. “The auditions are on Tuesday.”
“I know.” My gaze falls to my hands folded in my lap.
Her tone levels. “As in... three days from now.”
“I know.”
She pauses, and I can practically feel her panicking. “Well, okay, I could ask Belinda to step in, but of course, she isn’t a very good leader, and oh dear.” The
color drains from her face, but then she seems to get an idea.
“You know, you won’t be com plete ly alone.
Arthur has a whole list of volunteers who signed up to help for this one.
Everyone just loves Cinderella . I’m sure we can get you a crackerjack team of people to help.
” The panic returns. “The summer musical is one of the most
well-loved events here at Sunset. It’s been a tradition going on fifteen years now. And the theatre—it’s state of the art,
really.” A pause. “Is it just not what you’re used to?”
My throat is dry. My palms are wet. I hate this, I hate this feeling of backing out, of letting people down, of being so totally and completely in over my head and ill-equipped.
But I can’t. I can’t do it. I don’t know how, I...
“The space is wonderful, Connie.”
“Oh, good,” she says, her face searching for some hope here. “Then what’s the problem? I’m sure we can work something out.”
If I tell her that directing a musical for a non-equity group of senior citizens would make me the laughingstock of pretty
much everyone in the professional theatre community, I might actually offend her.
Correction. That will offend her.
“I knew she wouldn’t stay.” The voice comes from the doorway, and when I turn, I see a beautiful older woman with shoulder-length
silver hair and legs that God would only give to a dancer.
“Oh, Belinda.” Connie tries to conceal a groan. “Can you knock please? This is my office.”
“The door is open, Connie.” Belinda walks in. The cadence of her voice reminds me of an old-time movie actor—almost that transatlantic
accent from the thirties. “I told you it was a mistake hiring someone so young and... inexperienced.” Belinda doesn’t even
glance in my direction, but her whole body is looking down its nose at me.
“We didn’t have a lot of options,” Connie hisses, as if that will keep me from hearing her. She meets my eyes and smiles.
“You really are perfect for the job.”
“Like I said in the board meeting, the only directing experience she has was in school,” Belinda says. “And that is not the
same thing as,” she pauses and says this with utmost reverence, “professional theatre.” She looks at me. “You really do not
have what it takes.”
All at once I’m transported back to an audition, one of my first in New York.
Every other girl in the waiting room looked a lot like me, and I shrunk under the strange feeling of sameness.
It became instantly clear that girls like me were a dime a dozen, all clamoring for their big break.
The worry that I’d been kidding myself to ever think I could be a professional actor nearly paralyzed me, and when I went
in to read, I messed up so badly I had to start over. Twice.
The casting director was a big name, someone who knew what she was talking about. So when she looked at me and said, “Well, congratulations, Rosie Waterman, you have successfully wasted my time,” I wanted Dorothy to splash cold water on me so I, too, could melt away.
But then, the kicker. She took off her glasses, waited until she had my full attention, and said, “You really do not have what it takes.”
And I believed her.
A part of me still believes her.
But deep within me was the desire to prove to her, to everyone, at any cost, that I have what it takes. I can make it. I can
be successful.
It’s the reason I didn’t quit back then, it’s a big part of why I can’t admit failure to my friends, and it’s why I can’t
quit my dream now—because I would love to prove that woman wrong.
This feels a lot like that.
No. This feels exactly like that. And I don’t even know who this woman is.
I press my lips together, stiffen my shoulders, and make a decision. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll do it.”
Maybe I decide this for the girl in that casting room who couldn’t find her voice at the time. Or the girl I’m trying to let
myself be. I don’t know, but in this moment, I know this is what I need to do.
I can practically feel the harrumph bubbling inside Belinda.
Connie’s eyes light up. “You’ll do it?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I gave you the opposite impression.” I turn to face Belinda. “I’ll do it.”
She scoffs and preens as she walks out of Connie’s office.
“Bless your heart, Rosie Waterman,” she says. “Let’s put on a show!”
And this is when it hits me—as things often do when my pride makes decisions on my behalf—that there’s no turning back now.