Chapter 13
As I leave Connie’s office, I walk past Belinda.
She’s huddled up with a few of the other residents, a pre-snap huddle of pompous gossip. When they notice me, they stop talking
and watch, like I’m Ted Lasso and I just got hired to coach soccer.
Correction. Football.
I tell myself not to let any of this get in my head.
Let’s see if I listen to me.
I can do this .
I head outside to the row of numbered golf carts, locate the one with the number that corresponds with the number on my key—118—and
sit down behind the steering wheel.
I stare at the panel—is it called a dashboard in a golf cart?—and stick the key in the ignition. It’s clearly marked Off,
so I turn it to On. Turning the key doesn’t make a sound. Are they electric? I turn the key off, then turn the key to On again.
Nothing. Weird. I jam my foot on the accelerator to see if anything happens, which sends the cart forward way faster than
I expected, throwing me back against the seat in a lurch.
I slam my foot on the brake, dipping the front end of the cart and jolting me forward.
A duo of golfers walking on a nearby path glances my way. “You okay over there?”
I wave. “All good!”
I draw in a deep breath. Electric. Got it. I take my foot off the brake, but for some reason the pedal stays all the way down.
I remind myself that I’m not an idiot. I can figure this out.
After checking that the key is still turned to On, I slowly press down on the accelerator, but I don’t move. I just hear a
thunk , as if I broke something. I look down to see that the brake pedal is now back where it started.
Weird.
I slowly push the accelerator again, and this time the cart obeys, moving out of the space at a pace that won’t maim me.
Once I’m on the path, I realize I should’ve paid more attention when Booker showed me around, or maybe picked up a map from
the clubhouse, because I have no idea which way to go. The campus at Sunset Hills is huge and wide and open, with serpentine
sidewalks zigzagging over the grounds. Some are for walking, some for biking, and some appear wider—the specific path for
golf carts.
Unlike the other times I’ve been out and about, this time there are no people anywhere. I half expect to see Will Smith with
a German shepherd.
It’s a zombie wasteland, except, I notice, for Dylan, the teenage girl living in an old folks’ home.
It strikes me that her story is incredibly high concept and would make a really fun play.
I see her sitting on the same bench where she was when Daisy drove me over, looking every bit as morose as she did the first
time I saw her.
If this were a zombie apocalypse, I have a feeling Dylan would be on the front lines.
Either that, or she’d be one of the zombies.
Come to think of it, in a zombie apocalypse everyone would either be on the front lines or a zombie. But either way, I think I’d want Dylan on my team.
I can’t remember which direction I’m supposed to go, so I bring the cart to a jerky stop in front of her.
“Hey, um... you’re Dylan, right?” I ask, and then, so I don’t sound creepy, I add, “My housemate Daisy told me your name.”
She’s staring at her phone. “Uh, hi, how’s it going?”
She looks up. She has a nose piercing and a pink streak in her dark hair. Her black nail polish is chipping, and she’s wearing
a dark-colored flannel with ripped jeans, even though it’s warm enough for shorts and a T-shirt.
She stares, then gives a “Hey?” The subtext I’m getting is, “Why are you talking to me and could you please leave, and oh, by the way, can you teleport me to literally anywhere but here on your way out?”
“I’m Rosie,” I say. “Rosie Waterman?” I hold up my name badge like an idiot. It’s not like she would’ve heard of me. Then
I continue my streak of open-mouth-say-stuff. “I’m new here. Just got in, met some people, found my house. Oh! And I got this
really ugly polo shirt I have to wear and my name badge and this golf cart. My first time ever driving one of these babies.”
I can practically hear her eyes roll. To her credit, her stoic expression doesn’t change.
“I’m... happy for you?” She looks back down at her phone.
I try not to let her attitude derail me. I actually do need her help. “So... um?” She looks up again. “Sorry. Do you know
the way to the staff cottages? The pocket? The staff pocket place?” It’s like there are a million words out there, and I know
none of them.
Without speaking or blinking or appearing to breathe, she points to her right, in the direction of a wide path that looks
vaguely familiar. She then looks back down at her phone again.
I briefly worry that it looks familiar because they all look the same.
“Ah. Got it. Thanks.” I’m about to pull away when I hear myself say, “Hey, sorry, one more thing.”
This time there is a marked pause between the time she’s looking at her phone and when she raises her head to look at me. I may as well be a toddler kicking her seat on an eight-hour flight.
“Have you ever done anything in the theatre? Onstage or backstage or anything? Maybe stage managing...?”
Judging by her face, she has an interest in makeup.
When she slowly shakes her head in a winced no, my cheeks flush, but I’m determined to win her over.
“You sure? No interest? I’m heading up a musical here and thought you might want to hang out with someone young and cool.”
She stares.
“It’s me.”
She continues to stare.
“I’m the young and cool... You know what, never mind. This way, right?” I point in the direction she pointed.
She scrunches up her face at me.
Solid.
I hesitate a beat too long before finally deciding that Dylan is not going to sign up for the production team, let alone continue
being subjected to someone who’s upbeat and witty.
I’m about to turn my cart in the direction she pointed and zoom off, Daisy-style, when I hear her say, “I worked backstage
at my school once. They did some play called Newsies .”
My eyes are wide when I look back at her, and they go wider when I realize she’s now looking at me. “Oh, it’s a musical.”
Her face melts into an annoyed expression. “What?”
“Since there’s music, it’s a musical,” I say. “Plays don’t have—It’s a common—” I snap my jaw shut. I sound like the theatre
people I can’t stand to be around. “Did you like it?”
She shrugs, and her expression says it wasn’t terrible.
“I love that show. I mean, who doesn’t love Jeremy Jordan, am I right? And who can’t get behind the rousing call to action of every showstopping number?” I throw a fist in the air in solidarity.
She stares at me blankly, then says, “Who?”
“Uh, never mind,” I say. “I just wondered about the theatre thing because, like I said, I’m in charge of a show they’re putting
on here. Cinderella ?”
I say it like it’s a question. Like she might not know who Cinderella is. I’m internally face-palming because I’m bombing
this little interaction worse than I bombed the one with Booker.
“Wow.” The word couldn’t have been drier.
“Do you, maybe, want to be on my team?” I ask.
She presses her lips together but doesn’t say anything.
After a beat, I say, “I like your nose ring,” which was a super dumb thing to say. This is worse than a blind first date set
up by my mother.
And yet, that doesn’t stop me from saying, “I kind of want to get one, but I don’t think I can pull it off.”
“I don’t think you can either.”
Ooh, I like this girl.
“We have auditions next week over in that theatre building—do you know the one?”
No response.
“It’s—” I go to point, then crane my neck, hoping to catch a glimpse of it because I have no idea where it actually is. “Uh.
Well, shoot. Somewhere around here.”
She’s watching me again.
I know nothing about this girl, only that she lives in a place that is not conducive to being a teenager. I assume the circumstances
of her being here aren’t great.
Maybe she just needs a friend.
“Well, I’m sure you can find it. Anyway, Monday morning the creative team is meeting, and auditions start at 9:00 a.m. Tuesday,
if you want to join me,” I say.
“You want me to help with a show that has a bunch of old people in it?” she asks, then drops her head down and looks at me like Wednesday Addams. “For fun?”
I wince. “Weird, right? I thought it was kind of weird too. We’ve got an ambulance on standby for the tap numbers,” I quip.
She half laughs. It’s just her breathing air faster through her nose, but it feels like a win.
“Seems lame,” she says. “Why are you doing it?”
“I needed the work.” I look away. That just popped out. I clamp my jaw shut and try again. “And I’m... excited about it.”
“Yeah, you look excited.”
“Yeah, so do you,” I volley back. “You must have tons of stuff to do around here.” I pause. “In the old folks’ home.”
She purses her lips and rolls her eyes, conceding the point.
“Look, I promise it’s going to be fun,” I tell her, even though I’m not convinced that’s true. “I mean, it could be fun. We could make it fun. You could help backstage again or maybe do hair and makeup? Or run lights? There’s tons of places where we need help.”
Dylan’s stony expression holds, and I decide desperation is not going to win her over.
“If you want to show up, you know where we’ll be,” I say. “The offer is open; I’d love to have you.”
“I’m probably busy.”
I nod, even though she’s not looking at me, because I recognize a brush-off when I hear one. I do think I made a dent, though.
“Okay, well. See you around.” I give a weak wave as I start off in the direction she told me to go. I follow the wide path
to a fork and realize I have no clue which way to turn. This place really needs better signage, though I can see why they
wouldn’t advertise staff housing for their residents. The staff is probably expected to know their way around.