Chapter 28
Over the next few weeks, my life settles into a pattern, though not a predictable one. In the way it always is with theatre,
every day is different. Every rehearsal brings a new challenge.
Last week, we had to pause a scene because Evelyn’s teeth fell out. And yesterday, a man named Sal nearly choked on a salami
sandwich, which I’d already told him he couldn’t have onstage.
I eat breakfast with Daisy in the dining hall, then go straight to the theatre. If we aren’t rehearsing, we’re painting set
pieces or collecting props. Ginny roped me into sewing (straight lines only), and Grace has come in twice for extra help on
her songs because she’s already so nervous.
Booker is always waiting after rehearsals, proving he was serious about getting as much time as he can with me this summer,
and I won’t lie... I don’t hate it.
We raid the Commons after hours and watch reruns of The Office with Daisy and Louie. We attend cooking classes and show up for swing dancing because Daisy begs us to. We make root beer
floats and kiss under the stars on my back patio.
And all of these moments spent with a man I’m trying desperately not to love become the ones that matter most of all.
They are the moments that make up my life.
Maybe this is all I need to be happy.
Kissing Booker has become my favorite pastime. He’s good at it. We’re good at it—well on our way to getting great at it.
I’ve mostly kept up with the group chat and contributed to choosing peacock blue as the color for Maya’s bridesmaids’ dresses.
Taylor is kicking around the idea of naming her baby Nellie, which I personally love, even though Marnie is violently opposed, thanks to old reruns of Little House on the Prairie .
And maybe I still haven’t caught them up on everything, but they’re a part of my life.
And that feels good.
And then there’s the show.
Even that is going well.
Yes, Belinda is still the diva, and the Margies often have to leave the stage mid-scene due to a bladder crisis, but after
a month of rehearsals, I’m actually starting to see it take shape.
The members of the cast eat and play pickleball and do Zumba classes together. They’re friends. And I like them.
And I like being here.
I even like working with Dylan, who is maybe the biggest surprise of all. She anticipates the things I’ll need before I even
ask for them, and it’s possible that my favorite part of this whole experience has been watching her come to life.
She’s still Dylan—all angst and eye rolls—but honestly, that’s come in handy, considering how many times she’s wielded them
on Belinda. Watching the two of them face off is like watching a nineteenth-century duel. Or a haphazard game of table tennis,
depending on the day.
I also notice that she’s the first one at the theatre and the last one to leave. Part of me thinks it’s because she doesn’t
feel like she really has a home, but I wonder if it’s something more.
Like maybe she loves it.
I want to know what the plan is for Dylan once the school year starts, but even the tiniest bit of probing leads to her clamming
up, leaving, or pulling out her phone and ignoring me, so for now I don’t push.
We eat lunch together in the dining hall as a cast, which is a truly wild experience.
It turns out theatre people are pretty much the same, regardless of age.
Loud talkers, big personalities, obnoxious laughter, and spontaneous sing-alongs, even in public places.
Of course, there are also the introverts, who perform for the love of performing and not because they want to be the center of attention.
Grace falls into that category, which makes her and me fast friends.
Daisy and Louie join us most days and manage to fit right in with the rowdy crew.
And so do I, which I never could’ve predicted.
In addition to teaching the music, I block scenes and talk to the cast about character and inflection and diction and projection.
These actors might not be professional, and they’re all much older than I am, but I realize early on that I do have things
I can teach them. Most of them haven’t done theatre since high school, if at all.
The great thing is that most of them listen. They care a lot about this show, and they’ve all taken ownership of their part
in it. They want it to be good, not only because they also know what’s riding on its success, but because they take pride
in their work. And several of them had to work up the courage to do this after years of wishing they would.
I admire that. They make me want to be brave too.
When I get stuck, I somehow always seem to get help from the most unexpected—and most qualified—person in the room.
Arthur.
And he helps in the quietest, most unassuming way.
Once, last week, Connie was really struggling in one of her scenes. I don’t like to do line readings—I feel like they can
insult an actor, taking away their ability to do their job—but after five straight minutes of conversing about the scene, Connie still wasn’t getting it. I even tried using examples from movies or TV shows, hoping she could mimic them,
but it was still so robotic.
“Why don’t we take a minute and we’ll come back and tackle it again?” I’d said, backing away from the stage because, honestly, I didn’t know what else to try to get through to her.
Arthur casually walked over and sat down in the row behind me. “What are you trying to get out of her?”
I frowned. “She’s playing the character too stiff. Too serious. I wanted the fairy godmother to feel like a cozy, quirky grandma.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then, thoughtfully, he simply said, “Ask her how she is around her grandkids.”
I actually saw the light bulb over my own head. Here I was, a supposed actor who has been taught to draw on my own life experiences to connect
with a role, and I didn’t even think of it.
It worked. Easily. She changed in an instant.
I turned toward where he was sitting to give him all the credit, but he was gone.
It seems that underneath the grouchy exterior, there’s still the heart of a teacher.
One thing Arthur doesn’t save me from, though, is Belinda.
She seems to live for every opportunity to make this whole process as difficult as possible. It’s challenging to have one
person in the cast who seems intent on ruining the show for everyone else, and I know this is something I have to handle.
I’m just not sure how.
Anytime I offer a thought or give her any direction, Belinda responds with either an excuse or an inane reason why she didn’t
do it that way in the first place, or why she simply can’t do whatever I suggest. It’s been going on for several weeks, and now, halfway through the process, I see it’s affecting the
others.
Evelyn and Sadie both questioned my blocking today in front of the rest of the cast, and I can feel the overall vibe of the
show shifting.
One evening, I’m packing up my things when I notice Arthur standing nearby. There are a few volunteers painting sets in the scene shop, but everyone else has gone.
“Sorry, I’m hurrying.”
He makes a grunting noise and waves a hand in the air. “It’s fine.”
I frown, and then I remember that usually, after rehearsal, Arthur makes himself scarce. It’s almost like three hours is too
much peopling and he needs to get away from everyone.
So, I reason, if he’s standing out here while I’m packing up...
“How did you think it went today?” I offer, hoping to open the lines of communication.
“It’s your show,” he says, shrugging. “How do you think it went?”
I’m inclined to steel my jaw and snark back some comment, but I resist. Because the longer I stand here, the more certain
I am that he has something to say.
I know that Arthur has a lot of knowledge and experience locked up in that head of his. In addition to teaching at NYU for
years, Arthur has directed at least thirty professional shows. He’s script-doctored more than a dozen. His name appears in
various roles—director, producer, designer, consultant—on more shows than I can count.
I’m assuming they offered him this position at Sunset Hills ages ago, and I’m also assuming he turned it down. Oddly, I don’t
think he turned it down because he thinks it’s beneath him, even though an argument could be made that it is. I think there’s
another reason.
I just don’t know what it is.
The mystery remains.
“If it were your show, how would you feel about it?” I ask, wanting honesty, not flattery.
He stops and looks at me. I can see the gears turning, as if he’s deciding to even deign a response.
He draws in a breath. “Connie needs to stop giggling after every line,” he says.
“Evelyn needs to learn her choreography. The scene with the stepsisters drags—the pacing needs to be much tighter, because that’s where the comedy is.
The timing just isn’t right. Edgar doesn’t open his mouth when he talks—there’s no way the audience will hear him.
” He stops when he sees me glance at the open notebook on the table next to my things.
He nods to it as if to say, “Go ahead . ”
I grab the notebook and pull the pencil out of my hair, scribbling in an unreadable shorthand to try to record his every thought.
He has notes for everyone, including Veronica, who isn’t going to want to hear his criticism of her choreography, so I add
a separate note to myself to sandwich the critique between compliments so it’s easier to digest.
“And, lastly...” He pauses, waiting for me to look up from my notebook. “You need to deal with your Belinda problem.”
I frown. “Yeah, I’m not—”
“You’re in charge, Rosie. And a good director knows she can’t have an actor going rogue. She needs to know she can be replaced.”
“I mean, I don’t take her suggestions,” I say weakly.
“But you do let her give them, right in the middle of when you’re talking.”
I wince. “And that’s bad.”
He shrugs as if to say, “Well, duh.”
“Look, Rosie, you’re a good performer.”
I go still, because whatever he’s about to say next feels important.