Chapter 28 #2
“But if you want to be, you could be a great director.” He draws in a breath. “You have options, is all I’m saying. And all
of it helps make you better.”
I can see he’s uncomfortable giving me a compliment, so I try my very hardest to keep my face neutral, to pretend that his
words aren’t potentially the most meaningful anyone has ever said to me. To my shock, he’s not finished.
“You’re good with people,” he says. “That’s key. A lot of directors are like dictators, and while they might put the fear of God into their actors, they create a hostile work environment.”
I begin to see a softness at his edges, and I wish I’d known him back when he was teaching. “What kind of director were you?”
His face shifts. “Contrary to what I’m sure is current popular belief, I was... fun.” He draws in a breath and sits down
in an aisle seat next to where I’m standing. So I sit across from him, anxious for him to go on. “As long as Annie was there.”
I watch Arthur but try not to stare, because I can practically see all the memories stored in the wrinkles of his skin. And
I have a feeling those memories are the kind he keeps for himself.
“She calmed me down,” he says, voice tinged with nostalgia. “She was the one who made me believe I could do more than just
perform. You know, they always say, ‘Those who can’t do, teach,’ but the truth is—teaching was hard. It is hard. And I’m sure you’ve had bad teachers who proved that not everyone can do it. Not well anyway.”
At that, I wince a knowing smile. “I absolutely have.”
“There are teachers—great actors, mind you—who tear their students down because it makes them feel smarter or special,” he
says.
“Professor Castle,” I say, surprised by this unexpected connection.
“Professor Hall,” he says.
I smile. Common ground .
“I wasn’t going to be that kind of teacher or director,” he tells me. “And if I ever hinted at letting my ego in, well, my
Annie kept me on track.”
“ My Annie , ” he said .
Nothing feels the same as when you belong to someone, held in their hearts and resting in their minds.
“She never let me get away with anything, least of all thinking I’m more important than anyone else.” He smiles, and for a
moment, he’s lost in the memory.
I don’t dare interrupt because the memory looks like a beautiful one.
“I still can’t believe that woman loved me,” he says wistfully.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, hopefully lightly enough. “I’m sure you were lovable once.”
He looks over at me, and when he meets my eyes, he actually laughs. It’s the first time I’ve even seen him smile, and it stirs
something inside me.
Happiness.
I’m starting to see the common thread of what has made me happy this summer, now that I’ve really tuned in. It’s the one thing
I’ve continued to push away—other people. Relationships. Connection. The real kind, where I admit to the ugly parts of my
life and let the chips fall where they may.
The one thing that scares me the most is the thing that’s been missing all along.
I’ve let my own embarrassment keep me so isolated, and now I wonder if that’s been the problem all along.
I don’t wonder. I know. It has been the problem.
I’ve built myself a lonely life.
I press my lips together, unsure how to ask for clarification on something I don’t think he wanted to talk about in the first
place. “Why do you think I could be a great director?”
His thin eyebrows shoot up. “Didn’t peg you as one to go compliment fishing.”
I laugh to myself. “I swear I’m not. I just... never really thought of myself as a director.”
“Your ego told you that you wanted to be the one getting all the applause,” he says, not unkindly.
“No, I—” But I stop myself. Because maybe he’s right. Was it pride that has kept me isolated?
“Maybe,” I admit. “I mean, I love the work, but I think...” One glance at him, and I know he’s listening. And oddly? Not judging. I cross one leg over the other and scoot back in the chair. “I’ve always wanted to perform. For as long as I can remember, that has been my dream.”
“And now?”
I shake my head and shrug. Because now? I have no idea.
An odd sense of peace comes over me when I entertain the idea of pivoting. Or at least being open to the idea of pivoting.
“Annie always said I had a superpower.” He rests his hands on his lap, and his head bobs ever so slightly, perhaps involuntarily.
“But she made it clear I do not look good in capes.”
I smile at that. “I wish I’d known her. She sounds so wonderful.” I pause, then add, “And anyone who could put up with you
must be a saint.”
“That’s a fact.” He chuckles softly.
“So, what is this superpower?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He tilts his head and looks at me. “She said I can see things in people they can’t see in themselves.” His smile turns a bit
rueful. “You have that same gift.”
I laugh off the comparison. “Oh, come on. We’re so far apart from one another, you may as well compare apples and car batteries.”
He meets my eyes across the aisle, and I try not to let myself get caught up in how unexpected—and wonderful—this conversation
is. “Nobody else wanted to cast Grace as Cinderella, but you saw something in her. And you were right.” He points at me as
he says this. “She’s a beautiful Cinderella. And Dylan! Everyone thought you were crazy for bringing her on board, but look
at how she’s blossomed.”
And then, eyes going serious again, he says, “I’ve also noticed that, like me, you don’t share much about yourself.”
“Perceptive.”
He taps his nose. “Superpower.”
“Maybe you hold back because you’re a deep thinker,” he says. “And a deep feeler.”
I’ve never thought of myself as either... but now that I hear someone else say it, it makes sense.
I think about the Friday questions and how difficult it’s been to share with Booker. I want him to know me, but for some reason
I resist.
The third Friday, he went easy on me and asked about my family. I gave him the quick rundown, telling him about my mom and
John—my stepdad who adopted me and gave me his name and loved me like his own, blah, blah, blah.
But the next week, he asked about my real dad, and that was a much more difficult discussion. In the end, I stuck to the facts,
answering the questions as if the answers didn’t make me feel anything at all. When really, they made me feel everything.
Last Friday, Booker changed direction completely. His question was, “What’s your favorite way to be kissed?” which required me to show him my answer, multiple times, for lengths between thirty seconds and eighteen minutes.
Simply telling him wasn’t effective.
For his part, Booker had shared so openly I almost wondered if he’d ever had a hard time sharing feelings at all. I now know
that he once spray-painted the equipment shed at his high school’s baseball field because he was mad at the coach (and got
away with it). I also know his last serious relationship ended amicably when he and his ex-girlfriend, a professional marathon
runner who was every bit as intimidating as that makes her sound, realized they were better off as friends.
“She’s married now,” he’d told me, as if that could steal away my insecurity.
But this thought that I keep to myself because I feel too deeply? I don’t know... I glance at Arthur. “You think I’m a deep feeler?”
“Just putting it out there,” he says. “Maybe you avoid emotions because you feel them all a little more deeply than other
people. And that’s overwhelming.” He shifts in his seat.
I sit with it, like it’s a cat that’s curled up on my lap. Something about the words resonate.
“Professors always want you to relive the bad things,” I say.
“And you don’t want to do that,” he says—a statement, not a question.
I shake my head.
“Then you can’t use it.”
I look away, trying not to let the words penetrate the wall I’ve built around myself. Because some part of me—a part I buried
way, way deep down—already knows this. “It’s my life, Arthur. Not fodder for a future character.”
He stills. “That’s your job, Rosie. If you ever hope to make anyone feel anything, you have to let yourself feel it first.”
An unexpected knot forms at the back of my throat, and I will myself not to cry. “I can’t. It hurts too much.”
There’s a beat, and I work to keep my emotions in check.
But then Arthur says, “It’s supposed to hurt. It’s life.”
“Well, then,” I say, half laughing, “life sucks.”
“And that means you’re alive.” Arthur leans in, and I see a glimmer of something new in his eye. “That’s part of the adventure.
If everything was good all the time, you wouldn’t appreciate any of it. It’s the hard stuff that makes the good stuff so much
sweeter.”
I pause for a long moment, then decide it’s okay to confide in him. After all, hundreds of other students have probably poured
their hearts out to this man. “I don’t like reliving it.”
“I understand, Rosie.” He scoots back in the chair, still studying me. “But this is what’s holding you back.”