Chapter 30
Another week goes by and the show is starting to feel like a show. We’re a little less than three weeks from opening night,
and while there are some nervous jitters, there are also a lot of great things happening.
Veronica has finished teaching the choreography, I’ve taught all the music and blocked the entire show, so today... we’ll
attempt our first run-through.
I affectionately call it a Stumble-Through and Stop-and-Fix.
I arrive early to get things prepared, entering through the scene shop because, yes, I happen to know that Booker is already
here, working on his day off. And because I really want to see him.
I walk into the large space behind the stage, and there he is, putting the finishing touches on Cinderella’s house. I watch
him for a few seconds, mostly because he’s very nice to look at, but also because I’m keenly aware my time here is coming
to an end.
And because I really, really don’t want to say goodbye.
The door closes behind me, and at the sound of it, he turns, smiling when he meets my eyes. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
I walk over to him, and when I’m a foot away, he reaches for me. Letting myself step into his arms is the easiest thing in
the world.
He kisses me, and I can tell the intention is for it to be a simple hello, but it quickly becomes something more.
I savor it. Every time I kiss him, I savor it, because I know it’s all fleeting and soon he won’t be so accessible to me.
When he pulls back, I see he’s frowning.
“What?”
“You’re in your head,” he says, and I’m struck by how strange it is that he knows things about me already. Things nobody else
has bothered to pay attention to. “What are you thinking about?”
I shake my head, not wanting to admit it because I know how pathetic it sounds. Because I knew this going in. I said it out
loud. Told myself over and over what a bad idea this was. But I ignored my own warnings.
“Rosie?”
“I was just thinking”—I step back—“I’m only here for a few more weeks.”
The frown deepens. “So, in your head, you’re already saying goodbye?”
“No, I’m just...” But I am already saying goodbye. I’m already thinking about lasts when I should be thinking about firsts .
“We still have a few weeks,” he says. “Don’t get sad yet. Live in the moment, remember?”
Right. In the moment. You miss out on so much if you dwell on the past or try to predict the future. I draw in a breath, as
if to cement the reminder in my mind, and then because I can’t think of anything else to say, I smile. “I told my friends
about you.”
He inches back. “Ooh. This is a big moment. What did they say?”
“That you’re a beautiful specimen of a man.” I pump my eyebrows.
“So you’re telling me they’re smart women,” he jokes. He grins, then leans down and kisses me again, then moves back toward
Cinderella’s house. “Are they coming to the show?”
I’m caught off guard. “Oh. Uh, I don’t think so.” I white-knuckle the strap of my bag. “I don’t think they can make it.”
He watches me. He’s reading me. That’s what he does. He can see straight through me, past all the things I’m not saying.
“You didn’t tell them.”
I heave a big sigh. “I told them about you,” I offer.
“Rosie.”
“And they know I’m directing a show,” I say lamely. I find his eyes. “They just don’t know where . I think it would be... hard to explain.”
“Why? Are you embarrassed by us?” asks a voice from behind me.
I turn and find Evelyn, Sadie, and Ginny all standing in the doorway that leads to the dressing rooms downstairs.
“No! Of course not!” I protest, though I’m not sure it’s true. “I’m proud of you all. Impressed, even.”
“But not enough to invite anyone out to see it?” Ginny practically grunts. “My transformation dress alone is worth the price
of the ticket.”
“It is a beautiful dress,” I say, and I mean it. The costumes are beautiful. The set is beautiful. And the acting and the music are all really impressive, especially considering where we started.
But this is not what my friends think I’m doing up here. It’s not what I’ve led them to believe.
“Why haven’t you invited anyone, Rosie?” Sadie asks. “You know our ticket sales are low.”
“And you know how important it is that we have a successful run,” Evelyn pipes in. “We should all be inviting everyone we
know!”
“Do you not want people to come see the show?” Sadie asks as all three of the women stare at me.
“I—” I shrug. What do I say? Deep down, maybe I do know why I still haven’t told my friends and family how to get tickets
when they’ve all asked. Because I’m still too proud? Because I still care too much what people think? Because I’m still a
jerk?
And here I thought I was growing up this summer.
In the wake of my nonanswer, the three women turn to one another, looking hurt, and walk off.
The message I just sent them? That I’m ashamed and embarrassed by what we’re doing here—that all their hard work isn’t good
enough. I sigh. I feel awful.
I turn and find Booker watching me. His eyes are kind, but I feel like I’ve even let him down.
“I’ll invite them, I swear,” I say, sounding like a cheating husband promising it was just one time and it’ll never happen
again.
He squints at me. “Where do your friends think you are?”
“Where I told them. The Sunset Playhouse.” I slump to the floor, back against the wall. “I just didn’t correct that when I
found out where I would actually be working this summer.”
“ Are you embarrassed?” he asks.
I don’t look at him. I can’t.
I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I do feel embarrassed. When I shouldn’t. Which makes me feel even more ashamed.
As much as these people and this place are winning me over, I’ve still chosen to keep them a secret.
He sits against the opposite wall, facing me. “Rosie, if they’re really your friends, they won’t care what you do or where
you do it. You could be unemployed living in your parents’ basement or a Broadway star. Real friends don’t care.”
I want to ask if he’d stick around if I was unemployed and living in my parents’ basement, but he goes on.
“So are they real friends or not?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitating. “They are the best friends.” I’ve never doubted that for a second. The problem is not with
them. It’s with me. It’s always been me.
“Then you should tell them the truth,” he says. “All of it.”
All of it.
He has no clue how difficult that is for me. I don’t look at it as lying either. Not really. Just withholding some parts that aren’t as pretty as others.
This is what’s holding you back, Rosie.
And Booker wants me to tell them all of it? Even the part about being a failure? Even the part about not knowing if I want
to go back to New York? Even the part about worrying I’ve wasted all this time pursuing a dream that simply does not want
to come true?
I thought I’d made so much progress in being honest and sharing my feelings, but now I’m not so sure.
Booker must sense that my defenses have gone up.
“Hey,” he says, a bit softer. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do.”
I feel stupid for feeling this way. I know the right thing to do—I even know all of reasons to do it. It’s just that when
I come up to that point of admitting my failures, I have an overwhelming desire to hide.
I know it’s not a huge deal, and I also know that my cast is full of very dramatic senior citizens who act a whole lot like
very dramatic teenagers. Still, the thought that I might’ve hurt them in any way stings.
“I know,” I say. “I am working on it.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, smirking. “Every Friday.” And then, because he’s kind, he adds, “I think you’re ready.”
I look up at him just as I hear something crash.
A metallic crunch followed by another woody boom .
“What the—?” Booker jumps to attention, and we both race toward the noise.
There are voices, frantic voices, getting louder and more frantic as we get closer, and then—an alarm starts blaring.
Booker and I burst through the scene shop door and onto the stage.
It’s raining.
Inside the building.
Which is impossible. My brain is having trouble reconciling what I’m seeing when I hear Arthur’s voice from above me.
He’s in the rafters, near one of the fly lines, and the few people who had already arrived for rehearsal are running around,
covering their heads and calling out for help. Who they’re calling for, I’m not sure.
“Rosie!” Arthur hollers at me from up above. “We’ve had a flyaway!”
It takes a second for me to access this term, but when my mind finally finds the definition, I flash hot with panic.
In a theatre with a fly system—rigging and ropes and counterweights to fly in set pieces, backdrops, or lights—a flyaway is
when the counterweights become unbalanced, sending either the heavy steel bar that the pieces are hung from careening to the
ceiling, or the opposite, where a set piece comes crashing to the stage floor.
I wipe the smelly, brown sprinkler water from my face and look. There’s no line on the stage, so it must’ve shot toward the
ceiling.
Arthur calls out again. “One of the brakes failed—the line snapped a sprinkler head up here. Go find the shutoff valve!”
“The shutoff valve? Where is that?”
“Scene shop, left corner! The fire department is on their way!”
I’m frozen. I’m watching in horror as the sprinkler system is dumping hundreds of gallons of water on our set. On the stage.
On me.
“Rosie! Go! ”
I snap into focus. I do as I’m told, racing into the scene shop, wide-eyed and frantic, looking for and quickly finding the
shutoff valve, which is, of course, locked behind a fence with a chain and a padlock.
I let out a frustrated groan.
All I can hear is water and the violent monotonous blaring of the alarm.
I desperately look around and find a five-foot length of pipe, and start to pry back the fence where the chain joins it.
Booker comes in behind me, grabs the pipe, and we both pull it open enough where I can reach in and pound the shutoff button.
The alarm continues to blare, and the water slows to a dripping halt. Booker looks at me and says something like, “You good?