Chapter 30 #2
You okay?” but I don’t answer. He leaves, running back to the stage.
I stand, shaking. Then I start to whimper.
I drop the pipe with a clang, and slowly, apprehensively, move out of the scene shop toward the stage.
I’m immediately hit with a dank, musty, wet smell. There is still water coming from above, but as I look up, I realize it’s
not coming from the sprinklers anymore.
It’s the curtains, now sopping wet with brown water. They’re dripping in steady streams, slowly starting to lower. The brakes
on the lines are straining under the hundreds of gallons of added water weight.
Pools of water are everywhere on the stage, and I can see where some are starting to soak into the wood floor and the storage
room beneath.
Where all of the costumes, props, and set pieces are stored.
I...
I can’t...
I see Booker move over to the set pieces, most of which were stored on the stage or in the wings. He begins to assess the
damage.
Arthur is down from the rafters, and he rushes toward me.
“Rosie. Rosie, you need to get ahold of Connie. Tell her what happened.”
I stare. “Everything is ruined.”
He hesitates. “We don’t know that yet. I need you to focus, Rosie.”
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Yes. Call Connie. Mobilize people. Move.
I phone Connie, willing my voice not to shake as I relay what has happened. “We need fans and towels and... just...”
I shut my eyes. “Everything is ruined.”
She apologizes, but then I hear in her voice she’s leaping into action, letting me know she’ll contact everyone she knows.
I hang up the phone and turn to face the stage.
I see Arthur, soaking wet, directing a few people to start moving things. I see Booker, sweeping off swathes of water from
the castle set. Sadie and Evelyn are standing off to the side, stacking what looks like towels or blankets, and Ginny is stage
right, assessing what appears to be the loss of a whole rack of costumes.
I feel anger and pride rise.
No , I think.
Not like this.
I didn’t— we didn’t—work this hard and come this far to have it end like this.
I feel my spine stiffen and my jaw clench, and I know, as the director, what I need to do.
I walk to the center of the stage.
“Everyone!” I call out. “Everyone, listen up. This is probably the worst thing that could’ve happened, but this is not the end of this show. We work together. We figure it out, and we find a way.”
“We open in less than three weeks,” Belinda says sourly. “How are we going to do that now?”
Her Evil Stepmother energy hovers in the air, thick like a storm cloud that really wants to dump rain all over this stage—as
if it’s not wet enough.
I spin around and glare at her. “We’re going to figure it out.
We’re going to clean it up, and the show is going to go on.
” But I feel my resolve waiver even as I say the words.
Because this is an actual disaster. There’s a very good chance that even if the sets and costumes are okay, the stage and fly lines aren’t.
“Really,” Belinda scoffs. “It’s cute that you think you can fix this.” She waves a hand in the air. “On the plus side, you won’t have to tell anyone in your real life how you stooped
so low you directed this embarrassing little show with all of us old people all the way up here in Door County.”
I glance over at the three women who confronted me earlier. They all avoid my eyes.
“It’s not like that,” I say. Shame and a sense of being overwhelmed vie for equal footing at the back of my mind.
But Belinda and the others harrumph and walk off. As they reach the stage door, I hear Belinda say, “This musical is canceled .”
I clench my jaw, angry at this ridiculous situation, angry at myself for not truly seeing how important this show is to me
until now, when there’s a chance it might not happen.
Booker and Arthur work to soak up as much of the water as they can, and after a few minutes that feel like hours, three firefighters
come in.
I wander out to the center of the stage. The main drape drips thick, wet, discolored drops of water onto my head. I turn a
slow circle, looking around at the absolute mess.
All the work we put into the show—ruined.
Unless God grants us a small miracle, Belinda is right—the musical will be canceled.
Which means the whole Sunset Hills theatre program will be canceled too.
Rosie Waterman fails again.
I mentally sing a slowed-down, pathetic version of “Don’t Rain on My Parade”—the same lyric playing on a loop in my mind.
The words mean something completely different in light of our current situation.
I glance up and find Booker watching me. Beside him, Arthur looks desperate, almost guilty.
It dawns on me that he might’ve been next to the lines when the brake failed.
I turn away.
I finally understand that these people have somehow become everything to me. I’m not embarrassed by them. I’m proud.
They are what’s been missing all along.
Slowly, Arthur makes his way out to center stage. When he reaches me, he stops. “I... I should’ve checked the—”
I cut him off. “No. This isn’t your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”
His shoulders slump in relief.
I stare out over the empty auditorium, now muggy and thick with a mildew odor. Only yesterday, I’d imagined people in these
seats. I’d imagined their applause, their laughter, their awe at the way this cast brings a classic fairy tale to life.
Now I can only imagine silence.
“What do we do, Arthur?” I feel the desperate resignation in my throat.
“I don’t know, Miss Director,” he says. “What do we do?”
It feels like a challenge from a teacher who isn’t willing to spoon-feed me the answers. But I’m not equipped to handle this.
This is a nightmare.
I toss him a look. “Belinda might be right.”
He shrugs. “If that’s your decision, then I’ll support you.”
In the silence, I feel that anger and pride rise again. “I don’t want to quit.”
He nods. “That’s a start.”
I sigh, looking at the stage. “But this...” I turn to him. “What would you do?” I want him to write me a game plan because
I have no idea where to begin.
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t quit either.” He smiles. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”
When he walks away, I search the wings for Booker, but he’s gone back into the scene shop to talk to the firefighters.
I break into the bridge of “Don’t Rain on My Parade,” turning back to the imaginary audience and moving downstage, closer
to where, somehow, some way, in three weeks’ time—there will be a real audience full of people ready to cheer for my cast
as they open a surprising, magical production of Cinderella .
My cast.
My show.
My mailbox.
I just have no idea where to begin.