Chapter 39
Pro/con lists aren’t really my style.
Usually, I trust my gut.
But right now, my gut is only thinking of Booker.
So I made a list.
It didn’t help.
At the end of the day, this isn’t the kind of decision a simple list can make for me. The pros and cons are all super important,
but equally so. Which means this is the kind of decision I have to make for myself.
This is my life. What do I want it to look like?
The thought makes my stomach tumble.
A few days before we open, we break for dinner, and as I sit down to eat the pasta Daisy picked up from the dining hall for
me, I check my email for the first time today.
I’m bulk deleting the junk mail without paying much attention when I see one with the subject line: Audition Request.
I blink.
It’s still there.
Audition Request.
I click on it.
Dear Miss Waterman,
Your headshot came across my desk, and I’d like to see you for a part in a new production of A Doll’s House at The Majestic.
We’re a regional theatre based in Chicago.
This is a professional credit. If you could send in a self-tape, we’d like to hear you read the attached pages for the part of Nora.
You can use an off-screen scene partner.
If cast, rehearsals will begin in early September with a two-month run, seven shows a week, Mondays and Tuesdays off. If you’re
unable to audition at this time, please let me know; otherwise, we’ll need your tape back by the end of the week.
Sincerely,
Britta Shockley
I read the email again. It’s the kind of email I always wanted to get. They want to see me. For a professional role.
This is my dream.
I guess my propensity for bulk-submitting paid off—although I sent those before I came here, and like with this job, I have
no memory of submitting for this.
It doesn’t really matter.
It’s A Doll’s House .
I first fell in love with the play in college when I spent a summer in New York and saw the revival on Broadway. The entire experience moved me, and I related
to Nora. I still do. It’s why her monologue is part of my portfolio.
I take note of the bubble of nerves in my belly as I type out a reply:
Dear Miss Shockley,
I will happily submit for this role, and I’ll have my tape back to you by the end of the week.
Thank you for your consideration.
Sincerely,
Rosie Waterman
I resist the urge to add: PS, Nora has been a dream role for me ever since the day I saw the show on Broadway. But I’d happily play any role or be the
person who gets the director coffee, which would definitely be a step up from 98 percent of the jobs I had when I lived in
New York.
After all, adding too much personal detail in a business email is frowned upon.
And would probably make Britta Shockley think I’m a weirdo.
“You’re smiling.”
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, a plate of uneaten pasta in front of me, while I hit Send on the reply to Britta Shockley.
I look up and see Booker standing beside me, amusement playing behind his eyes and his baseball hat turned backward.
I’m a sucker for a guy in a backward baseball hat.
“You’ve hardly eaten.” He sits down next to me.
I hand over my phone and twirl some spaghetti onto my fork while he reads the email. When he’s finished, my mouth is full,
and his eyes go wide, excitement on his face.
“This is a big deal, right?” He hands it back to me.
“Not really.” I lay it on thick. “I mean, it’s just a dream role at a professional theatre in a major market...”
“Congratulations!” He picks up my garlic bread and takes a bite.
“Well, I haven’t gotten it yet,” I say. “I still have to audition.”
He lets out a pfft sound. “Details.”
If only I were as confident in myself as he is. Never mind that he knows nothing about theatre or acting or auditions. It’s
still nice to have someone tell me I’m great.
I stare at the words on my phone. “I never thought about Chicago. Seems too close to home. I mean, I never really considered
anywhere but New York, but they do have a huge theatre community there. Tons of shows premiere there before going to New York.”
He swallows his bite. “One of the many things to admire about the city.” Then he winces. “Their football team, however...”
I pick up my plate and take another bite. “I’m going to audition. I already have the monologue memorized. I just...” I
think about the last time I performed it for the renowned coach who held the master class I attended a few years back.
The performance was followed by probing questions, the kind that sent me running from the room.
But I don’t want to run anymore.
“Booker, do you think I could tell you my life’s story?”
He’s mid-drink, but my question stops him. He coughs as he takes the bottle away from his mouth. “Uh, sure?”
“It’s just... I need to let myself feel some things before I record this performance, and I think it’ll help.”
He takes my hand and squeezes it. “I would love to hear your life’s story. When?”
“Tonight?” I ask on a wince because it’s already dinnertime and we still have to finish rehearsal.
He lets go of my hand and picks up the other half of my garlic bread. “And to think... it’s not even Friday.”
***
I know that cutting my heart open and gushing all over the stage isn’t a requirement for this audition—but I think I need
to do it.
It’s time that I finally— finally —let myself connect with the hard feelings.
And also? I really do want to open up to Booker. More than facts and details. More than tarps and pizza.
I want him to know me. Warts and all.
That may be foolish and misguided, given the fact that our summer romance will end with the season, or maybe that’s why he
feels safe.
Dump it all, then leave. Clean.
I know in my heart that’s not true.
So I tell him. Unprompted. Unfiltered. And unabridged.
“Booker Hayes,” I say, sitting in a chair at the center of the stage. “Welcome to my life.”
I tell him about my dad leaving and what it did to my mom. I tell him what that in turn did to me. I tell him about the nights
I slept on the floor outside her bedroom because I was worried she’d leave me in the middle of the night. I tell him how I’ve
spent years chasing after a dream, but I didn’t really know until a few days ago that I’d been chasing it for the wrong reasons.
That I’ve been so worried about pleasing other people that I forgot to check in with myself and figure out who I am and what
I want out of this one life I get to live.
I tell him I feel like this summer has been an awakening. I’ve opened myself up to possibilities. I’ve begun to see all the
ways I’d closed myself off. I’ve woken up. Just like Nora at the end of A Doll’s House . Her monologue is a realization that she’s lived to please other people but that she is equal to her husband, who only ever
treated her like a doll. A plaything.
When I’m finished sharing all of these things, when the feelings are right there, poking through the surface, I ask Booker
to record my performance.
It’s a monologue I could recite backward and forward. I could do it in my sleep. Without thinking. I’ve had it memorized for
so long, with choreographed gestures and manufactured emotions.
I throw all of that away.
Instead, I think about Nora. And I think about me. I think about how it felt to be left behind by someone who was meant to
love me forever. I think about growing up too fast and making sure my actions pleased as many people as possible. Of playing
a part, even in my own life.
I think about holding myself back because I was afraid. Of standing in my own way.
And I use Nora’s words to communicate all of those feelings.
When I’m finished, I look at Booker, who stands a few feet away, recording. His eyes are wide, and for a second I’m worried he thinks that was terrible. But then he shakes his head, an impressed disbelief on his face.
He clicks the video off. “Wow, Rosie, what was that?”
“That was my monologue,” I say. “Was it okay?”
“I mean, I’m no expert, but—”
“I am,” Arthur calls out from the catwalks.
And I want to hide. I look up into the darkness, but I don’t see him. “You saw that?” I call out.
“I did.”
“Can you come down here? This is like talking to the Almighty,” I joke.
He chuckles. “Maybe I like it that way.”
A few seconds later, Arthur appears at the top of a winding metal staircase that leads from the catwalks down to the stage.
I freeze like a person on trial, waiting for the judge to issue a verdict.
Arthur walks over to me, slowly, like he’s got all the time in the world, and I realize that his opinion means more to me
than getting the actual part.
He stops in front of me and sticks his hands on his hips. “What’s the monologue for?”
“An audition.”
“For Nora?”
“Yep.”
Then he narrows his eyes, as if summing me up one more time before sending me off to the gallows. “I don’t believe in flattery.”
“Did you flatter Annie?” I straighten.
“Not onstage,” he says seriously.
I smirk.
“I only give compliments when they’re earned.”
“Like the Paul Hollywood handshake?” I ask, but it’s obvious by his expression that Arthur is not a fan of The Great British Bake Off .
Booker says, “I think that performance more than earned a compli—”
Arthur holds up a hand that shuts him right up. “Like you said. You’re not an expert.”
The old man turns his gaze to me. “I’ve seen this monologue performed a million times. Usually those performances are closed
off and stiff and”—he scrunches up his face—“Act-y. Maybe a little like you would’ve been.”
I give him a firm nod, letting him know I can take it.
“What you just did here?” He points to the stage. “Was none of those things.”
I force myself not to smile, but I feel the compliment wash over me.
“You were thoughtful and measured and, Rosie”—he leans in and quietly says—“I believed you.”
Warmth crawls from my belly up to my neck and all the way to my cheeks. I press my lips together, holding in a smile, but
the tears in my eyes give me away.
But Arthur isn’t finished. “I don’t know what the director is looking for, but if this were my show, I’d cast you in a heartbeat.”
At that, a tear escapes.
Arthur glances at Booker, then back to me. “Feelings aren’t the enemy, Rosie. Let yourself feel them. Those are your tools.
The joy and the elation. The hurt and the despair. They all go together, working in tandem to become the memories that matter
most of all. For work and for life.”
It takes me a second to pull myself together, but once I do, I say, “That’s good advice, Professor.” I reach out and squeeze
his shoulder. “For both of us.”
He waves me off, his face returning to its usual gruff and craggy expression. “Yeah, yeah.” He turns to go, but I call after
him.
“Arthur?”
He glances at me over his shoulder.
I start bouncing to a song that’s playing in my head and burst out into the chorus of “Wishin’ and Hopin’” by Dusty Springfield,
which I used to perform in my bedroom using the choreography from the opening credits of My Best Friend’s Wedding .
I change “him” to “her” and hope Arthur understands I’m talking about him showing Bertie how he feels about her.
To my utter shock, Arthur doesn’t grunt and storm off. He actually starts dancing in a goofy little circle, which makes me
giggle so much I stop singing, and Arthur has to pick up the music.
I regain my composure and we finish the chorus duet-style.
“Think she’ll talk to me?” he asks when the song is finished.
“If you sufficiently grovel, I think she might consider it,” I tell him.
He points a finger upward. “Right.” He starts for the door, then turns back. “Are flowers a good idea?”
“Always,” I call after him.
Another upward point, and then he’s gone.
I spin a circle on my heel and find Booker smirking at me. “You two theatre geeks are adorable.”
I smile. “He’s a great teacher.”
“And you’re a brilliant actor.” He holds up the phone, where the video is paused. “You ready to send this?”
I walk over, take the phone, and open a new email. Without thinking or doing another take, I type out a quick note in reply
to Britta’s email, upload the video to Google Drive...
Then I hit Send.