Chapter 42
It’s the day of the last show.
Tomorrow, my contract is up.
Tomorrow, I’ll be leaving. And I’m full of emotions.
The temptation to shove them all away, to force myself not to feel any of it, is notable, but I resist. And when I arrive
at the theatre, I take it all in. Every ounce of the experience that I can safely say has changed me.
I’m not the same person I was when I arrived.
I wonder if every performer feels the same about an empty stage, an empty theatre. Like it’s an invitation to sing without
judgment or worry.
And so I sing.
It’s like I can’t help myself, and the words to “For Good” from the musical Wicked flow out of me, perfectly fitting for the way I feel about this whole experience and these people.
When I reach the end of the first chorus, I’m surprised by a second voice, coming from the wings, and when I turn, I see Dylan
walking toward me.
Shut up.
Dylan can sing?
My eyes go wide, and I blink back tears as she sings the entire second verse, and then I join her on the chorus. We end in
a flourish, possibly in a different key than we started in, and I have to wipe my cheeks dry when she is the one who reaches
out for a hug.
“This feeling-all-the-feelings thing kind of sucks,” I say into her shoulder.
She laughs and draws back. “You know, you leaving here is actually good for me.”
“Oh?”
“Because I’m going back to my mom’s, and even though she’s talking about doing all kinds of mother-daughter crap—thank you
for that, by the way—I’ll actually still be able to see you. If you end up in Chicago, I mean.”
Dylan knows about the audition, but she doesn’t know my plan is to live and work in Chicago, regardless of what Britta’s email
says.
The email that’s still sitting there unread. Yes, it’s been nearly impossible not to open it. Yes, it’s been tormenting me.
But I made a promise to myself to stay in the moment here. Never mind that I’ve done plenty of research about Britta Shockley,
about this production, the director, The Majestic. It’s been very... enlightening.
I smile at Dylan. “I’m glad for that too. Not the ‘still seeing you’ part, but for sure the lame mother-daughter crap.”
She laughs, and it’s so genuine that tears prick the corners of my eyes.
“Are you two finished being sappy?” Arthur’s voice calls down from the catwalk.
I smile up into the darkness. “Lord, is that you?”
“Funny.” I can hear him harrumph.
I draw in a breath. “One more show.”
“I need to go check the props table,” Dylan says.
“Isn’t that someone else’s job?” I ask.
“Yes.” She starts toward the door. “But I just want to be sure.”
As she walks out, Arthur appears in the wings. He seems to have no intention of stopping to talk to me, so I trail behind
him. “Did you know Dylan could sing?”
“Nope.” He leaves the backstage area and walks into the scene shop. “Nice voice, though.”
I follow him into his office and sit down on the only open seat. “You should clean this place.”
“I call it creative chaos.” He sits behind the computer.
“I call it a disaster.”
“Good thing you’re leaving then.” He tries to hide his smirk, but I catch a glimpse of it before he turns away.
“Saw you with Bertie,” I say, probing.
He looks up at me. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m really glad you’re talking again,” I say, but the request for more information is evident in my tone.
He shoots me another look, and I begrudgingly take the hint.
I look around his office. “So... I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s a first.” Arthur clicks around on his computer, barely acknowledging me.
“Okay, first, nice dig, and second, I went back through my submissions. I have a tendency to randomly panic-submit for jobs
I’m technically right for. And some I’m really not right for. I mean, that’s how I ended up here.”
He squints over at me. “Is that what happened?”
I ignore him. “And I started to think about Britta Shockley.”
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
I fold my arms. “She’s the casting director who asked me to audition for A Doll’s House .”
He shrugs, remaining disinterested.
I watch him, letting my pause grow a bit, just to see if he reacts.
He doesn’t.
He’s good.
“So I went back through my submissions.” I chew on the inside of my cheek, leaning forward a bit, looking for a rise, a flinch,
anything.
Still no reaction.
“And I’ve never submitted anything to Britta or her company or to The Majestic Theatre before.”
Arthur flips through a few folders on his desk.
“But you know who did work at The Majestic Theatre?”
Ha! There it is.
He stops shuffling the folders and pulls his hands into his lap. He stares blankly at the screen in front of him and seems
to be purposely avoiding my eyes.
“You.”
He draws in a deep, slow breath.
I go on. “ And the artistic director was one of your students.” I pull up the theatre’s staff page on my phone, still open from last night’s
deep dive, and read the pertinent information. “‘Harold Lowe was a longtime assistant director and student of Arthur Silverman.
Together, the pair brought more than fifteen productions to The Majestic stage before Arthur’s retirement in 2021. Harold
hopes to continue the Silverman tradition of teaching, encouraging, and using theatre to bring people together.’”
I look at him. “You sent them my information.”
He turns but doesn’t fully meet my eyes. “You have no proof.”
“Arthur!” I wait until he finally looks up. “Why would you do this for me?”
He finally relents. “All I did was get you the audition. You still have to get the part yourself.”
I pause, then say, “I got the email on Friday.”
His eyes widen. “And?”
“I haven’t opened it yet,” I say.
“Why not?” The lines in his forehead deepen with his frown.
“I was trying to make sure I was, you know, in the moment.”
He only stares.
“For the cast,” I say. “They deserve my undivided attention.”
He holds the silence for a beat, and then, as if it’s a line in a play, he says, “Well, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Now I’m the one frowning.
“Open it,” he says.
“Now?” I ask, but what I really mean is, “In front of you?”
He quirks a brow.
I typically don’t love to share my rejection, as evidenced by, well, the last seven years.
But maybe this will be good for me. Still, I hesitate.
And still, he stares.
“Fine.” I click over to my email, scroll to Britta’s name, and open it. My heart is racing with nerves as I scan the words
that come in and out of focus on the screen.
“Well?” Arthur leans closer. “What does it say?”
My eyes jump to his, but I don’t let my expression give anything away. “Do you really not know?”
“I really don’t,” he says. “I floated your name and that’s all.”
I hold his gaze for a three count, but after that, I can’t keep the smile from spreading across my lips.
“You got it,” he says, and I get the sense he’s having trouble keeping his own smile away.
“I got it,” I say.
He neutralizes his expression. “Well. Yes. Good.” He clears his throat. “That’s great news, Rosie. Congratulations.”
I smirk, but he’s not looking at me anymore. “Why did you do this for me?”
“I didn’t—”
“But you did,” I cut in. “I hear you when you say I got the part, but you opened the door.” I pause. “Why?”
He leans back in his chair and looks at me.
“I could say because it’s what Annie would want me to do.
” He stops, like he’s trying to find exactly the right words.
“But the truth is, I see something in you. As long as you stay out of your own way, I think you’re going to be”—he squints—“Exceptional.”
I feel myself brighten at this. Like a flower turning toward the sun. “You really think so?”
“Don’t go fishing for more compliments. You get the one, that’s it.” He starts shuffling papers on his desk but then stops
again and looks at me. “And remember, you can be exceptional anywhere.” He gives me a little nod, as if to punctuate the sentence,
then stands, walks over to a shelf, and picks up a small box. He opens it, and for a moment, he’s lost to whatever memory
he finds inside.
When he turns back to me, I stand, but I don’t say anything.
“This was Annie’s,” he says. “She didn’t believe in good luck. She believed in making your own. At least she said she didn’t,
but she never did a show without wearing this.” His hand shakes a little as he picks up a gold chain with a small butterfly
charm hanging on the end of it. “It’s the first gift I ever got her.” He smiles down at it, then holds the necklace out to
me. “I want you to have it.”
I hold my hands up. “I can’t take that.”
“ Annie would want you to have it.”
“Arthur, you can’t give that away,” I say.
“Why not?” He pulls his hand back. “Annie’s not in this necklace like some Horcrux. She’s here...” He taps his chest, then
sets the necklace back inside the box. “We never had children, Rosie. And the thought of passing this on to someone who reminds
me so much of her, well, that makes me happy.”
I look at the necklace, then at him. “You’re sure?”
He nods and holds it out to me.
Slowly, I take it, feeling how precious it is. “I’m going to make you proud.”
And that feels like exactly the kind of promise I can carry with me into the next chapter—whatever it holds.
“Good,” he says. “Now get out of here and let me do my work. I have to figure out what show I’m directing in the fall.” He plops back down in his chair, leaving me standing there, mouth ajar.
“What?”
“Connie offered me the job when you turned it down,” he says. “I decided to give it a go.”
I do nothing to hide my smile, and he must sense it because he waves me off and orders me out of his office.
I turn to leave, but when I reach the door, I glance back, and that’s when I see him wipe a tear from his eye. And I think
this precious, bristly, gooey-centered genius has changed my life forever.