Page 138 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

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 ofA Doll’s Houseat The Majestic. We’re a regional theatre based in Chicago. Thisis 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’sA Doll’s House.

I first fell in love with the playin 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.

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