Page 140 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

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 ofThe 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.”

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