Page 19 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I immediately receive three text replies, and I tuck my phone away, still thinking about my friends. Not even one week at home, and it was like no time had ever passed at all. Maybe that’s how it is with people you grew up with.

People who helped you become who you were going to be.

In high school, Maya made my slightly outdated fashion preferences cool with three simple words:“Audrey Freaking Hepburn.”Wewere freshmen, and she came over to my house, pulled me into my bedroom and said, “You’ve got this great artistic vibe going on, but”—she waved a hand in my general direction and scrunched up her nose—“It needs to be edited.”

“Edited?” I’d been confused. I wasn’t trying to have a vibe. I was just wearing what was on the top of the pile.

That’s when Maya pulled out a bunch of photos and taped them to my mirror. They were all of Audrey. “From now on, you channelher.”

I stood and walked over to the mirror. “I don’t think I can pull this off.”

Maya took me by the arms and looked me straight in the eye. “From now on, you aren’t just a mousy girl who likes to pretend to be other people for fun. You’re Rosie Freaking Waterman. Serious Actress. And you’ve got style.”

“I really don’t.”

“You’re right.” She squinted. “But you will.”

Maya took me shopping, invited Marnie and Taylor over for makeovers, and by the second week of ninth grade, I had an identity that actually suited me. Pixie pants and belted dresses and headbands and ballet flats. She took the fact that I never really fit in and made it my trademark. It didn’t make me cool, exactly, especially not to people like Ireland Abbot, but it helped shape my identity.

After spending some time in that memory, another thought hits me.

I really should thank her for that.

My eyes scan the dashboard, eventually making their way to Booker. “So... what do you do?”

“Physical therapist,” he says.

“Really?” I’m hoping my reaction doesn’t read as big as I think it does. I look at his work boots. “You don’t look like a physical therapist.”

He chuckles and the corner of his mouth lifts. “And what does a physical therapist look like?”

I frown, holding up my hands and moving them in front of me as if I’m picturing the architecture of a building that’s not there. After a moment, I slump them to my lap. “I don’t know actually.”

Then, after a pause, I ask, “Don’t you have, like, way too much of an education to pick people up from the bus station?”

“I do whatever’s needed,” he says. “Rehab an injury, help out around the cottages, or”—he tilts his head at me—“Run a taxi service.”

“Impressive.” A physical therapist who volunteers for a theatre community? Not typical.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

I smile. “Normally I just say Chicago because it’s easier for people to find on a map than the small town no one’s ever heard of. It’s about an hour outside of Chicago,” I say. “Like a suburb of a suburb.”

“And that’s where you do theatre?”

Do theatre. Cute.

“Oh no, I moved to New York after college.” It always sounds cooler than it is.

“New York? Whoa. You’re, like, legit.”

I suck in air through my teeth and shake my head, “Ohh, I wouldn’t go that far.” If only he knew how many nonworking actors there are in New York. Living there isn’t the impressive part.

I keep my insight to myself. “I’m guessing this job will be a little different than other ones I’ve had, though.”

He chuckles like he knows something I don’t. “Uh,yeah. Safe to say it’ll be a bit different.”

His reaction strikes me as a bit odd, but I just chalk it up to him probably thinking I’m a long way from New York. “I just mean because I’m on the creative team.” I look at him. “Not on the stage.”

---