Page 37 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Are you all coming from a class?” Booker asks.

“Tap class with Veronica,” one of the women says. “Finally got my time step down.” She does a little shuffle that is definitelynota time step.

“Who are you?” A short woman who reminds me of Sophia fromThe Golden Girlstakes an aggressive step toward me. Then a side-eye to Booker. “Booker, you’re not cheating on my Lydia, are you?”

Booker squints over at her. “No, Evelyn, I’m not, since I’m not dating Lydia.”

She points at him. “But you should be. She is a catch. You’d be lucky to have her.” She steps away from me and turns towardthe woman next to her, muttering something along the lines of, “These men today don’t know a good thingsomething something something.”

Booker leans closer. “Lydia is her daughter. She’s eighteen years older than me and lives overseas.”

“Oh, Evelyn, don’t be ridiculous,” one of the other women says, eyes fixed on Booker. “How can he be cheating on Lydia when he’sclearlyhung up on me?” She laughs, her hand lingering on Booker’s bicep.

He gives her a very brotherly pat on the shoulder and says sweetly, “Betty, it would never work out. And to think that a woman like you would even want attention from a poor guy like me. You deserve so much better.”

She giggles and preens.

What am I even watching right now?

One of the others walks right up to me. “I’m Sadie Sullivan.” She sticks her hand out in my direction, and I shake it.

“Rosie Waterman.”

“She’s the new theatre director,” Booker says.

The aggregate gasp and chatter rivals the best chicken coops, as the women all start overlapping their reactions. There’s no way for me to make out full sentences in the barrage of comments.

“Oh my goodness, just in time for auditions...”

“I would make anexcellentCinderella...”

“...Edgar as the prince, then you’re crazy...”

“...hope you’re better than the last director...”

“Belinda’s not gonna like this...”

I frown. “I’m pretty sure I’m on the creative team, but I don’t know if I’m actually the director.”

As I say this out loud, yesterday’s realization returns: I should’ve asked more questions before accepting this job.

“Oh, that’s adorable,” one of the women—Betty maybe?—says. “Sweetheart, youarethe creative team.” She blinks at me.

I stare back blankly. “What do you mean?”

“You do it all!” She waves a hand like it’s a magic wand. “Lights, sets, choreography, music.”

“Well, you and whatever volunteers you can rustle up,” the one with the daughter—Evelyn?—says.

“You tell us where to stand, when to sit, and, oh! You’ll have to meet with Ginny about costumes. She’s really slow and partially deaf and blind in the one eye, so don’t stand to her right. I’d talk to her right away.”

The other women nod as if this is common knowledge about Ginny.

Evelyn starts walking toward the door. “Come on, girls. I’m starving! Let’s go eat.”

“We’ll see you at auditions, Rosie!” one of the women—Sarah? Sheba? Sadie?—says as she walks by.

The others offer various versions of the sentiment as their voices retreat down the hall. Booker seems to notice a stunned expression on my face because there is, in fact, a stunned expression on my face.

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