Page 51 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Look, I promise it’s going to be fun,” I tell her, even though I’m not convinced that’s true. “I mean, itcouldbe fun. We couldmakeit fun. You could help backstage again or maybe do hair and makeup? Or run lights? There’s tons of places where we need help.”

Dylan’s stony expression holds, and I decide desperation is not going to win her over.

“If you want to show up, you know where we’ll be,” I say. “The offer is open; I’d love to have you.”

“I’m probably busy.”

I nod, even though she’s not looking at me, because I recognize a brush-off when I hear one. I do think I made a dent, though.

“Okay, well. See you around.” I give a weak wave as I start off in the direction she told me to go. I follow the wide path to a fork and realize I have no clue which way to turn. This place really needs better signage, though I can see why they wouldn’t advertise staff housing for their residents. The staff is probably expected to know their way around.

I turn to the right, and after a few minutes I hit a dead end. It takes me several minutes to figure out how to turn my cart aroundbecause I couldn’t find the lever labeled F and R underneath my seat and between my legs, and then, after driving around for fifteen more minutes, I’m more lost than ever.

Worse, I’m pretty sure I’ve passed the bench where Dylan had been sitting at least three times. Thankfully, she’s gone, and I don’t have to feel like the kid who waves to her parents every time they pass by on the merry-go-round.

I do my best to start over, this time turning left where I think I previously turned right, veering off the pavement onto grass and then onto what looks like a dirt path. I can see where I need to go off in the distance past a few holes of the golf course, and even though I’m pretty sure we weren’t on dirt before, I think these carts can go anywhere. They drive on golf courses, which is a ton of grass, sometimes even sand, right?

At some point, the hard ground beneath me softens, and the cart slows and starts to make a funny noise—sort of an angry whirring. The front left end of the cart is leaning farther than the other wheels, and when I look down, I see the tires spinning, stuck to the halfway point in mud.

“Oh, come on!” I shout. But a quick glance around tells me I’m shouting into the ether. There’s nobody out here.

I’m lost.

And stuck in mud.

How appropriate.

I groan and stupidly try to get out of the golf cart, but when I plant both feet, I’m instantly up to my ankles in mud. My new white shoes are ruined, which is frustrating because the only other shoes I brought are a pair of bright green Crocs.

Also frustrating because I’m not sure how to get my feet out.

I grab on to the overhead bar on the driver’s side and pull my whole body up, extracting my feet from the slurping wet ground.

The sound is funny to me, and I actually laugh out loud despite my misery. Immediately after my rueful laughter, though, I start to panic. What if no one finds me?

What if there are animals out here? Like coyotes? Or bears, or wild turkeys? I know this is Wisconsin, but it might as well be the African plains. I’m not built for this.

I once had a run-in with an angry goose in the crosswalk of a city street. It came for me as if I were the one out of place and chased me halfway down the block.

I hold my mud-covered feet up in the air, hanging halfway off the cart, and I try to flick the chunky globs off my shoes. I kick slightly, and a giant pile of dark sludge falls with a splat to the ground. I turn around and try to see where I veered off the path, as if I have any hope of getting back there. The tire tracks are pretty defined, and I can see the spot where I hit this Midwestern swamp. It’s only about three big jumps away. Three jumps to solid ground.

Three jumps.

I took dance.

I can do that.

If I can get back to that spot without sinking farther into this mess, I can walk back the way I came and hopefully find someone to help.

I absently brush my hair from my face, and I can feel the giant wet trail of mud left on my cheek.

Fabulous.

I glance down at the large imprints my feet left in the mud. They’ve filled back up with water already.

This is going to be messy. But it’s just mud. And mud washes off, right?

Yeah. Tell that to my shoes.

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