Page 68 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

Connie starts talking about the last show the Sunset Players put on, and I let the ambient noise of the dining hall drown her out as I do my best to relax and remember how it feels to perform. Because if I’m going to do it, I need to really do it.

If we don’t get anyone to audition, they’ll cancel the show, and I’ll have to move into my parents’ basement, where I’ll reenact my stint as the corpse onLaw & Order, lying on a couch in a room with no windows.

I close my eyes and draw in a very deep breath, realizing that I’m not ready to leave this place.

“Ladies and gentlemen...” Connie pauses, I think for dramatic effect? And then she inhales a sharp breath and continues.

“Picture it—you’re up on the stage, under the warmth of the theatre lights, a whole audience full of people who’ve come out just to see you.” She pauses, and I let the words rest on my shoulders. I know exactly the feeling she’s describing.

“Maybe you always dreamed of acting. Maybe it’s something you did before you found us here at Sunset. Or maybe you want to do something that scares you, something that reminds you that you’realive.” She holds out that last word on a long, dramatic whisper. “Well, my friends, I’m here to tell you that you are absolutely not too old, not here at Sunset Hills. Here, we want tocelebratethelife you’ve already lived and help you enjoy all the many years you have left.

“But let’s not take my word for it.” Connie smiles brightly. “I want to introduce you all to our brand-new theatre director, who is here this summer straight from New York City and who is holding auditionsthis very afternoonfor our next Sunset Players production:Cinderella!”

There’s a collectiveoohand a bit of chatter in response to Connie’s dramatic speech.

She continues. “I’m going to let our new theatre director tell you all about that, but first we thought we’d give you a little preview of the caliber of performer you’re going to be working with if you choose to join us this summer.”

Connie looks out over the expectant faces, now visibly interested in the picture she’s painted, and I have to hand it to her, she knows how to work a crowd.

“Without further ado, please help me welcome the sensational Rosie Waterman!”

There’s a smattering of applause, and then the lights go out, which was Connie’s idea that Arthur begrudgingly went along with.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter if I’m performing in a dining hall of a retirement community or on the stage of a Broadway theatre—the effort should be the same.

I also say a silent prayer of thanks that my initial perusal of this place turned up no evidence that Booker is here right now.

Never mind that Dylan is still holding her phone up, ready to record.

I’ve had “Don’t Rain on My Parade” fromFunny Girlin my portfolio since college. And even though I’d never get the part in real life, that isn’t going to stop me from performing it now.

I once had an acting professor who, in an attempt to help his students calm their audition nerves, told us not to look at it as amoment of being judged but rather as a chance to perform. For two minutes, I got to be Katherine inNewsies, Glinda inWicked, Miss Honey inMatilda, whether anyone gave me permission to be or not.

So that’s what I do.

The music begins, and as I walk toward the front of the room, I hold the microphone up, and I let myself forget all of it.

The years of rejections.

The circumstances that brought me here.

The fact that I’m homeless and this job is not at all what I thought it would be.

I remember why I picked this profession in the first place.

I just let myselffeelthe character. I let myselfbecomethe character. All of Fanny’s hopes and dreams are mine. And I’ll soak up some of her self-confidence too.

The first time I sawFunny Girl, I was ten years old. I came home sick from school, and my mom made me chicken soup and served it to me on a TV tray with cinnamon toast and ginger ale, and popped in an old DVD from her collection.

The second I saw the back of Barbra Streisand’s leopard-print coat and hat as she stood outside the New Amsterdam Theatre with her name lit up on the marquee, I was hooked. Completely enraptured.

Here was this woman who’d been told her whole life all the reasons why she couldn’t make it.

Nobody thought she was pretty enough for the stage.

Yet somehow, her belief in herself was enough, and she proved them all wrong.

That was the day I realized what I wanted to do. The day my own Broadway dreams were born. And every time I got knocked down, I’d rewatchFunny Girland tell myself that nobody believed in Fanny either.

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