Page 102 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

He yanks the wrench out of my hands without so much as a glance in my direction. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you’re brilliant,” I say. “I read countless reviews of plays you directed. I think you’re the first person in the history of theatre to never get a bad one.”

I think about my own miserable reviews, and I’m even more in awe. Because I know how hard it is to get a critic to like you. Arthur didn’t seem to have that problem.

All of the critics seemed to agree on one thing: Arthur Silverman was brilliant.

“Why did you stop?” I ask.

He tightens a fixture, ignoring my question.

I hug my script to my chest, my gaze trailing to the stage floor. “This is the first show I’ve ever directed.”

“Obviously,” he says, annoyed.

The barb irritates me. “Just because I haven’t done as much as you or know as much as you doesn’t make me bad at it.”

He pauses working on the light, and his eyes flick to mine, and I realize that I have an opportunity to learn from one of the greats. And I want him to teach me. I’ll soak it all up—whatever he’ll share. I’ll take anything. Lighting, directing, acting, anything.

Except how to be a colossal jerk.

I’m just not sure how to get him to agree. Teaching hardly seems like a priority for him right now.

“You think I can do better? You think I need help?”

He raises his eyebrows as if to say,“You really want me to answer that?”

I lift my chin and stare straight at him. “Fine. Make me better.”

He moves down the row of lights. “And why would I do that?”

I’m not sure what I’m going for here, but I push on.

He thrusts another tool in my direction, and I hold it until he motions for me to give it back.

“Out of the goodness of your huge bleeding heart?” But my attempt at humor falls flat. I go still. “Don’t you miss it, Arthur?”

A sigh. A chink in the armor.

“Life is much simpler now,” he responds.

He keeps working on the final light fixture for several seconds without acknowledging that he heard me.

“Tell me about directingFunny Girl,” I say. “Why did my song make you emotional?”

“You’re pushy.” He holds out his hand, demanding the tool back. “And you ask too many questions.”

My shoulders slump, and I begrudgingly hand it back.

He takes it, walks back into the wings, and calls out, “Electric going out!”

“Thank you.” I don’t shout it. I don’t even say it loud enough for him to hear me.

He’s right. I do ask too many questions.

But I still have so many more left to ask.

Chapter 27

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