Page 115 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Rosie. Rosie, you need to get ahold of Connie. Tell her what happened.”

I stare. “Everything is ruined.”

He hesitates. “We don’t know that yet. I need you to focus, Rosie.”

I shake my head, trying to clear it. Yes. Call Connie. Mobilize people. Move.

I phone Connie, willing my voice not to shake as I relay what has happened. “We need fans and towels and... just...” I shut my eyes. “Everything is ruined.”

She apologizes, but then I hear in her voice she’s leaping into action, letting me know she’ll contact everyone she knows.

I hang up the phone and turn to face the stage.

I see Arthur, soaking wet, directing a few people to start moving things. I see Booker, sweeping off swathes of water from the castle set. Sadie and Evelyn are standing off to the side, stacking what looks like towels or blankets, and Ginny is stage right, assessing what appears to be the loss of a whole rack of costumes.

I feel anger and pride rise.

No, I think.

Not like this.

I didn’t—wedidn’t—work this hard and come this far to have it end like this.

I feel my spine stiffen and my jaw clench, and I know, as the director, what I need to do.

I walk to the center of the stage.

“Everyone!” I call out. “Everyone, listen up. This is probably the worst thing that could’ve happened, but this isnotthe end of this show. We work together. We figure it out, and we find a way.”

“We open in less than three weeks,” Belinda says sourly. “How are we going to do that now?”

Her Evil Stepmother energy hovers in the air, thick like a storm cloud that really wants to dump rain all over this stage—as if it’s not wet enough.

I spin around and glare at her. “We’re going to figure it out.We’re going to clean it up, and the show is going to go on.” But I feel my resolve waiver even as I say the words. Because this is an actual disaster. There’s a very good chance that even if the sets and costumes are okay, the stage and fly lines aren’t.

“Really,” Belinda scoffs. “It’s cute that you thinkyoucan fix this.” She waves a hand in the air. “On the plus side, you won’t have to tell anyone in your real life how you stooped so low you directed this embarrassing little show with all of us old people all the way up here in Door County.”

I glance over at the three women who confronted me earlier. They all avoid my eyes.

“It’s not like that,” I say. Shame and a sense of being overwhelmed vie for equal footing at the back of my mind.

But Belinda and the others harrumph and walk off. As they reach the stage door, I hear Belinda say, “This musical iscanceled.”

I clench my jaw, angry at this ridiculous situation, angry at myself for not truly seeing how important this show is to me until now, when there’s a chance it might not happen.

Booker and Arthur work to soak up as much of the water as they can, and after a few minutes that feel like hours, three firefighters come in.

I wander out to the center of the stage. The main drape drips thick, wet, discolored drops of water onto my head. I turn a slow circle, looking around at the absolute mess.

All the work we put into the show—ruined.

Unless God grants us a small miracle, Belinda is right—the musical will be canceled.

Which means the whole Sunset Hills theatre program will be canceled too.

Rosie Waterman fails again.

I mentally sing a slowed-down, pathetic version of “Don’t Rain on My Parade”—the same lyric playing on a loop in my mind.

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