Page 154 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

But it’s Belinda, not me, who gets everyone’s attention. “People! People! I know it’s almost five thirty, so most of you are out way past your bedtime.” Good-natured groans and hollers and boos ensue. “So let’s get this started.”

There’s a murmur of quiet laughter, and she waits for complete silence before going on.

“As most of you know, I wasn’t thrilled when we found out our beautiful production ofCinderellawas going to be directed by”—she slides her stink eye over to me—“A child.”

I give her a playful eye roll.

“But I have to say, Rosie, you changed my mind about that.” Belinda straightens, her shoulders back, her head held high, poised and graceful the way she always is, but she pauses for a long moment, and I wonder if something is wrong. Her chinlowers, gaze landing on the stage below, and then she steels her jaw, regaining her composure.

“I know how hard it is to direct a show,” she says. “I did it—unsuccessfully—which is why they had to bring you in. To clean up”—her voice falters slightly—“My mess. To save this wonderful program.” She waves a dramatic hand in front of her, as if to include everyone and everything on this stage. “I regret that I made things so difficult for you. Especially because you proved to be more than capable. Creative and encouraging.” Then, as an aside, “Even when dealing with the likes of me.”

More laughter and murmurs, mostly agreeing with her.

She shoots the rest of them a look but manages a smile. “I am nothing if not self-aware.”

A voice from the back. Evelyn. “Does this mean you’ll be nice now?”

“Not on your life,” she shoots back without missing a beat.

More laughter.

“Rosie, we wanted to send you off with a token of our appreciation, so...” She turns and Sadie hands over a large gift, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red bow. “We all chipped in to get you this.”

I walk toward her and give Belinda a hug, choked up over this whole thoughtful scene. “Thank you.”

She hugs me back but pulls away quickly, pushing the gift into my arms. I think I’ve gotten about as much emotion from her as I’m going to.

And I’ll take it. Winning her over is perhaps my greatest accomplishment to date.

I hold the large gift and look around the group. “Do I open it now or...?”

A chorus of “Of course you do!” and “Definitely” rings out. So I set the gift on the floor, kneel down, and pull off the wrapping.

Inside, I find a large shadow box the size of a poster.

Center-mounted inside is a miniature version of the transformation dress. Surrounding it, a program. A ticket stub. A blue piece of...

“Is that a piece of the tarp we fell asleep on?” I shout.

Eruptions of laughter and applause.

There’s the fairy godmother wand and candid photos—ones I had no idea were being taken—of me directing, talking, pointing, smiling.

There’s one photo that catches my eye, and I have no idea how anyone captured it.

It’s Booker, up on a ladder working on the set, and me staring right at his rear end.

It’s foam-mounted, so it sits higher than the rest, with a big, red sketchy heart drawn around it.

And then it hits me.

“This is just for me.”

“Dylan, you little...” I shoot her a look, and she waggles her eyebrows at me.

More laughter.

At the bottom is a glossy print of the cast photo we took on opening night. And littering the white cardboard backing that everything is mounted to are signatures. Notes. Hearts. Messages.

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