Page 4 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“You good?” she asks.

“Great,” I say. “Just a little woozy I think.” And tired from hauling every single thing I own all over Brooklyn, to the airport, and then to Pleasant Valley, the small town in Illinois where I grew up.

“So?” Marnie is smiling at me, as expectant as Taylor’s stomach. “Tell us about this movie! What’s it about? When can we see it?”

I force a smile. Thanks to the many, many phone calls from my perpetually worried mother, I’ve perfected the fine art of making my life sound shinier than it is.

I call it... creative storytelling.

It’s not lyingexactly. I’m telling my mom and stepdad that their daughter is doing just fine, despite a few challenges.

But honestly... I can’t bear to say the truth out loud. What would everyone think if they knew?

“Well... my mom might have exaggerated a little about the movie gig.” I don’t have the heart to tell them my mom made that movie sound cooler than it was becauseImade it sound cooler than it was.

I absently wonder if there’s a special place in hell for people who turn their mothers into liars.

“Where is your mom?” Marnie asks.

“She and John are on a cruise,” I say, secretly thankful I don’t have to contend with their worry as my life implodes.

I look around the restored loft right in the heart of downtown Pleasant Valley, searching for inspiration to change the subject. “Was this building always here?”

“It was the gum factory,” Marnie says. “Remember?”

“Wait, it was?” I frown, trying to remember, which I don’t.

“Themayoris really pushing the downtown beautification plan,”Maya says, weirdly emphasizing the wordmayor. The others react to it too, which makes me feel like I’m on the outside of an inside joke. “Twenty-five by ’25. It’s this whole campaign to try to be a Top 25 city by 2025. Murals, new lampposts, refurbishing buildings to try to attract more businesses...”

“Can we really call Pleasant Valley a ‘city’?” Marnie shakes her head. “More of a glorified rest stop.” We all laugh—me a bit longer and louder—and I know I’m working overtime to sell my own happiness, and I beg myself to stop being so obvious.

Marnie brings the attention back to me. “So! What’s next for you? Are you sticking around for a while? Can we at least get brunch in the morning?”

My heart aches.

I want to tell them the truth so badly.

I want to give up and admit that my life is in the toilet, that I’m virtually homeless, and that I’m very close to quitting on the only dream I’ve ever had.

And also? That I miss them.

But I can’t say any of it. The fear of disappointing them is too great.

I mentally stiffen. I’m an actor. I can get through one baby shower, right?

I force a smile. “Oh, I had a bunch of auditions last week, so I’m just waiting. That’s the hardest part of this whole thing... the waiting.” The image of the frantic self-taping, uploading, and résumé-submitting bender I’d gone on last week washes over me.

Like a woman possessed, I’d submitted myself for at least two dozen jobs, some of them I’m probably not even right for. Some acting jobs, some directing jobs—even one for a script doctor. And with every Send button I hit, I’d say a silent prayer thatthiscould be the one that would change my life.

I go on these panic-induced submission benders sometimes, usually right around the time rent is due.

“It sounds wild,” Marnie says. “I could never do that. Not knowing what your next job will be or who you’ll be working with, or—”

“Uh, it soundsexciting,” Maya cuts in. “And it’s perfect for you, Rosie, since you’re such a people person.”

I smile. I am a people person. I do really well ushering people to their seats at the Winter Garden Theatre, which is the steadiest of all of my jobs but keeps me watching the stage instead of performing on it.

“What about you guys?” I ask, really wanting to stop talking about me.

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