Page 34 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“It’s beautiful.” I look up at the theatrical lighting, the fly system, the sound booth.

It’s funny. Theatres all smell the same.

The stained wood of the floor, the years of fabrics and costumes, the slight acrid smell of the lighting fixtures, the faint twinge of sawdust from the scene shop—the smell of possibility.

I think about some of the spaces I’ve performed in over the years. The eighth floor of an office building that had somehow been converted into a performance space. The front window of a former retail shop. A storage unit.

Theatre spaces are insanely expensive to rent, especially in New York, but with a little creativity, I’ve learned you can perform anywhere.

There’s nothing like being on a real stage, in a real show, in front of a real audience.

“Hop on up. Show me something.” Booker points to the stage.

“What? Now?” I’m not shy, but for some reason I feel utterly unprepared.

“Come on, I thought performers love to show off,” he says.

I lift a finger in a point. “That’s a common misconception.Someperformers are like that, but most actors I know are in it for the craft.”

“That sounds very—”

“Hoity-toity?” I say in a snobby tone, then soften. “It is. I don’t know why I said it. I love being onstage. But honestly...” I pause, noting how comfortable I am being honest with Booker. “I’m never anxious to be the center of attention. I don’t need to be the first in the program or the last one to bow. I just...” I look back at the stage. “I just love acting.”

He moves over into one of the seats in the fourth row, center, and sits, then motions to the stage. “Here’s your chance.”

I look at the stage, then back at him.

“Don’t you have songs and speeches memorized?”

“Hundreds,” I admit.

A whole portfolio, in fact. I have several dozen monologues, both comedic and dramatic, two Shakespearean monologues, and a wide variety of songs meant to show off different parts of my voice and the depth of my acting ability, depending on the character I’m auditioning for.

Three binders’ worth of material.

But the thought of going up on that stage and actually gettingmyself into character and performing for this particular audience of one gives me pause. Performing for people I know in real life is one of the most difficult parts of this job, especially without the benefit of theatrical lighting, which turns every face into a blurry shadow.

“Are you scared?” Booker taunts.

“That won’t work,” I say. “I’ve never been affected by peer pressure.”

“Is that true?”

“No.” I shrug and laugh. Because while peer pressure never talked me into doing something I didn’t want to do, I know I care too much what people think of me. Which is probably why I didn’t tell my three best friends anything honest the entire time I was home. For someone who makes her living “making a fool” of herself, I sure do struggle with it these days. I guess there’s a difference between being goofy and being a failure.

I walk up onto the stage. “Can I go backstage?”

“You’re really not going to perform?” He actually sounds a little disappointed. “How am I supposed to know if you’re any good?”

I chuckle. “Do you need to know if I’m any good?”

“Yes,” he says. “Doesn’t every physical therapist need to know that the resident theatre director knows what she’s doing?”

I raise my eyebrows and wave my hands and arms at him as if casting a spell. “I’m going to have to leave you in suspense.”

He shakes his head and smiles, which is currently in the lead of my favorite elicited responses from him. He leans in. “That’s a shame.” He stands and makes his way up to the stage.

“Areyougoing to perform?” I ask, taking a step back.

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