Page 49 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

It’s a zombie wasteland, except, I notice, for Dylan, the teenage girl living in an old folks’ home.

It strikes me that her story is incredibly high concept and would make a really fun play.

I see her sitting on the same bench where she was when Daisy drove me over, looking every bit as morose as she did the first time I saw her.

If thiswerea zombie apocalypse, I have a feeling Dylan would be on the front lines.

Either that, or she’d be one of the zombies.

Come to think of it, in a zombie apocalypseeveryonewould either be on the front lines or a zombie. But either way, I think I’d want Dylan on my team.

I can’t remember which direction I’m supposed to go, so I bring the cart to a jerky stop in front of her.

“Hey, um... you’re Dylan, right?” I ask, and then, so I don’t sound creepy, I add, “My housemate Daisy told me your name.” She’s staring at her phone. “Uh, hi, how’s it going?”

She looks up. She has a nose piercing and a pink streak in her dark hair. Her black nail polish is chipping, and she’s wearing a dark-colored flannel with ripped jeans, even though it’s warm enough for shorts and a T-shirt.

She stares, then gives a “Hey?” The subtext I’m getting is,“Why are you talking to me and could youplease leave, and oh, by the way, can you teleport me to literally anywhere but here on your way out?”

“I’m Rosie,” I say. “Rosie Waterman?” I hold up my name badge like an idiot. It’s not like she would’ve heard of me. Then I continue my streak of open-mouth-say-stuff. “I’m new here. Just got in, met some people, found my house. Oh! And I got this really ugly polo shirt I have to wear and my name badge and this golf cart. My first time ever driving one of these babies.”

I can practicallyhearher eyes roll. To her credit, her stoic expression doesn’t change.

“I’m... happy for you?” She looks back down at her phone.

I try not to let her attitude derail me. I actually do need her help. “So... um?” She looks up again. “Sorry. Do you know the way to the staff cottages? The pocket? The staff pocket place?” It’s like there are a million words out there, and I know none of them.

Without speaking or blinking or appearing to breathe, she points to her right, in the direction of a wide path that looks vaguely familiar. She then looks back down at her phone again.

I briefly worry that it looks familiar because they all look the same.

“Ah. Got it. Thanks.” I’m about to pull away when I hear myself say, “Hey, sorry, one more thing.”

This time there is a marked pause between the time she’s looking at her phone and when she raises her head to look at me. I may as well be a toddler kicking her seat on an eight-hour flight.

“Have you ever done anything in the theatre? Onstage or backstage or anything? Maybe stage managing...?”

Judging by her face, she has an interest in makeup.

When she slowly shakes her head in a winced no, my cheeks flush, but I’m determined to win her over.

“You sure? No interest? I’m heading up a musical here and thought you might want to hang out with someone young and cool.”

She stares.

“It’s me.”

She continues to stare.

“I’m the young and cool... You know what, never mind. This way, right?” I point in the direction she pointed.

She scrunches up her face at me.

Solid.

I hesitate a beat too long before finally deciding that Dylan is not going to sign up for the production team, let alone continue being subjected to someone who’s upbeat and witty.

I’m about to turn my cart in the direction she pointed and zoom off, Daisy-style, when I hear her say, “I worked backstage at my school once. They did some play calledNewsies.”

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