Page 67 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

And she looks really pretty. And almost... sweet.

I stop short of telling her so because I don’t want to make her feel awkward, but I do wish more people could see that side of her.

I start toward the dining hall.

“Hey, uh...” she calls after me.

I glance back over my shoulder. “Are you going to tell me you’re not posting it and then post it?”

“No, I mean...” Her face looks serious. Not the cadaver-serious like normal; this is alive-serious.

She purses her lips for a moment, then says, “This might actually work.”

Her words stop me. Her expression is honest. I half laugh. “Do you really care about this show?”

“No.” She looks away. “But... you’re the first person who’s said more than, like, three words to me since I got here.” Her gaze hits the floor. “And that includes my grandparents, who, like, live here.”

“Oh.” I go still.

“Whatever,” she says. “I’m fine. I just thought you should, you know, make sure we get a cast or whatever.”

A moment passes between us.

She said “we.”

She brings her phone back up, filming. “At least this will give me something to watch later.”

The door to the dining area flings open and Connie appears. “We’re ready, Rosie!”

She’s entirely too excited about this.

“I loaded up the song you gave me and I tested the volume, so you should be good to go.”

I glance back at Dylan, whose face remains chaotic neutral, and I think it must’ve been really hard for her to admit to me what she did. Maybe not as hard as performing a musical number for a bunch of retirees who just want to enjoy their lunch, but still, pretty difficult.

I draw in a deep breath and stand in the back of the dining hall, realizing it’s nothing like a cafeteria. It’s more like a buffet-style restaurant, which makes this so much worse. There are people up and about, filling plates at a long counter with a variety of options, and people crowded around tables, eating, playing cards or chess, mingling—not at all asking to be entertained.

Hey, everyone, put down your applesauce and check out this song!

Connie is at the microphone. She taps it three times. “Yoo-hoo! Families and friends of Sunset Hills!”

Nobody stops talking. The clinking of silverware and conversations continue.

Which is embarrassing, not just for Connie but for me, because can we really expect them to stop talking during their lunch?

They didn’t buy a ticket for this. There’s no theatre etiquette here. Even dinner theatres let people eat in peace.

“People! People!” Connie raises her voice a little louder, pulls away the microphone, and looks at it as if she’s not sure it’s working.

Still no change in the chatter.

Finally, she reaches down and turns a knob all the way to the right, and much,muchlouder, she shouts, “Everyone! Listen!”

The mic peaks, causing some feedback, as the chatter goes quiet. Connie’s face morphs from whatever possessed her in that moment back to her sweet Southern self.

“That’s better,” she says, reaching down and returning the knob to the middle position. “Y’all sure do love to chat, don’t you?” She giggles, as if that could erase her outburst.

Arthur stomps toward me and hands me a second microphone. I start to thank him, but he grunts and walks away.

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