Page 73 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

And if so, how?

I pull out my phone and do a quick search, typing “Arthur Silverman” into the search bar, and I get several hits. Before I can uncover anything juicy, I get a text from Dylan:

Did you get the cast list email I sent?

Rosie:Yes. I’ll look it over, then get it posted.

I abandon my search and scan the names on the cast list one last time, eyes hovering over Belinda’s. Ultimately, we decidedthat her evil stepmother energy was too spot on for her to play Cinderella.

That honor goes to a newcomer named Grace, who is meek and quiet and has the most beautiful soprano voice.

Hopefully once we start rehearsals, Belinda will agree with me—and everyone else on my team—that she is in the role she’s most suited for.

I print the cast list, which I’ll hang on the call-board backstage at the theatre, hopefully before anyone else gets there this morning. At the top of the list is the information about our first rehearsal tomorrow, which means that once I’m done with that, I’m going to give myself a much-needed day off.

As I wait for my coffee to brew, I glance outside at Booker’s house. I assume he’s at work, but then I see him in the yard, taking a bag of trash to a bin around the back. I’m standing by the large picture window in the front room in my pajamas, gawking like a stalker, when he looks up and glances toward my cottage.

I gasp and dart out of the way, tuck-and-roll style—managing to clip an end table on the way down, barking my shin on the corner, and launching a stack of coasters to the floor.

I’m writhing in silent, angry pain when I glance sideways at the kitchen. Since I’m floor level, I can see under the table... and I glimpse a small black shadow skitter across the floor.

I go completely still, shin still screaming at me, and do the thing that can only be described as “listening with my eyes”—darting them around, not blinking for fear I’ll miss something.

Seconds later, I hear the unmistakable sound of movement in the laundry room, just off the kitchen. It’s like a slight clicking on the hardwood floor.

A tingle rushes down my spine, and my imagination kicks into high gear.

“Oh my gosh, oh my gosh...” I’m panicking, furiously rubbing my shin, willing the pain away.

Is it an animal? I’m not good with animals.

Once in New York, I saw a cockroach in our apartment, and I slept with the light on for two weeks.

Call it unrealistic, but in addition to my well-earned fear of geese, I’m also terrified of mice, rats, spiders—anything creepy or crawly—and I’m pretty sure something creepy or crawly is currently making a home of our laundry room.

I gently put weight on my leg and find that it’s not all that bad, so I half hop over to the front window, my eyes still glued to the laundry room. I chance a quick look outside in the hope that Booker has magically appeared on my porch, like Superman anytime Lois is falling off a building, to handle this problem.

I swear that woman is always falling off something.

Empty porch. No such luck.

I spot my phone on the kitchen table. My eyes jump from it to the door of the laundry room. More clicking. More movement. This time, a shift and a bump.

I picture a large rat, the size of a small dog, phoning his buddies, setting up a canasta table while chewing on my jeans.

Phone or front door? Which one? My life literally hangs in the balance.

Since I’m wearing slightly skimpy pajama bottoms, a tank top, and no bra, I opt for the phone.

But when I start to move, I hear the critter start to move. I freeze on my tiptoes, rigid and unsure if I’m safer where I’m standing or in the kitchen on the table with a flamethrower.

A shadow runs out of the laundry room and into the room where I’m standing. I scream. And then I scream louder, and before I know it—and with no inkling as to how—I am up on top of the kitchen counter. Still screaming.

My heart is clanging around in my chest, and I can’t catch adeep breath. The fearisridiculous. Rodents are much, much smaller than humans, and to some people probably considered cute; but to me they’re terrifying and creepy and gross and my heart rate is racing like Seabiscuit’s.

My phone is on the table, about ten feet from the counter. If I lie down, maybe...

But then I hear the front door open. “Rosie? You okay?”

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