Page 107 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

He stops and looks at me. I can see the gears turning, as if he’s deciding to even deign a response.

He draws in a breath. “Connie needs to stop giggling after everyline,” he says. “Evelyn needs to learn her choreography. The scene with the stepsisters drags—the pacing needs to be much tighter, because that’s where the comedy is. The timing just isn’t right. Edgar doesn’t open his mouth when he talks—there’s no way the audience will hear him.” He stops when he sees me glance at the open notebook on the table next to my things.

He nods to it as if to say,“Go ahead.”

I grab the notebook and pull the pencil out of my hair, scribbling in an unreadable shorthand to try to record his every thought. He has notes for everyone, including Veronica, who isn’t going to want to hear his criticism of her choreography, so I add a separate note to myself to sandwich the critique between compliments so it’s easier to digest.

“And, lastly...” He pauses, waiting for me to look up from my notebook. “You need to deal with your Belinda problem.”

I frown. “Yeah, I’m not—”

“You’re in charge, Rosie. And a good director knows she can’t have an actor going rogue. She needs to know she can be replaced.”

“I mean, I don’t take her suggestions,” I say weakly.

“But you do let her give them, right in the middle of when you’re talking.”

I wince. “And that’s bad.”

He shrugs as if to say,“Well, duh.”

“Look, Rosie, you’re a good performer.”

I go still, because whatever he’s about to say next feels important.

“But if you want to be, you could be a great director.” He draws in a breath. “You have options, is all I’m saying. And all of it helps make you better.”

I can see he’s uncomfortable giving me a compliment, so I try my very hardest to keep my face neutral, to pretend that his words aren’t potentially the most meaningful anyone has ever said to me. To my shock, he’s not finished.

“You’re good with people,” he says. “That’s key. A lot of directorsare like dictators, and while they might put the fear of God into their actors, they create a hostile work environment.”

I begin to see a softness at his edges, and I wish I’d known him back when he was teaching. “What kind of director were you?”

His face shifts. “Contrary to what I’m sure is current popular belief, I was... fun.” He draws in a breath and sits down in an aisle seat next to where I’m standing. So I sit across from him, anxious for him to go on. “As long as Annie was there.”

I watch Arthur but try not to stare, because I can practically see all the memories stored in the wrinkles of his skin. And I have a feeling those memories are the kind he keeps for himself.

“She calmed me down,” he says, voice tinged with nostalgia. “She was the one who made me believe I could do more than just perform. You know, they always say, ‘Those who can’t do, teach,’ but the truth is—teaching was hard. Itishard. And I’m sure you’ve had bad teachers who proved that not everyone can do it. Not well anyway.”

At that, I wince a knowing smile. “I absolutely have.”

“There are teachers—great actors, mind you—who tear their students down because it makes them feel smarter or special,” he says.

“Professor Castle,” I say, surprised by this unexpected connection.

“Professor Hall,” he says.

I smile.Common ground.

“I wasn’t going to be that kind of teacher or director,” he tells me. “And if I ever hinted at letting my ego in, well, my Annie kept me on track.”

“My Annie,”he said.

Nothing feels the same as when you belong to someone, held in their hearts and resting in their minds.

“She never let me get away with anything, least of all thinking I’m more important than anyone else.” He smiles, and for a moment, he’s lost in the memory.

I don’t dare interrupt because the memory looks like a beautiful one.

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