Page 3 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

“Is there water?” I ask. You’d think being an actor would make these kinds of situations easier, but I’ve always been better with a script to memorize. “Actually, I’m going to run to the bathroom quickly.”

“You okay?”

I wave Maya off in what I hope is a nonchalant tone. “Yeah, I just feel like I’m still on the plane.” I swallow and wince. “Motion sickness or something...” My voice trails off as I set out to find the restroom.

I can’t keep this up, of course, but how do I tell them the truth? They want all the details of what’s supposed to be—but absolutely isn’t—an exciting life.

After college, I booked a few jobs right away. I got a small role in a cop show filming in Chicago before I even graduated, and I took it as a sign that yes, I was on the right track. After that, I joined the national tour ofOklahoma!, which closed after only a month and a half, thanks to the director’s odd, dark, and very disconcerting burlesque interpretation of the classic. And even though I was only in the ensemble, a part of me knew it wasn’t a good production, but it was a job, and that meant that I wasmaking it.

That all changed really fast. Like a carp in the desert... things dried up.

And every time I’m about ready to quit in favor of a more stable job that actually pays the bills, I’ll book something small—a one-liner in a TV show, or a walk-on role in a movie, or a named part in a small, experimental play that’s being produced off-off-off-Broadway. Like so far off it’s in Ohio.

Those are the dangling carrots that keep me stretching my neck out and biting for more, even though I’m beginning to regret all of my life choices.

I look at my reflection in the mirror, aware that this baby shower might require the most acting of anything I’ve done in the last seven years. This is Taylor’s day. I’m not going to ruin it. I’ve gotten very good at keeping any uncomfortable feelings to myself.

Depressed loseris not a role I want to play.

I splash cold water on my cheeks, then pat them dry. “You can do this,” I whisper to my reflection, wishing for the ten thousandth time that I didn’t have freckles.

Would I book more jobs if I didn’t have freckles?

“Rosie Waterman? I can’t believe you’re here!”

I turn and see Ireland Abbot standing in the bathroom behind me. She must’ve slithered in when I wasn’t looking.

Taylor and Maya were the more popular ones in our group, and unlike in all the teen movies, they didn’t ditch Marnie or me when we got into high school. We became an eclectic foursome that had each other’s backs.

But that didn’t mean everyone else understood our friendship. More than once, Ireland had humiliated me in high school, and more than once, she tried to convince Taylor that I was ruining her social status.

Mean girls don’t always outgrow their meanness, it seems.

“Hi, Ireland.” I smile at her through the reflection in the mirror as I avoid looking at my own eyes. She looks great, darn it.

I know I’m not classically beautiful. I often rely on my wit to set me apart. I decided I could make a go of this acting thing if I was fun and funny and interesting to look at, but standing next to Ireland, I feel lessinterestingand morerough and ready.

“I keep waiting for another update about your big, fancy acting career.” Ireland moves to the sink next to mine and admires herself in the mirror.

Our eyes meet in the glass, and I paint on a smile. I feel heat rise, and I try hard not to use my years of improv to roast her here in the ladies’ bathroom.

“I’m just living my life,” I say. “I don’t see the need to report home every time I book a job. That would get tedious.” I laugh to try and cover my annoyance, but I’m sure it doesn’t work. I flip on the water and stick my hands under the stream, mostly because I need something to do with my hands.

She lifts her chin, I assume so she can look down her nose at me. “You’re adorable, Rosie. Still out there trying to make it after all this time. Does waiting tables pay well these days?”

It’s so cliché—actors waiting tables. I haven’t worked in a restaurant in two years. Temp work proved to be much more my style. And I typically don’t spill drinks on anyone in an office.

Although, there was that one time... I feel heat on my neck, the kind that rushes when you’re in a scene and the other person forgets their lines. So many digs flit in and out of my mind, but then, like a person about to enter into an online argument with a troll, I hit Delete, paste on a smile, and flick the water off.

“I need to get back to my friends,” I say. “It was great running into you.” I don’t even bother drying my hands as I rush out of the bathroom before I say something I’ll regret. I wish I could say she has no effect on me, but even I note the way the run-in has unsteadied me. As if that one encounter could transport me back to high school.

I’m not that girl anymore.

My mom emails me updates about my former classmates, and I happen to know that Ireland Abbot is a lawyer at some big, fancy firm in Chicago because in real life, mean girls donotfinish last.

I hurry back to the table, decorated with a white tablecloth and the most adorable pink mason jar centerpiece with sprigs of greenery inside and try to put Ireland out of my mind. I bet shebought Taylor the stroller / car seat combo she had on her registry without any help from her mother.

I plop down in the chair next to Maya.

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