Page 70 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

I see the olive branch she’s extending for what it is and choose to meet it with kindness. “No,” I say gently. “Of course not. I’m glad you’re here.”

She gives me the slightest nod. “Very well. I assume your accompanist has already left for the day, so I’ll sing a cappella.” She moves up onto the stage, and I sit back down in my chair and pull out my notebook.

It’s been a strange experience sitting on this side of the table, one that’s helped me understand what directors mean when they say, “You just didn’t fit the part.”

It doesn’t matter how amazing you are—if you’re not right for the role, according to that director’s vision, you can’t change that. It’s eye-opening to realize sometimes an actor can be really good but still wrong.

For years, I let every rejection inform the way I felt about myself, as if each one punctured a hole in my self-worth. Now I realize what a waste of time that was.

I settle back and wait.

And the second she opens her mouth, I hear the proof of why people talk about her talent the way they do.

The familiar notes of “Memory” begin, and even though I’m not a huge fan of the musicalCats, the way she sings it makes me put down my pencil and just... listen.

For about one and a half minutes, Belinda transports me to an entirely different place. The emotion she’s able to access isstunning, and the way she carries herself is like a master class in grace and poise.

As she hits the final note, tears sting my eyes, and when she’s finished, she drops her hands and looks at me.

It feels wrong to applaud since I’m the only person in here, and yet, how do I properly convey to her how moving that was?

She watches me for a few seconds, then quirks a brow, as if expecting a response.

“That was...” I don’t even try to assign a single word to her performance. “Thank you.”

She gives me a nod, and then, as breezily as she walked in, she comes down from the stage.

“What made you change your mind?” I ask, standing.

She purses her lips. “Despite what you think, I do care about this theatre group, Miss Waterman. I care very much.”

“So it wasn’t my lunchtime performance?”

She scoffs. “Oh, heavens, no.” Then she gives me a quick once-over. “But... you weren’t half bad.”

I try to keep my smile hidden and easily come back with, “Neither were you,” while nodding to the stage.

Her lips press, and I can see she’s hiding a similar smile. Coming from her, this feels like she just gave me a Tony Award.

She picks up her purse. “I know some people have me pegged as the Evil Stepmother, but in this particular show, I would be a wonderful Cinderella.”

And with that, she leaves.

***

Casting a show, I soon discover, is not for the faint of heart.

Emotion doesn’t get to sit at the table with you. After a round of callbacks on Thursday, it’s obvious that a lot of the auditioners take this whole thing very seriously. It’s strangely competitive butin a respectful way. If what Connie said is true, this is more than just a show for many of them. It’s the thing they get out of bed for. It gives them purpose—and it’s fun.

But more than fun.

Which makes me feel even more pressure to get it right.

As an actor, I take any role very seriously too. I’m diligent when I get a script, and bringing that character to life is something I don’t take lightly. An extra, the friend next door, a corpse... it’s important for me to know the character I’m playing. But I’m well aware that a show comes to life because of the director’s vision. Actors have very little say in that, and my job is to try to make the director’s vision a reality.

But I’m the director now.

I’m the one who casts the vision.

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