Chloe sits on the edge of Ming’s makeup station, nodding as Ming presses her fingertips to the far edge of either eyelid, angling the lashes down. “Voilà! The student’s become the master.”

Ming flutters her lids, making the tinsel highlights in her false lashes glimmer. “God, I’m gorgeous.” She blows herself a kiss.

I roll my eyes, but I’m actually grateful for Ming’s unwavering Ming-ness; the consistency is making the evening a little less surreal. We’re less than an hour to showtime, and I’m pretty sure my entire midsection is comprised of quaking wings. The bulk of the crowd is friends and family, so we could bomb and still get a warm reception, but every moment I’m not actively engaged in show prep, my brain reminds me just how much has led up to tonight, how many people are bound to its success, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

Beside me, the dumbwaiter’s squeaking pulley announces the imminent arrival of the preshow bubbly. The delivery settles with a rattle of glassware, and I raise the hatch for the bucket and flutes.

“I love that thing.” Momma grabs a handful of stems to distribute around the dressing room. She was with Ming last week when Ming dropped by the club to set up her makeup station, and she volunteered to work tonight’s grand opening. After that, we floated the option to all our new regulars. Everyone available accepted. The dressing room is packed, but so far, the excitement is making up for any accidental elbowing, and there’s been zero squabbling. I have to hand it to Ming: she might have the sense of humor of a fourteen-year-old boy, but the woman is a master of group dynamics.

The room’s design was inspired by the velvet-and-tassels look I wrote off as too fussy for upstairs. Half a dozen vanities line the walls, each centered in front of a pleated curtain of pale pink velvet. I initially planned to cover the walls in the fabric, but Ming said the sketches looked “labial,” and, frankly, there was no unseeing that.

Each vanity is framed by bare bulbs, creating a halo of light around every station, and there’s a coordinating pink ottoman in the center of the room. The thing’s going to be covered in body glitter by the end of the night, but that feels fitting.

I flick the light switch by the door of the vocalist warm-up space. A moment later, the light above the door blinks in response: Jane letting me know he’ll be a moment. The little room is fully insulated. Nary a sound escapes to or from the dressing room; impressive, but I miss hearing Jane’s vocal exercises.

My watch buzzes with a text. D: Office?

I grin. Darcy and I haven’t seen one another since this morning, and I hoped to check in before showtime. I scribble back: 10 min?