That sorted, I scoot to the adjoining room, where the five members of the show’s band play poker with our emcee, Johnny Ryall. The guys are in matching dark suits, and Johnny is in one of his remarkably hideous tuxedos. Tonight’s crime against taste is a mint-green number with black piping at the cuffs and lapels, paired with a black ruffled shirt. I don’t know where he finds the things.

Walking by, I get a few mumbled “Kitten”s in greeting. I take no offense to the brusque salutation; their poker games are intense. If this hand doesn’t finish before showtime, they’ll keep their cards in their pockets while they’re performing and wrap it up at intermission.

As I push back the heavy curtain separating the talent space from the downstairs landing, I have to sidestep two women in black minidresses waiting for the restrooms. They do a double take, making zero effort to conceal their examination as I cross to the stairs.

“Is that a corset?” one asks, directing the question more to her friend than me.

“I don’t know how anyone wears those,” the other woman replies.

“Oh, they just take some getting used to.” I start up the stairs. “Enjoy the show!”

Halfway up, I stop to give the butterflies a chance to settle. It’s been at least three hundred shows for me: one each Friday, two on Saturday nights, and a few special events through each year. The first glance at the crowd makes me catch my breath even when I’m not constricted by a corset.

I interact with the crowd more than the other performers, playing the part of “Kitten Caboodle” as I hawk souvenirs during set breaks. The persona is as much an act as anything Jane and the girls do onstage, and when I’m on the floor, I’m on. It’s exhausting and freeing at the same time, where I’m on the spot but have all the answers . . . if for no other reason than I’m only asked the same handful of questions. If I had a Meryton bingo card, the corset comment downstairs would be on it, along with How do they do that? after a performer does a tassel twirl, and some tired iteration of Will you be getting naked, too?

I climb the rest of the stairs and place my hand on the green, egg-shaped light fixture at the end of the railing. We all do it at the start of any performance, the ritual predating me. I don’t know if it’s meant for luck or simply habit, but the muted warmth under my palm settles the loitering jitters, leaving me with only midgrade anxiety about Andrea’s earlier behavior as I take in the scene.