“A sample peel? I’d ask tonight’s kitten, but”—she mimes pulling something close—“her current position is load-bearing. Sola’s costume is tight.”

At the words “sample peel,” my heart rate gallops, stomping out the remnants of emptiness from earlier. I try to sound blasé. “Can do.”

“You’re a lifesaver. Can I snag you a glove from one of the girls?”

“That would be great.”

“Thank you, sweetie. I’ll get you two bubbles as payment, but for now”—she tugs on Ming’s arm—“we have a zipper to fix.”

The women depart. My butterflies begin to stretch their wings, taking short, experimental flights around my midsection. I only get to do a sample peel at Meryton when we have a less experienced host filling in for Johnny, so this is a treat.

“What’s this about a glove?” Charles asks.

“Some shows start with the kitten taking off something simple to get the audience feisty,” I explain. “They don’t always hoot ’n’ holler until they’ve been properly encouraged.” I cast an eye over the room again. With so many performers in the house, enthusiasm shouldn’t be a problem, but the peel should give the folks backstage time to mend the zipper.

The house lights come down. The band transitions to a big-band rendition of Johnny’s intro song, and the emcee strolls onto the stage. His usual tux has been replaced with a field jacket decorated with morale patches, like the one in the pictures of Bob Hope. He keeps his back to the audience as he wiggles his tush, lining up an imagined shot with a golf club.

“Fore!” He swings, and the follow-through turns his torso to the crowd. He grins, like he’s just realized we’re here. “Why, hello there, kiddies.”

As Johnny sings, his standard tune tailored to emphasize the “bush” in Bushwick, Darlene slips from the curtains to the short steps beside the stage. I push off from the bar and join her.

“Will this do?” she whispers, handing me a red opera-length glove. “It’s a left.”

“Perfect.” I wiggle my fingers into the glove, tugging the shaft over my bicep. “How goes the zipper?”

“Ming’s a miracle worker. We’ll probably only need a few minutes. Pop a pastie!” She blows me a kiss, then retreats backstage.

I’m straightening the seam along the inside of my arm when Johnny announces, “Beautiful people, please, put your hands together for our special guest”—a second spotlight turns on, wheeling around the stage before landing on me—“Miss Kitten Caboodle!”

The spotlight fries my butterflies midflight. I take the stage with a wave, the crowd’s cheer flooding me with adrenaline. By the time I reach Johnny, I’m floating.