“That’s strike one,” Meena says to Justin, staring daggers into him as he walks over to us.

And tech week has officially begun.

12:45 P.M.

We’ve been running the cue-to-cue for hours. It’s more mentally exhausting than physically—we basically run each scene, making sure the sets and props are in place as the lighting cues are programmed and sound is mixed. Our job is to stand or sit quietly onstage, waiting to be told our next move. The set is behind schedule, the band is behind, and the lights and sounds are, you guessed it, behind. No matter what, every tech rehearsal runs late. If you’re on time, there’s probably something very wrong.

They are trying to run “Greased Lightnin’,” but the car hasn’t arrived from the prop shop. They’re running the scene with wooden blocks in place of the car, and everyone is trying to stay calm and make it to lunch without anyone getting murdered.

While we are holding for a light change, Anna comes up to the actors in the audience. She’s enjoying the role of assistant director—the small amount of power already gone to her head. She’s wearing black jeans, black shirt, and a beret. “Think of it, guys,” she says. “Conversion will be rehearsing in this theater next week. Broadway stars standing right here. How cool is that?”

It’s so cool.

“Meena.” Mr. Daniels’s voice comes booming over the speakers. The director is in control of the God mic and rules from his wooden table in the audience. A clipped-on lamp reflects his serious face.

“Yes, boss,” she says over the speakers. She also has a wooden table, farther back than Mr. Daniels, covered in a sound board, binders, and two laptops illuminating her face.

“Let’s move on to scene twenty-three,” Mr. Daniels says.

“All right gang, moving to ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do,’ August to center.”

I walk to the center of the stage as marked by bright green tape. This is where my solo song will begin. This is my moment. I look up at the rows of lights above me. I’m always a little afraid they might come crashing down and end the show (and my life). My old school had a row of about ten lights. There must be fifty up there, all shining on me.

“Cue forty-three,” Meena says. The lights go dark onstage and the spotlight comes up on me. The light blinds me, warms me, and feels like home.

Mr. Daniels taught us about how they lit the stage before all these fancy lights were invented. Back in the 1800s, actors stood in the limelight—a bright light created by aiming a hot flame at a block of a mineral called lime from the theater’s balcony. The system wasn’t accurate, but the light would be brightest center stage, and that’s why they call it standing in the limelight.