My high-waisted jeans and tight white shirt taunt me from the hanger. “In a few,” I say, trying to delay the inevitable. I’m going to have to change from August to Rizzo soon. I just can’t decide where to do it.

“If you don’t wear this,” Elijah says, tugging on my Pink Lady jacket, “I will.”

“I’d look better in that leather jacket,” I say to Elijah, who is fully Danny Zuko’ed.

“And I would look better in this,” he says, putting the pink jacket on over his leather jacket and snapping a few pictures.

I can do this. I can change quickly. No one cares. I take off my pants and pull on the tight Rizzo jeans. I take off my shirt—feeling completely exposed with my binder on display to anyone watching—and pull the V-neck shirt over my head. Once in, I look around, expecting everyone to be staring at me, but instead, no one is looking. Not a single guy. I sit down in my chair and put my bow on. There’s lipstick, but I’m not doing that until the show.

Elijah comes up behind me—I can see him in the mirror—and drapes the pink jacket around my shoulders. “You look so handsome, even in that,” he says with a wink.

“Places,” Meena sings over the intercom.

6:25 P.M.

At the end of the first act, during an energetic and scattered version of “We Go Together,” a crash comes from the wings. It’s so loud that we freeze mid-dance.

A loud “SHIT” follows the crash. Then crying.

“Who has eyes on Yazmin?” Meena yells over the mic.

“She’s right here,” a stagehand answers.

“It’s Tess,” Justin says, running offstage. Mr. Daniels is close behind. We take a knee and exchange looks of concern. Injuries are so scary in the theater.

“She fell on the stack of props,” someone says from backstage. Last time I was backstage, it was cluttered with props and quick-change costumes. The theater is quiet. A girl in the ensemble is crying softly.

Elijah scoots over to me and whispers, “Bet she’s faking it.”

A few minutes later, Justin carries Tess onstage like she’s a baby. “I’m okay, guys,” she says in a weak voice. We all jump to our feet, clapping with relief. We cheer as Justin carries her into the audience toward the exit. Before they leave, she waves, like she’s the queen.

Meena throws her clipboard down. “This is inexcusable, guys. Props are everywhere. Your castmate could’ve been seriously hurt. Do you even care?” She’s about to cry. “We need to be better than this,” she says, then stomps offstage.

“Has she snapped?” someone behind me asks.

Anna looks at me and I nod. Whenever someone freaks out, no matter how weird or irrational, their closest friends must chase after them. It’s unspoken theater code. This is peak tech day drama.