Music fills the house—heavy on the accordion—as the ensemble enters from the wings for a high-energy high-kick group number with fake cigarettes hanging from their mouths. The lights are bright, the dancing is tight and fun, and the singing is perfectly harmonized. We’re close enough to see the facial expressions on the actors. Without warning, my eyes fill with tears. I’m overcome with what my life is right now. Yesterday I was on a bus heading to New York, and today, I’m sitting inside a Broadway theater after auditioning at SPA. I’m exhausted, scared, and completely inspired. I wipe the tears away, and Anna sees. She leans over and whispers, “Come on, the show isn’t that bad.”

When the lights come up for intermission, Anna is on her feet and says, “Follow me.” I trail behind her as she heads up the aisle, speed-walking past everyone. We make it to the restrooms before anyone else. “I don’t do bathroom lines,” she says.

I head into the men’s and lock myself in the teeny tiny stall. Barely enough room to turn around. I pull my binder up, allowing air to hit my stomach and back. I’m wearing a chest compression binder under my shirt to flatten my chest. It looks like a tight undershirt and feels three sizes too small. It’s wet with sweat, and the fabric is beyond scratchy—but necessary. Lucky for me, I don’t have tons of chest to compress, but the binder gives me confidence.

I ordered the binder online and had it shipped to Hugo’s house. I wouldn’t tell him what the box was, and he didn’t seem to care. If the package had arrived at my house, Mom would have intercepted and inspected for sure. Late at night, when my parents slept, I’d wear the binder around the house, imagining how it would feel to live as a guy. Or at least dress like one.

“August,” Anna yells when I exit the bathroom. I’m glad we hustled—the restroom line now snakes down the stairs into the lobby. Most of the audience is standing, stretching their legs, chatting in small groups. We head back down to our seats. “I didn’t think there was a show more miserable than Les Misérables,” she says. “But here we are.”

I nod in agreement. “I’m not convinced the leads are in love,” I say.

“I’m not convinced the leads remember their lines.”

I laugh hard. She continues, “Did you see the juggler drop his balls? You had one job, buddy.”

“It’s not the worst show,” I say.

“Stop,” she says. “This is terrible.”