I know Elijah well enough to know he won’t let up—I need to tell him something. “They fired the Nickelodeon star from Conversion,” I blurt out, cutting to the chase to buy myself some time.

“HOLY SHIT,” he says, way too loud. Everyone stops talking and looks over. Elijah smiles, and they return to their business. In whispered tones, he asks, “And they want to hire you? Are you going to be in a Joshua Downs play and make everyone insanely jealous?”

I whisper even softer, “They’re sending people to come see the show.”

“Who?” he asks.

“People.”

“August.”

“The producer and casting director.”

“Holy shit,” he says again, almost yelling.

“I don’t want the part,” I say, while trying to edge past Elijah to my changing station.

“You have lost your mind.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to only play trans characters. There are too few of them to build a career. Name a trans character on Broadway.”

“Hedwig,” he says proudly.

“So, one?”

“Angel in Rent.”

“Okay, two.”

He thinks, gives up. “You. You could be on Broadway. Dude, do you understand what this means?”

I don’t have time to understand what that means right now. “You can’t tell anyone.”

He frowns. “Jamaal?”

“No.”

“Anna?”

“No way. I’m serious. I have to go. I’m behind,” I say, not waiting for a response. I sit down at my station and look at myself in the mirror. No makeup on yet. I start readying my foundation. I hate wearing makeup, but it’s acting.

As I settle into my routine, I think about pressure. I’m feeling it now. Getting a chance to be in a workshop that could go to Broadway would be big-time. But my parents would never let it happen. The minute they found out, I wouldn’t be playing a trans boy in conversion therapy, I’d be a trans boy in conversion therapy.

Jamaal slides his chair over. “Hey, August,” he says, checking himself out in my mirror. “You ready for this after-party?”

“Can’t wait,” I say. I didn’t tell the cast I wasn’t going to the party. I’ll just make up an excuse on the group text tomorrow. My phone dings. A text from my aunt. It’s a picture of my parents in front of the school. They are here.

“All right, gang, for the last time,” Meena’s voice booms from the intercom. “Five minutes to places!”

“Thanks, five,” we all yell, then cheer and holler. Guys bang on the counters. The energy is up, up, up. Closing night is always magical. No one is nervous about their lines or entrances; we’re all ready to enjoy our last time. The last show is like a bunch of little painful deaths. When each scene or song ends, you know it’s the last time. Twenty sad little goodbyes.