“It’s not great,” I admit, “but think of the people who worked hard to make this happen. How many hours the set designer worked to build that Eiffel Tower. How many rehearsals the choreographer spent getting the tango right. The poor accordion player was playing so hard, I’m sure his fingers are bleeding. Even a bad show takes a lot of work and heart.”

“Ugh,” she says. “Please don’t make me feel guilty about my shade.”

We both laugh. A little too loud. The man beside me looks up from his phone. “You girls enjoying the show?” he asks with a friendly grin.

Why does he think I’m a girl? Maybe it’s my voice—I haven’t focused on keeping it low. My posture? My clothes? I feel caught. Exposed. An impostor. And embarrassed to get misgendered in front of a cute girl.

Anna leans over me. “Excuse me, please don’t assume our genders.”

“It’s all right,” I whisper to Anna. “I don’t mind.”

She gives me a Really, August? look, and I nod. This is my first day presenting male—I’m bound to get misgendered. The man apologizes and goes back to his phone.

“Anna, let me ask you,” I say, changing the subject. “Why acting?”

She looks up and shrugs. “It’s all I know. I love being onstage. It’s addicting, like a high. And I keep chasing it.”

“Best drug ever,” I say. The nervous energy before, the endorphins during, the applause after. Once you get a hit, you want more. Bigger stages, bigger roles, bigger audiences.

“Should we start Acting Anonymous?” I kid.

She flashes side-eye. “There’s nothing anonymous about acting.”

About an hour later, the last tango is tangoed and the musical ends. The applause wakes up the man beside me. The actors take their bows during curtain call as the audience claps politely. I feel bad for them. They didn’t choose to do the dance with cardboard Ferris wheels, but they did a great job despite the cardboard Ferris wheels. I stand up and clap loudly. Anna gets up—after rolling her eyes so hard I swear I hear it—and does the same. Other audience members get on their feet. By the last bow, the entire crowd is up and cheering. The cast smiles bigger than before.

We walk slowly with the herd of people to the exit and play the quick-fire game.

“Favorite musical song?” Anna asks.

I think through a catalog of my favorite songs. “‘You Will Be Found’ from—”

“Dear Evan Hansen, I know,” she says. “The Wild Party by Lippa or LaChiusa?”

“No clue?”

“Are you a virgin virgin?”

My face reddens up. This game has certainly taken a turn. “Can I go back to the Wild Party question?”

“No.”

“Are you?” I ask back.

She half smiles. “For the most part.”

“I am,” I say. My only kisses have been onstage.