Today was supposed to be my day. My big put-in rehearsal. I walked into the theater channeling the unapologetic attitude of Dr. Frank-N.-Furter. I kept my head up and pretended like I owned the room. I skipped my seat and stood onstage because it was my day. Only to be told by Brady to go sit down as they worked on the second act.

Two hours later, Joshua turned to me—sitting like a good boy in my assigned seat—and told me it was time. I was put into five scenes, the understudy showing me the blocking while Joshua gave notes. Each time we’d run the scene, I would get very specific notes like: Your foot needs to be here. You need to look more upset. Why did you put your arm like that? Each note whittled down my confidence. When we’d run the scene, I’d be thinking about the notes Joshua gave and anticipating what he would say next. My Ajax hasn’t been great.

“Five minutes,” Brady’s voice sings over the speakers.

“Thanks, five,” I say to an empty room. I wish I had time for a walk. I need to get out of my head. I’ve practiced the monologue for hours, trying different faces, pauses, and deliveries. I’ve put in the work, but I don’t trust myself. This is my moment to prove myself. I need to show him I’m better than Chris Caesar and deserve to be here.

“Oh, looks like I have company,” I hear from behind me. Betty dries her hands with a paper towel.

“They put me in here,” I say, hoping she’s not mad.

“I was getting used to having my own dressing room, even if it’s a janitor’s closet that smells like an old mop at a strip club.”

“Only the best for us,” I joke.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Betty says with a wink.

“Do you want to be in the women’s dressing room?” I ask.

“Those girls can get loud.” She sits down at her makeshift station. “This isn’t the best I’ve had, but it’s not the worst. Like most things in life, it is what it is.”

“It is what it is,” I repeat, watching her powder her cheeks.

“One thing is for sure,” she says. “Mr. Joshua Downs has a huge crush on you.”

I laugh, not expecting that. “I think he’s warming up to me,” I say.

“I’m afraid he’s just getting warmed up. That man can run hot, hot, hot. Oh lord, the tantrums that man-boy threw when they let go of Chris Caesar. He broke a chair that day.”

“No way.”

“Way.”

“Was Caesar that good?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.