“I’m not afraid of you anymore. Go ahead and fire me if that’s what you want,” I say, nearing the door. “But in the meantime, I’m going to the men’s dressing room. That’s where I belong.”

I walk out of the room, expecting Joshua to say something, but he doesn’t. The guys welcome me to the dressing room, and we make small talk for the few minutes before rehearsal begins. This feels like a win—possibly the only one today—but I’ll take it.

An hour later, we’re running the show full out—costumes, lights, mics, and nearing the end of act one. The show seems to be in a good place for the opening tomorrow. We haven’t had to halt for a lighting problem, set fix, or an actor missing an entrance. And Joshua has yet to make anyone cry.

The next scene is my monologue. I wait backstage in the darkness and get focused. The crew moves quietly around me, adjusting props, helping with costumes, and moving sets. Brady cues the lights and maintains the sound levels. The actors pass by, entering and exiting the stage. I love the minutiae of theater, so many people working at once to make it happen. It’s a beautiful thing. It’s my favorite thing. This is what I want for the rest of my life. This is my dream. And even if Joshua fires me, it will continue to be my dream. I won’t let him take it away from me.

“Hey, kid, you ready to jam this out?” Betty asks.

“Piece of cake,” I say, having no idea why something being easy is a piece of cake.

Betty gives me the pre-scene hug. “You’ve got this—I know you do.”

I put my arm around her, and we walk onstage. I am August, playing Ajax. I think of my parents wanting to send me to conversion therapy, and sadness comes over me, then anger follows. The feelings start in my chest and push on my heart. I channel them. My posture changes, and my jaw clenches. I think of how badly I wanted my parents to accept me and let the desperation boil. I don’t push the pain away; instead, I use the uncomfortable feelings that I was too scared to face and become Ajax.

“You’re okay. It’s all over,” Betty says, starting the scene.

“My brain is scrambled,” I mumble, and drop to the bed, slouched. “I’ll never do that again,” I say.

“I felt that same way my first time in the shock chair, but you’ll adjust. It helped me. It’ll help you, too, Wendy.”

I think about every time my parents deadnamed me. “My name isn’t Wendy!” I yell. “My name is Ajax.”