“Maybe this will get you out?” She hands me a printout of a ticket to an Off-Broadway show. “I became a member of the Atlantic Theater Company years ago to impress a girl. The things we do for love, August, I swear.”

“Was she impressed?” I ask.

“Yes. For about a year, then she got impressed by someone else. I never went to a show, but I kept paying the dues. You should go forth, young man, and get my money’s worth.”

The ticket is for an up-and-coming play called Happiness Is for Other People. I’ve read reviews online, mostly positive, and it’s a Critic’s Pick by the New York Times. Maybe it will inspire me to write my super-objective paper for Mr. Daniels. The play starts at three—I need to get moving. “Thank you, Auntie,” I say, excited.

“Don’t come home until you have something pierced,” Aunt Lil demands with a wink.

After one subway transfer, one delay due to a sick passenger, and a ten-minute walk, I’m standing in front of a church. I’m usually at a church on Sunday (not by choice), but this church is a theater (more holy, in my opinion), and I’m not sitting through a sermon, I’m attending a matinee (hallelujah!).

The place is packed, with people standing outside the theater, crowding the lobby, and waiting for the bathroom. It’s unsettling to see people standing in a church holding sippy cups of wine. But I can adjust quick. I walk with confidence, pretending to be an important person. People must think I’m a celebrity, or the son of a celebrity. Or maybe they will think I’ve lost my mom.

I hit the concession stand. It’s thrilling to be here alone. I’m good on my own. In West Grove, I’d go for bike rides by myself and go to see movies alone. I can get lost in my thoughts and not have to put on a show for somebody else.

The usher hands me a Playbill and points at my seat—back row and middle. Ten people stand up to let me by, though a couple of them move slow and act like I ruined their day. I’m deep in the middle of this row. Let’s hope I don’t have a bathroom emergency. This theater must have two hundred seats, all filled. It feels more like a theater than a church, but there are stained-glass windows and religious etchings on the ceiling. The stage is not impressive—about as big as the one at my old school.

The man next to me flips through his Playbill. His cologne smells expensive. He has a salt-and-pepper beard, slicked-back hair, and thick-rimmed glasses. He looks at me and smiles. “Best seat in the house,” he says.

“I have to disagree,” I say, not happy to be so far back.