The lights dim down. Here we go. I ready my hands on the armrest and let the roller coaster take me away. The second act introduces Wanda’s love interest—a janitor at the shelter named Ralphie. He’s a cis guy with big muscles and tattoos—a man’s man. He’s wrestling with his love for a trans woman and confides his feelings to a friend on a park bench. He can’t believe he loves “a chick with a dick.” Armrest grab. He doesn’t want to be gay. He doesn’t want people to know. There are jokes in the dialogue, and the playwright is clever enough to not direct them toward Wanda, or trans people, but it gets close. Then the characters decide that Ralphie should follow his heart even if it’s for a “chick with a dick.” A moment of friendship at the expense of the trans person. I shake my head in defeat.

Wanda isn’t in much of the second act. I mistakenly let my guard down until Fresco’s girlfriend, Nikki, goes missing, and she blames Wanda. When they find out Nikki is dead, Fresco goes after Wanda. They circle each other as Fresco yells transphobic insult after insult. “All trans people will go to hell and burn,” Fresco shouts.

I want to fight back. Punch something. Stand up and say SHUT UP. I want to defend Wanda and every trans person who’s had to hear these words. Fresco takes out a knife and stabs Wanda. The lights go dark, and everything is quiet. Defeat fills me up. Why did it need to go this way?

Wanda doesn’t die from the stabbing and gets transferred to an LGBT shelter in Queens. I think the writer wanted to give her a happy ending. The lights come up, and everyone is on their feet for a standing ovation, with the largest applause going to the actor playing Wanda.

We start the slow shuffle toward the exit. My body is weak from the roller coaster. My jaw is sore from clenching it the whole show. The producer checks his phone. He looks up at me. “So, should I buy this thing?”

I think about my answer. I know it doesn’t really matter—he’s not going to make his decision off mine—but I want to give him my honest opinion. And I don’t want anyone else to feel like that ever again. “No,” I say. My eyes get wet, but I wipe it away quick. “I’m trans, and sitting though that was like being stabbed one hundred times with words. So my answer is no.”

6:40 P.M.