All of this weighs on my heart until I am jolted by a yell.

A tall, rectangular woman steps into the spotlight. “I have told you before,” she says to an actor about my age. “You will refer to me as Madam. You will refer to me as Madam Schofield. If I’m in an exceptionally patient mood, you may call me Madam Katrinka. But you will never refer to me as a pronoun. I am not a she or a her like any other she or her. Do we understand each other?”

He answers, “Yes, Madam Schofield.” He sounds tired of saying it.

She would be a perfect villain in a Disney movie. I laugh.

She whips around, squinting as she peers into the audience. Then she bellows, “Bring up the house lights!” And as if God flipped a switch, I am standing under what feels like a hot sun.

“Something humorous?” she asks, trudging down the steps.

“Hey, I just—”

“Did you not hear me?” she says as if I am half a mile away. “That’s Madam. I am not a hey.”

I see surprise on the faces of Michael and Aimee. Perhaps a little fear as well.

“Why did you laugh?” she demands.

“Oh . . . Madam . . . I had just remembered a joke and—”

She interrupts. “Please share it with us, then.”

Oh no. My mind scrambles for a joke, but I can only think of a riddle. “Well, what would you do if you had to escape from a room with no doors or windows and only had a plastic knife and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—”

She pushes her palm in my direction like she’s closing an invisible door. “Never mind,” she bellows. She darts back up the steps, waving her arm, and all the kids onstage scurry into a line. Must be nice to have that kind of power.

I take a seat on a bench in the back, careful to be quiet.

There are a lot of things in the play I remember from the movie.

I am surprised to learn that Rooster, Miss Hannigan’s mean brother, is played by Michael.

He does okay when he sings “Easy Street,” but I can hardly hear him.

Madam Schofield steps onto center stage. “MISTER Poole,” she bellows. “Yours is a shallow performance. I simply . . . don’t believe you.”

“Believe me?” he asks.

“No, I mean I don’t believe your character. I don’t believe that you are him—and that is your job as an actor. To make us believe.”

“Well, it’s not easy playing this Rooster guy. I’m nothing like him.”

“Rubbish!” she snaps.

“What?” Michael is wide-eyed. “He’s such a jerk. I would never do the things he does.”

She points. “We are all jerks inside. And kind. And smart. We are all thoughtful and inconsiderate. We are all polite and rude. We are all everything. And I need to see the jerk in you to believe you are Rooster.”