“How do you know she’s straight?” Katherine says crossly. “You don’t know that!”

Nevaeh shrugs. “Gaydar? Do I have gaydar?” she asks Taylor.

“It’s standard issue for the queers,” he says, giving her one last bop on the head.

“But do you have a crush on Zoe?” Katherine asks Nevaeh, who looks surprised.

“No, of course not,” Nevaeh says, sitting down next to Katherine and nudging her in the shoulder. “You’re my platonic life partner.”

“What if I had a crush on someone?” Katherine says.

“Well, we’d welcome them into our imaginary marriage,” Nevaeh says, patting her hand. “Are you trying to lock the door?” she calls to Taylor.

He’s rattling the handles, and then he grabs one of the heavy easy chairs in front of the double doors of the room and drags it in front of them.

“Is that excessive?” I ask.

“We are in secret planning mode,” he says. “Everything is top secret!”

I drop to a cross-legged seat on the pilled gray carpet, then dig through my bag looking for a pen and notebook while listening to them talk about their burlesque names. Taylor has decided that Ella Mental is absolutely brilliant.

“Puns are the lowest form of humor!” Katherine is arguing. “Puns are so doofy.” She’s very passionate about it. Nevaeh pats her shoulder consolingly.

“But what if they were the highest form of humor?” Taylor says, sprawling on one of the easy chairs and stretching his long legs out. “High-larious!”

Katherine growls and throws a pillow at him.

“Aha!” I say. I hold up a pen and battered notebook triumphantly, but before we can start planning our secret scheme, the door whacks against the heavy chair with a crash.

Taylor sings out, “Occupied!”

A small, indignant face appears through the half-cracked door, red braids dangling. Elsie. One of the theater people who pace up and down hallways muttering to themselves. “You guys can’t just, like, keep the whole room for yourself. It’s called the common room,” she says.

“We reserved it,” Taylor calls. “There’s a sign-up sheet downstairs.”

“There is not,” she says, scowling.

“Is too,” Taylor says. I cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud at that.

“Well—then I’m going to go look.” The long, sad wail of a trombone briefly drowns her out. “Watch where you stick that thing,” she yells at the musician, letting the door clunk shut behind her.

“I thought hardly anyone ever comes here!” Katherine says. “Where are they all appearing from?”

“They sense greatness is about to be born,” Taylor says, sitting up.

“Okay!” I say. “Then where do we start? I know where to start when you’re choreographing a piece—improv. Brainstorming.”