“Here’s the secret,” she says, capturing my hands in hers. “You think about the thing you like best about yourself,” she says. “And then you brag all about it.”

She spreads my hands wide when she steps back from me, wiggles me a little bit. “I mean, look at those tits!”

Taylor, Nevaeh, and Katherine are howling as Carmen presses a soft kiss on each of my flaming cheeks, and then she spins away to greet another fan who is rushing at her, a heart-eye emoji in action. I cover my face, and Nevaeh, still laughing, has to shake me awake and drag me away, laughing at my dazed grin, my flapping hands.

“Carmen Go likes my boobs!” I hiss. “She said I can do burlesque!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” Nevaeh says, shaking her head, spinning me around and poking me out of the lobby, into the fresh, dark air. “Where have you heard that one before?”

“You!” I yell, and wrap an arm around her. She smells like peppermint, and she squeezes me with an arm around my waist. Taylor distributes the coats we checked and then hoists Katherine up onto his back and bursts ahead of us, shooting over the salted sidewalk and darting around tourists and people handing out flyers all the way down the neon-lit strip of theaters and ticket booths.

In Nevaeh’s car, we crank down the windows because we’re all still feeling flushed, and we shout all the way back to her parents’ house in Oak Park, the car jerking too often through the backstreets because Nevaeh is looking at us more than the road.

“And then she touched me—did you see—”

“Oh, no, me too, no idea what to say—”

“But those feather fans—”

“Right, but did you see the fire-eater’s corset—”

“No, the best part was when she threw the knife right at that—”

“Okay, but maybe if I set just a little bit of the costume on fire—”

“Taylor, you are not setting yourself—”

“And then she leaped from the top of that ladder! How do you—”

“Right, okay, then what about roller skates?”

“Okay, everyone, hush it; you’re going to wake up the parents,” Nevaeh says as we tumble out of the car onto the paved stone driveway of her house, set at the top of a snow-covered lawn. I know this is what people call “upper middle-class,” but it seems rich to me when I visit, and it makes me feel a little awkward.

We follow Nevaeh through the gate at the end of the driveway and around the side of the house, with its big windows and french doors and fancy garden, to the little guesthouse, where we always stay overnight. Once inside, we throw off our coats and turn on the music, and none of us can sit down.

“I love burlesque! This was such a great idea!” I say, grabbing Nevaeh by the shoulders and joggling her. “Thank you so much.”