I help him gather his supplies out of the tiny trunk and back seat, the makeup, wig box, and the dress.

I follow him down the street. We pass three vintage clothing stores and a vegan ice cream shop, and then I get distracted by a brick building splashed in vibrant art, a giant mural of swirling colors and faces of various ages and ethnicities, a sky- and mountainscape in the background.

“Jane, come on!” Hugo yells from down the block.

I race to catch up, following him into a back alley. He knocks on a rough metal door.

From there, we’re led into the back stage of the venue, down a darkened quiet hallway and into the chaos of thirty-plus men putting on makeup and wigs.

Mirrors and lights line all four walls, and the middle of the room is pandemonium. Talking, laughter, half-dressed bodies, the air heavy with hair product and perfume.

Hugo points to a hook on the wall by a mirror and I hang up the dress up and turn back around. “I can wait outside?” I glance around at the chaos, the colorful dresses being tugged on, the elaborate makeup being applied, and then I look down at my jeans and T-shirt. I am so out of place.

He ignores my question. “Harry’s not here.” His eyes search the space. “But there’s Queen Bee. Bee!” he shouts into the chaos, waving a hand in the air.

His phone rings and he turns to face me with wide eyes. “Maybe that’s Harry.” He picks it up and heads toward the door.

“Wait!”

But he escapes into the hall, leaving me alone. I stand there, invisible amid the chaos.

“Hey, where did Hugo run off to?” This must be Queen Bee, her torso encased in a gorgeous silvery bustier with fringe fluttering around her hips. A bouffant purple wig hangs down to her waist, complementing her dark honey skin and expressive brown eyes laced with purple shadow.

“He’s taking a call.”

“It better be Harry on the phone or I will whoop his bony ass.” She shakes her head, the vibrant purple locks twitching with the motion and then sticks out one manicured hand. “I’m Queen Bee.”

I shake it. “I’m Jane. I’m . . . I was helping Hugo with his dress. It had a tear and I sewed it and then he wanted me to come here and, um. I helped him carry stuff.” I run out of reasons to be standing here in the dressing room with dozens of half-naked people.

Queen’s perfectly manicured eyebrows lift. Then she laughs. “Girl, that was the perfect speech. You may as well have carried a watermelon. Does Hugo know you’re stealing his part?”

My stomach drops. “Oh no, I’m not doing that, I could never—”

Hugo steps back into the room.