The frenzied activity in the room amps up ten more notches. Hugo meets my eyes, his wide and panicked. Huh. Someone besides me is freaking out. This is new. Or maybe it’s not and I’m just too focused on myself most of the time, and I don’t notice other people.

“I don’t think he’s coming.” Hugo’s eyes are shining with tears just ready to drop.

Queen Bee rubs his back, her red nails flashing. “There are at least ten acts in front of you. There’s still time.”

He shakes his head. “You know how long he takes to put on eyelashes. I’m barely going to have time.”

“Speaking of,” Queen Bee pats him on the back, “you need to get ready.”

“What’s the point if he doesn’t show?”

“He’ll show,” Fifi says. But she exchanges a glance with Queen Bee, and I’m not convinced either of them actually believes he’ll be here in time.

I go out to the theater’s auditorium. Almost all of the red velvet seats are empty. There are only a couple other people watching on the other side of the auditorium, and three people down in the front sit at small tables covered in paperwork. The director or theater owner, or whoever they are.

Wall sconces keep the theater from total blackness, and the stage is aglow in lights, the wide space framed by a bright blue archway.

They call up the first performer. The lights dim.

And immediately, I’m riveted.

I glimpsed some of the costumes and makeup in the changing room, but when it’s all together under the lights, it’s a whole experience. The outfits are amazing, exaggerated, colorful, shimmering under the lights. Feathers, boas, dresses, sequins, wigs, everything. It’s entertaining. Enthralling. I’ve never been to a drag show, despite living in San Francisco for the past five years.

The first few auditions are two group acts and a solo. Queen Bee auditions with other queens in a combination of diva songs. Bee is Tina Turner and with her is Cher, Whitney Houston, and Madonna. They perform an entertaining mashup of iconic ’80s songs that has me clapping along—quietly, to avoid being noticed or interrupting.

A little while later, when there’s a break in the auditions for the director and whoever to go to the bathroom, Queen Bee slides into the seat next to me, still in her bustier. “What do you think, baby?”

“It’s amazing. Incredible. I don’t even know how to describe it. You were wonderful. I don’t think I could ever get up there and do something like that, it’s so . . . brave.”

“I would have said the same thing ten years ago, but it’s easier than you think.”

“I find that hard to believe.”