So went the cruel twist of fate that led to Steve Jorgensen-Warner exchanging romantic verse with Claire Fontaine, high up in the balcony set, while I stood in a side room wiggling into a blouse, a pair of tights, and a peplum skirt as two student costumers pinched me in places I would have preferred to go unpinched and sighed about how they’d need to find some heels to offset my shortness. Was I good at walking in heels? They wanted to know. I nodded—sure, sure, anything to speed through this debacle.

From the stage I could hear the interplay of Claire and Steve’s sweet nothings. Claire, of course, staggered everyone with her tranquility and poignancy. Infinitely more surprising was Steve, who bashed through speeches the same way he bashed through defensive lines. His reading exuded utter confidence, the quality most lacking in high school actors. Even his mispronunciations were forceful—it was his way or the highway, and everyone loved it.

“Very nice,” Mrs. Leach said. “How do you have this memorized already?”

“No big deal,” Steve replied. “Comes from memorizing sports plays, I guess.”

“Well, it’s very impressive. Keep going.”

This was getting out of hand. I had to get in there, and fast, before Steve stole the part right from under me. The laces on my heels were only halfway tied before I stumbled out beneath the bewildering glare of the stage lights.

“I’m ready!” I announced.

Giggles erupted from all sides. I kept charging across the stage even as I began to suspect that my purple skirt and silver tights didn’t cast me in the best light when compared with Steve Jorgensen-Warner, who looked rather rakish in blue jeans and a shirt—definitively not a blouse—opened to the third button. He dribbled the ball casually with his left hand.

“Let’s just have Steve finish,” Mrs. Leach said.

Something was wrong with my feet. I couldn’t stop my momentum.

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “I got this, I’m ready to—”

My high-heeled ankles flopped to the side and I rammed into Benvolio and Tybalt, both of whom lost their foils; seconds later my right elbow socked the ear of Friar John and my flailing left hand grabbed one of Lady Montague’s breasts. By the time she screamed, I was careening out of control. Steve, watching me in bemusement, and Claire, looking down at me from the parapet, were but blurry impressions before I went headfirst into the balcony set.

You wouldn’t think a human head could punch through plywood, but that’s what happened. The base of the set spun halfway around and I heard a board crack. In seconds the entire thing was groaning and folding shut like a suitcase. I pushed against the plywood, unplugging myself from the collapsing wood just in time to see the set pitch toward the orchestra pit.