“I mean, you could try,” said Wynonna, “but it’ll probably cut off blood circulation in his entire body.”

“What’s going on?” said a new voice.

We all turned. It was Daisy Munk.

“Daisy!” Imogen exclaimed. “I will give you anything if you let Ezra wear your bra for the next two hours.”

“Uh…” said Daisy. “Does Ziggy know about this?”

“Not yet,” said Imogen. “But Wynonna has a hernia.”

Daisy glanced at Wynonna, who was dressed in Ezra’s trusty Servant costume. Wynonna hunched over—suddenly deathly ill—and gave a weak cough. I was 100 percent certain she had no idea what a hernia was.

“I know all of Viola’s lines,” I said.

Daisy narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. And then—whether to test me or to prove a point—she said: “Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way.”

Act 1. Scene 5. Line… um… one hundred and something?

“No, good swabber,” I said—elevating my tone, scraping for some solid ground between masculine and feminine. “I am to hull here a little longer.” I turned to Imogen. “Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady.”

“Wow,” said Daisy, duly impressed. “Okay, then. This should be interesting.” She started for the girls’ bathroom and called out, “One bra coming up!”

Ziggy’s failure in the art of delegation had turned him into our one and only stagehand. He was so all over the place, it was shockingly easy to step in as Viola.

As act 1, scene 1 ended, Duke Orsino, Curio, and Valentine exited the stage. Ziggy—dressed in all black, like a ninja—pushed out a blue silk curtain on a roller rack. Duct-taped to one of the vertical rods was a cardboard cutout of a capsizing ship, hand-drawn in Sharpie. Ziggy had already turned on the fan—sitting offstage, to the left—which caused the blue silk curtain to ripple and sway.

It was supposed to be the sea. A very low-budget sea.

The boy playing Captain—a chubby kid with a red, splotchy skin condition and a gray beard glued to his face—crawled onto the stage from the left. I crawled on from the right. It was then, and only then, that most of our cast recognized the drag situation. A wave of hushed whispers and what-the-fucks came from all directions, hailing together like the whistling of the wind. Ziggy turned, searching for the source of the commotion and made brief eye contact with me, sprawled across the center of the stage, wearing a dress.

He turned as white as the ghost of Hamlet’s father.

I crawled to my feet. Glanced down at Captain—who was still on his hands and knees, just now noticing that the one person he interacted with in the whole play had been replaced by the dude who auditioned for “tree.”

“What country, friends, is this?” I said.

“Uh,” said Captain. He staggered to his feet. “This is Illyria, lady.”