It’s late one night when I hang up the dress on the back of the closet door and stare at it.
It’s done.
It’s ready. Tomorrow I can give him the outfit and he’ll be able to audition by himself, no Harry needed.
A grin spreads across my cheeks. I can’t wait! My heart thumps with excitement, considering his reaction. He’s going to be so surprised. And excited. This is a chance for him to achieve his dreams and I get to be a part of it.
Except . . . I press a finger to my lips.
How do I give this to him without it being weird? How do I explain that I happened to have the perfect outfit, in his favorite color, and it just happens to fit on a day he needs something exactly like it?
I rub my head.
And what about afterward? I need to get the costume back at the end of the day to put back in the closet, otherwise it might disappear and I’d have to start all over again from scratch.
Maybe I’m overthinking it. Everything will be fine.
“Jane. You’re an angel sent to me straight from heaven. And I have an hour until I have to be at the Huntress.” He watches me, head tilted. “You should come with me.”
“I’ll come with you, but um, I should bring, I mean, I have something, uh, lying around. From a friend of mine. From before. Let me grab it. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it will fit you. And that way if Harry doesn’t show you have something, uh—”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ll be—wait here a minute, I’ll be right back.”
I grab the outfit from my closet and hold it up, eyeing it for the millionth time for any problems or imperfections. Maybe the seam up the middle could be straighter. I got the measurements from the current dress, but what if I did something wrong? What if it doesn’t fit? What if he hates it?
I’m trembling with nervous anticipation, but not the freak-out kind, the I-hope-this-works kind.
I take a breath. If it doesn’t work, I can just try again.
“Here. I have this.” Back in Hugo’s apartment, I hand over the costume and then step back, keeping my eyes on the ground.
I can’t look. I twist my hands together, focusing on the clench of my fingers.
The room is pure silence.
After a few long seconds, I can’t take it.
I look up.
His eyes are wide. He holds the hanger with one hand, his other running down the side of the dress, a nearly perfect match for the existing dress, but a lush royal blue. The male side is a simple collared black button-up shirt and black trousers.
He holds it up to himself, perplexed. “This might fit.” His eyes meet mine. “You happened to have this lying around?”
“Uh. Yep. Try it on? See if it fits? I can make some minor alterations if needed.” This was my big plan. No plan—a challenge for a person who uses lists and memorization and routine and control and order to just get by. But in this case, it seemed like a viable option.
Dazed and confused, he shakes his head. “Yeah, I’ll try it on but, Jane. This is incredible.” He squeezes my hand, his eyes watery. “Thank you.” He passes me, escaping into the bedroom to try the outfit on.
It was really that easy?
I blow out a breath. No plan actually works sometimes. Who knew?
When the music starts and the light hits Hugo, his male profile facing the auditorium, I’m a bundle of nerves and anticipation and happiness. We finally did it. Hugo is auditioning, without Harry the Jackass. The more he’s told me about him, the more I want to scissor kick him in the shins.
Hugo sings the male part, his feet moving back and forth, hands lifted to a partner that isn’t there. Then he does a kick ball change, flipping around to show the other side of his profile to the audience, the dark blue dress flipping and shimmering under the lights.
“Doing it solo makes the whole performance better,” Bee whispers to me.
I glance over at her. “You think so?”
Her eyes gleam under the distant stage lights. “It’s so much more honest.”
“Honest?” I ask, eyes still on Hugo/Dolly, singing both parts alone, dancing by himself.
“Think about it. Listen to the words. It gives the whole song a deeper meaning. Makes you think more about what constitutes the time of your life. Do you, in fact, owe it to someone else?”
I nod slowly. “Other people can’t make you happy.” Something I’ve reminded myself of a lot over the past . . . many Mondays.
Bee shrugs. “Maybe they can, temporarily. I had a successful show one time. Long time ago—baby, we won’t discuss when—but I’ve had fans. A lot of them. Hundreds of people every night. Men telling me they loved me. It was heady at first, don’t get me wrong, but after a while it made me realize people telling you they love you doesn’t actually bring you any love. It has to come from in here.” She pats her chest.
Fifi stage-whispers from behind us. “From boobies?”
Bee twists around. “No, hunty, from your heart.” She scoffs and waves a hand at Fifi.
Once Dolly finishes and exits the stage, Bee and Fifi disappear into the back to join her.
I wait in the auditorium, eyeballing the people in charge of the show as they murmur to each other.
When they put the paper up, I hold my breath, waiting waiting waiting as the queens crowd the stage to read the list.
A few moments later, Bee’s loud sing-song voice shrieks, “Con-drag-ulations!”
On stage, Fifi and Bee crowd around Dolly, a tangle of limbs hugging, squealing, and also grabbing each other’s asses.
I laugh so hard I cry. I’m so happy I could scream. It worked. It actually worked! This day is
