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Night.”
    â€œShh, Ma! Didn’t you hear Mr. Janson? He’s running musical numbers first.”
    â€œI wanted to go to the ladies’ room and I don’t want to miss your routine.”
    â€œUnless you’re going back home to use the toilet, you won’t miss a thing! It’ll be more than an hour.”
    â€œDo you kids have vending machines here?” she asked, removing my backpack from the seat next to me and stuffing herself into the chair. “I need a nosh.”
    â€œDown the hall,” I said, pointing, but not making eye contact. “And around the corner, out the steps, and down the block.”
    â€œDo you want something?” she asked, ignoring my comment. “You must be starved.”
    â€œMa! Everyone’s looking!”
    â€œJazzy, would you like a treat?” she asked, leaning over me.
    â€œNo thanks, Mrs. Shapiro. My stomach is in knots!”
    â€œShhh!” I sternly whispered. “Molly is singing. You’re embarrassing me.”
    â€œThat’s what mothers are for!” she retorted, and walked up the aisle.
    â€œThis is torture,” I whispered to Jazzy.
    We chatted, slept, and doodled as the hours dragged on. I painted my nails blue and Jazzy re-applied eye shadow.
    â€œOkay, guys!” Janson said anxiously after the epic musical numbers were over. “We’re running out of time. We’ll do tops and bottoms. That means we’ll run the show in order, but only for lighting cues. Be ready on deck backstage. When lights go up, hit your mark, say your first line, then jump to your closing line, applause-applause from the audience, lights out, and make your way offstage!”
    â€œIs he kidding?” I said, as we quickly stashed our accessories.
    â€œBut Mr. Janson,” Jazzy called, her hand raised wildly. “Some of us haven’t performed yet!”
    â€œI know, I’m sorry, but that’s all we’ll have time for tonight. It’s almost eleven o’clock.”
    We anxiously waited backstage for our turn. Jazzy dragged Leo backstage, tired and frustrated. “It’s a blessing,” I tried to reassure her. “Now we only have to perform once!”
    â€œI didn’t think of it that way,” she said, relieved. “Now go! It’s your turn.”
    I hit my mark.
    I’d never stood on Mason’s stage. It felt huge and engulfing. I could barely make out the empty seats with the blinding lights. I finally held a real microphone in my hand.
    â€œSay your line!” Mr. Janson called.
    â€œOh yeah…” My voice echoed throughout the auditorium. “I loathe high school,” I began. “I’m unbearably shy—afraid to speak up in—”
    â€œCut!” he admonished me.
    I stopped mid–punch line. “Did I do something wrong?”
    â€œYes, you’re supposed to jump to your last line, Trixie! We have six other performers to get through. We’ll have to take out a school levy for the electricity we’ve been running tonight!”
    That was my rehearsal.
    â€œThank you very much,” I said, reluctantly jumping to the end of my routine, replacing the microphone in its stand. I bowed.
    â€œLights out! Applause, applause,” Janson called to the light board operator.
    The stage went pitch-black. I struggled slowly in the darkness, afraid I might trip over the mike cord or fall off the stage.
    The lights came on and I was still fumbling through the red curtain.
    â€œHold it, Harold!” Mr. Janson called, waving Harold offstage as he began entering from stage right. “Trixie! What are you still doing onstage?”
    â€œMy curtain call?” I asked.
    The students all laughed from backstage. Some evenapplauded. I bowed and quickly ran off.
    â€œSave your jokes for tomorrow please, Ms. Shapiro,” Janson reprimanded me.
    Jazzy and I were gathering our backpacks when I heard a familiar voice call from