“JORGE!” KATY FLEW THROUGH THE door of Molly’s Crisis, her red silk scarf trailing behind her like a flame. That girl understood the importance of a personal brand. Not that Katy would have ever described herself as having a personal brand, but she had a look that was all her own. Very retro-cutie-Eleganza. Like Minnie Mouse’s more sophisticated big sister. “I’m having a crisis!”

“No better place to have one.” I smirked. “I wonder what Molly’s original crisis was?”

Even if anyone knew the answer to that, there was nobody here to tell me. I looked around the empty bar. Technically, they weren’t open yet, but the door had been unlocked. Seriously, somebody needed to give me Darius’s job. If I ever left the bodega unlocked when we were closed, the New York Post would run a story titled “Bodega Bloodshed!” because Ma would literally murder me.

“Maybe it was getting a once-in-a-lifetime spot in a fashion show and then realizing she had to model her own designs!”

“OMG, Katy-girl, are you serious?!” I couldn’t keep the excitement off my face, even though Katy looked panicked. “I love this for you!”

“Well, I don’t love this for me! I hate this for me!” As she started taking off her navy blazer, I realized the buttons were tiny strawberries. She was too cute.

“Are these new?” I tapped a strawberry button. “I’m living for them.”

“Yes, I was digging around at Lou Lou Buttons and I couldn’t resist. It really transforms the jacket, doesn’t it? But forget the strawberries!” She dropped her coat on the bar stool, revealing a red silk dress with tiny white polka dots, puffed sleeves, and fabric-covered buttons marching all the way down the front. That Katy Keene look, perfect as always. “I can’t do this! I’m not a model!”

“Okay, you’re not a model, but you can do this.” I plucked the umbrella out of my ginger ale, then tucked it into her hair, behind her ear. “It’s just walking, Katy. You can walk.”

“In a casual way! Not a professional, runway, fashion kind of way! With everyone looking at me!”

“They won’t be looking at you, they’ll be looking at your dress. That’s what matters. And forget the modeling for a second. What did Rex London think about your dress?”

“My dress. Oh my god. My dress.” She face-palmed herself. “I left it at Lacy’s. I don’t even know if I was supposed to. I was just so preoccupied I forgot about it.”

“Girl, did you just run out of there in a panic after they told you that you were going to model?” I frowned. “That’s not a great look.”

“No, I didn’t panic run!” She leaned over to take a sip of my ginger ale. “They ended up cutting the fitting short today. Rex had some kind of emergency with the filming of his makeover show and had to leave early. He hasn’t even seen my dress yet.”

“Well, he’s gonna love it, whenever he sees it. And why haven’t I seen it yet?” I demanded. Usually, Katy always showed me what she was working on, every step of the way. “I thought you’d at least text me a pic of the finished product.”

“Yeah, I will.” She avoided my eyes guiltily. “I just … I don’t know. I’m still not feeling sure about it. Maybe I should go back uptown to Lacy’s to grab it, so I can tinker around with it a little bit before Rex sees it.”

“Don’t tinker too much. Remember what Coco Chanel said about taking off one accessory before leaving the house. Or what I said before the homecoming dance freshman year.”

“I still can’t believe I thought fingerless gloves were a good idea.” Katy shook her head.

“Even the fashion greats make mistakes. And you’re gonna be one of the greats. So text me a picture of that dress, please!” She nodded. I hoped she would. I wasn’t used to seeing Katy lacking confidence, especially when it came to the clothes she made. She was so good, and usually, she knew it. “In the meantime, cover girl, let’s put some bass in your walk.”

“I don’t know how to put some bass in my walk. I don’t even know what that means.” Katy dropped her head into her hands, moaning. “I am so screwed.”

I skipped over to the sound system in the back. They should just give me a job here; I knew where everything was. Despite having grown up above our bodega, I had a feeling my own special set of skills was suited more to song selections and serving drinks than frying egg sandwiches and selling Flamin’ Hot Cheetos to the kids from PS 187. Maybe they’d even let me sing. Sometimes, they had performers who weren’t in drag.

And hey, if I was a Broadway star, they’d probably be begging me to sing.

After my last callback, though, that was a big if. Ethan Fox’s comments wouldn’t stop rolling around in my head. Like, I knew he was the director, and it was his vision, and ultimately, it was a commentary on the character, not on me, but it still felt personal. Too personal.

Like I was the problem, not my performance.

I still hadn’t decided if I was going back for the next round of callbacks. And if I did go back, would I try it more masc? Steal some clothes from one of my brothers and give them exactly what I knew they wanted? Or would I still read it the way I saw Barnaby?

It felt like way too big of an opportunity to just give up. This was literally everything I ever wanted, and the director was rooting for me. He wanted it to be me—literally. Things like this didn’t happen to kids fresh out of high school, but somehow, it was happening for me.

I plugged my phone into the auxiliary cord and scrolled through Spotify until I found “Vogue.” Sometimes, the classics were classic for a reason.

Madonna blasted through the speakers. Katy looked perkier already. She snapped along with the song as she followed me up onto the stage.

“Strike a pose,” I instructed, along with Madonna.

“Vogue,” Katy whispered back to me, framing her face with her hands.

“Definitely don’t do that, though,” I said. “Pretty sure literally vogueing is frowned upon in high fashion circles.”

“I know that at least.” She rolled her eyes, smiling. “I’m not that hopeless.”

“Pretend this is the runway.” I held on to Katy’s shoulder and steered her stage left, turning her until she faced the wings backstage right. The stage at Molly’s Crisis was too narrow to walk toward the audience, but it would work this way. “Now, pick a point to focus on. Stand tall, keep your limbs loose, place one foot in front of the other, and walk with long strides.”

I was so glad my summer of bingeing reality TV had paid off. Between watching Project Catwalk and America’s Next Super Model and Drag Race, I was practically an amateur runway coach at this point.

Katy stomped down the faux-runway like an adorably tiny T. rex.

“Relax your hands!” I shouted. She flared them out like she was attempting a casual jazz hand, then she balled them into fists, then she cupped them like a Barbie.

It was … not great.

“Why are my hands so weird?” She waved them at me, flailing, once she hit the other side of the stage. “Have my hands always been so weird? Why didn’t you tell me I had weird hands, Jorge?!”

Maybe if I tried to walk myself, I could help her. I picked a point backstage, focused, set my shoulders, and walked forward, channeling all the reality TV goddesses I’d watched this summer.

“No, no, no!” Darius emerged from backstage, wearing a short silk robe over his padding. His face was beat for the gods, but he still had on a wig cap. Maybe this was what it would look like if Taye Diggs did drag. I bet he’d be gorgeous. “Shut this down!” Darius faced us, hands on his hip. “There will be no gay-best-friend-teaches-straight-girl-to-runway-walk-at-the-drag-bar music montage today!”

“We’re having a crisis, Darius!” I protested. “A Molly’s Crisis!”

“That doesn’t even mean anything!”

“Help, please.” With those big eyes, Katy looked like a sad kitten.

“Oh, fine.” Darius sighed heavily. “But shut this sad little walk-off down before any real customers come in. We don’t want to scare them off.”

“Was it really that bad?” Katy asked once Darius disappeared back toward the dressing room. “Like, scaring-paying-customers-off bad?”

“It wasn’t so much ‘bad’ as it was ‘good-adjacent,’ ” I said diplomatically. Katy groaned. “But you can turn this out. Come on. Show me that Katy Keene can-do spirit!”

As we walked the stand-in runway on the Molly’s Crisis stage, my phone cycling through Madonna’s greatest hits, I felt free. Free to make things more me, to move through the space the way I wanted to, without worrying about how masc I looked. And I could almost get Ethan Fox’s words out of my head.

Almost.