Act Cool

by Tobly McSmith

Genres: YA Coming of Age; YA LGBT & Pride

Synopsis

*Named a Rainbow Book List Title and one of Bank Street Children's Best Books of the Year*

A trans teen walks the fine line between doing whatever it takes for his acting dream and staying true to himself in this moving, thought-provoking YA novel from the acclaimed author of Stay Gold.

Aspiring actor August Greene just landed a coveted spot at the prestigious School of Performing Arts in New York. There’s only one problem: His conservative parents won’t accept that he’s transgender. And to stay with his aunt in the city, August must promise them he won’t transition.

August is convinced he can play the part his parents want while acting cool and confident in the company of his talented new friends.

But who is August when the lights go down? And where will he turn when the roles start hitting a little too close to home?

Release date: September 7, 2021

Publisher: Quill Tree Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

One

Sunday, September 8, 2019

12:00 P.M.

If you saw me now, you’d say my dreams are coming true. I’m about to audition for a spot at the most prestigious art high school in the country. That’d be any actor’s dream. But last night, I dreamed I was naked in a classroom full of people. Will that be coming true? What about the one where I’m onstage and can’t remember my lines? I’ll pass on both. But this dream, I wouldn’t mind if it came true.

I smooth out my shirt, run my hand through my hair, and walk into the classroom. Unlike in my dream, I’m wearing clothes. It’s a regular classroom except for the fact that there’s a stage and a Steinway piano. Back home, we’d push desks out of the way and roll in the slightly out-of-tune piano from the band room. Other than that, it’s a normal classroom that could possibly change my life forever. No big deal.

The man I assume is Mr. Daniels looks up from his tattered paperback. He’s got messy gray hair and a slightly less messy gray beard. Glasses sitting low on his nose—all smart people wear glasses—and slumped posture. Beside him sits a girl—a cute girl—possibly the same age as me. I notice her eyes first, big and brown. She has black hair and high cheekbones, reminding me of a young Idina Menzel. She smiles at me. They both make me nervous for different reasons.

“I’m here for the audition,” I announce in the deepest voice possible.

“Ah, you must be the infamous August Greene.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, wondering what’s so infamous about me.

“I’m Mr. Daniels and this is Anna, my assistant.”

“Very nice to meet you. Thank you for taking the time—”

“Let’s get started, shall we?” he asks, cutting off my hashtag-blessed speech. I drop my backpack on a desk and find center stage. “Did you bring us a headshot and résumé?”

“No, sir,” I admit. “But I have played the lead in every musical at my school.”

“How charming. Did you at least prepare two monologues?”

“I did,” I nearly yell, relieved to have something. “First one is from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. But—could I have a moment?” I ask. I need to ground myself.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Greene. We will wait.”

“Thanks,” I say, ignoring his sharp tone. His words have bite, but his eyes are kind. I turn my back on my audience of two. A rush of nerves hits hard, causing my muscles to clench. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. Right now, I’m not the “infamous” August Greene auditioning at the School of Performing Arts. Right now, I am Brick. It’s summertime in Mississippi. I’m sweaty, angry, and tired. Also, drunk—very drunk—and secretly gay. I direct my anger and confusion toward my wife, Maggie.

I face my audience. Mr. Daniels flips a page in his book, almost challenging me to keep his attention. His assistant gives me a big smile, making me feel things. Holding myself up with a stool—Brick has a broken leg—I step into character. “All right. You’re asking for it . . .”

I put everything into the next two minutes, ending the monologue feeling spent. Last night, I read audition tips online—one suggested watching the “signs” from the people across the table. Anna snaps to show her support. Good sign. And from what I could tell, Mr. Daniels kept his eyes on me and not the book. Another good sign.

“August, nicely done. I see why your aunt speaks so highly of you.”

He’s not a fan of nepotism. Bad sign.

He continues, “Do you know how often a spot opens up in the drama department at SPA?”

“Not often?” I guess.

“Never,” he says, then pulls an orange out of his desk drawer and starts peeling. “A student relocated to London last minute to join the cast of Pippin in the West End. This has only happened a handful of times in my tenure here. . . .” He stops himself. “So please know how rare an opportunity like this really is, son.”

I stand up straight to show my readiness to accept the great weight of this opportunity. “Thank you,” I say, having no idea how to respond.

He eats an orange slice. “Not saying it’s your spot. I’m merely confirming the existence of a spot.”

That’s a bad sign. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable in this moment. This audition means everything to me. Based on this man’s decision, my life could completely change for the better, or get much worse. I’m freaking out and he’s having a snack. I need to connect with him. “I love oranges,” I offer.

“This is a tangerine,” he says, then Anna laughs. “Now that I think about it, August, I wonder if your aunt sent the student to London herself.”

He appears to be half-kidding, half-serious. “Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her,” I joke, earning a smile from Mr. Daniels. That’s a good sign—one small step closer to becoming a student here.

“I’m late for a chess game in Central Park. What’s your next monologue?”

I unzip my backpack and dig around. “Another one from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”

He shakes his head, disappointed. “Brick again?”

“No,” I say. That would be a mistake. I did some research about the audition process at SPA after my aunt called two days ago. Everything I could find online said two diverse monologues that show range. I’ve got the range but had no time to prepare, so I went with two monologues from the play we did for sophomore showcase at West Grove High.

“Big Daddy?” Anna guesses.

I pull out a blonde wig from my backpack and put it on my head. “Maggie.”

They laugh—not at me, at the surprise. (I hope.) For the second time, I turn my back to my adoring audience. I am Maggie. Born poor, married rich. A fighter. I love my husband, but he’s not interested. I loosen up my body and slowly turn back around. Here goes nothing. “Oh, Brick. I get so lonely. . . .”

After the final words leave my mouth, I crumple to the ground and hold there, the blonde hairs falling over my face. Maggie leaves me feeling frustrated. I stand up, remove the wig, and dust my shirt off.

Mr. Daniels takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “Tell me, why did you leave Pennsylvania?”

“I had to,” I say without hesitation.

He nods, hopefully understanding everything I don’t say. “One more question. Why do you deserve this spot at SPA?”

“I don’t,” I say, pausing to watch his expression—he cracks a little. I guess this is my third monologue. I am August, desperate to go to this school. “Like you, Mr. Daniels, I’m not a fan of getting something because I know somebody. But my situation back home isn’t great. And there’s no way to study at this level in West Grove, Pennsylvania. Just give me a chance, sir.”

He smiles. “August, you’ll hear from someone soon. If accepted, you will be starting classes on Tuesday. Will that work for you?”

I’ll take that as a good sign. “Absolutely,” I say.

“But if you’re not accepted, I wish you the very best of luck.”

Dammit. Bad sign.

“Oh,” he continues, “please say hello to your aunt for me?”

“Will do,” I say, while stuffing the wig into my backpack. I say my thank-yous and goodbyes and walk out with no clear sign on how that went.

12:25 P.M.

Having nowhere to go, I sit on the cement benches in front of the school and process how I did. Before today, I’ve only auditioned in front of my teachers for school shows. Not really high-pressure situations. Also, I didn’t sleep much last night, my mind running lines from the monologues over and over to avoid thinking about other things.

I untangle my phone from the Maggie wig, ignore the five voicemails on it, and dial my aunt. I promised I’d call after the audition. She dropped me off on her way upstate to sell art. No clue what “upstate” is exactly, but it sounds fancy, bucolic, rich. Nothing like downstate. I picture Aunt Lillian driving her bright yellow vintage truck. After two rings she picks up. “Tell your favorite aunt some good news.”

I wish I had good news to deliver to my only aunt. “I’m still alive,” I announce.

“Hallelujah,” she sings. “And how was the audition, my love?”

“I truly don’t know, but I did my best.”

“Good,” she says. “That’s all we can do in life.”

“I don’t think Mr. Daniels warmed to me,” I admit.

She laughs. “Yeah, he can be a real sonofabitch, but there’s a heart somewhere in that chest of his.” The way she says “chest of his” makes me wonder if they once dated. I don’t know much about my aunt’s love life. “Now, how will you spend your first day in the city?”

I look around at the concrete buildings stacked up over me. “I’ll wander around. And try not to get kidnapped.”

“Wonderful. I’ll be home for dinner. Call if you need me. Bye, love.”

When I end the call, there’s another voicemail waiting for me. And twenty-one unread texts. All from Mom. Each one more urgent and angrier. The most recent text mentions the cops. I should call her before I end up on a missing-child commercial, but Aunt Lil and I made a plan to call her after we find out if I get into SPA.

This is my first attempt at running away from home. It’s too early to write my official review—I’m only twenty-four hours in—but so far, it’s been a roller coaster. For the most part, it’s one long adrenaline rush—I’m free! I can do anything!—and panic attack—I’m going to jail! Or worse!

When I look up from my phone, there’s a new friend at the end of the bench. “Hello, pigeon,” I say to the bird. He stares at me intensely with one eye while the other wanders. His feathers look like they were glued on by a child. The bird hops closer to me. Is this how I die?

“What are you doing?”

I look up, thrown by the interruption. Mr. Daniels’s assistant is standing over me, blocking the sun. “Just making new friends,” I say, nodding to the pigeon. She laughs, then claps twice—effectively frightening the dirty bird to the ground—and sits down beside me.

“I feel like we haven’t had a proper introduction. I’m Anna.”

“And I’m the infamous August Greene.”

“What was that about?” she asks.

“No clue.”

“August, your audition was something else. You killed it.”

“Did I?” I ask, unsure.

“Um, yes. I think you have a real shot.”

“I don’t think Mr. Daniels was impressed.”

She waves off my comment. “Oh, that’s just him. But he knows talent when he sees it.”

“Thanks,” I say, then take my first deep breath of the day.

Anna squints. Sizing me up. “Can I ask a personal question?”

“Yes,” I say hesitantly.

“You nailed both Brick and Maggie. I haven’t seen that before. Does being transgender make playing both boy and girl parts easier?”

How did she know I’m trans? Maybe my aunt told Mr. Daniels and he told her. Or could she tell by looking at me? I wonder if it’s obvious. “As an actor, I can step into both genders, if that makes sense. I can play any character on earth.”

“Bold statement, sir,” she says with a sweet smile.

I first heard the word transgender in my eighth-grade history class. I’d heard the word before (I don’t live under a rock), but never really heard it. It was end of the year—my last days in middle school. The teacher was giving a lesson on LGBTQ history for pride month. The teacher was talking about the L, and G, and B, and I was Z(oning) out as usual. But then he got to the T, talking about how transgender people feel uncomfortable in their assigned gender, and everything he said fit me to a T.

I went home after school—locked my door—and looked online. I took a quiz called “Are You Transgender?” and it said I was, in fact, transgender. I took three more, just to make sure, all with the same result.

Those “Are You Transgender?” quizzes suggested that I talk to someone. But in a conservative town like West Grove, who was I supposed to talk to? I didn’t know any transgender people. I couldn’t tell my folks. I knew what they would say. I decided not to tell anyone else—not even Hugo, and he’s my best friend. It was just this big secret that I carried while wearing Mom-mandated dresses.

Anna taps on my shoulder, bringing me back to earth. “So, August, you’ve got me curious. What’s your deal?”

Good question. My deal is complicated, and I don’t know how much I should tell the assistant of the man who has my future in his hands. I need to play this cool. For Anna, I’ll be the Chill Guy. Unfazed, unworried, aloof. I sit back, spread my legs. “My deal is that I moved here. Living with my aunt.”

She tilts her head. “You just moved?”

“Yeah,” I say, so very chill-like. “But I’ve been here tons. Most weekends,” I lie.

She gives me a look of major doubt. “How many Broadway shows have you seen?” she asks.

“Lost count,” I answer. Translation: I lost count of the bootleg recordings I’ve watched on my old scratched-up laptop.

“Vague,” she announces. “I’ve seen twelve. Where do you live?”

My aunt told me the neighborhood last night, but I can’t remember. “Somewhere in Brooklyn off the orange subway line,” I say.

“Orange subway line?” she repeats.

One thing is clear: Chill Guy isn’t working. I don’t know enough to act like I don’t care. Time to flip the script. For Anna, I’m Bright-Eyed New Guy. Naive to my new world and easy to excite.

“Actually,” I admit, “it’s my first day in New York.”

“I knew it.” Anna throws her hands up. “A real-life New York virgin!”

My face reddens up. “Go easy on me.”

“No promises,” she says, then pulls out sunglasses from her purse. The glasses are oversized—cartoonishly big—but stylish. I see my reflection in the lenses, almost unrecognizable from two days ago. Goodbye, flowery shirt and long skirt; hello, white tee and jeans. I run my hand through my short hair, still not used to it. Aunt Lil gave me a haircut last night. We printed out a picture of Shawn Mendes for inspiration and she did her best. The sides of my head are super short with a nice patch of curly hair on the top. Nothing like Shawn, but a lot more like me.

My phone starts vibrating in my lap. Anna peeks at the screen. “Answer it,” she says.

“It’s probably a robocall.”

“Dude, I can see it’s your mom. Maybe she wants to, I don’t know, hear how your audition went?”

Or maybe she wants to know where the hell I am. She’s worried, and she loves me, but she doesn’t approve of me being transgender. I send the call to voicemail. “I’ll tell her about it later,” I say, losing my cool a little.

“Someone’s hangry,” Anna says, then pulls a tinfoil ball from her purse. “Do you know what a bagel is, newbie?”

“Of course I know what a bagel is,” I say, but lean into my newbie status: “And of course I’ve never had one.”

She laughs and unwraps the bagel. “That’s cream cheese.”

“Wow,” I say, pretending like I’ve never seen cream cheese before. Anna hands me half and I take a big bite—too big a bite—letting the carbs and cream cheese wash over me.

She takes a picture of me. “Baby’s first bagel.”

After a few seconds on her phone, she looks up. “What’s your Insta? I’m trying to tag you in my Story.”

“Oh,” I say, swallowing. I haven’t had time to create a profile for August yet. “I’m not online.”

“What planet are you from?” she asks.

“Pennsylvania,” I joke, leaning into New Guy. “Do you think I should?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes. Obviously. That’s how people get noticed. And every casting director and producer checks that stuff. They want to know you have built a following that will follow you to the theater and buy a ticket.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

She waves off my question and continues, “At SPA, your social media is everything. It’s how you tell your story and control your narrative.”

I laugh a little. I don’t mean to—it just slips out.

“Laugh all you want, buster, but look at mine,” she says, and shows me her phone. There’s over three thousand people following her. Who are all those people? She scrolls through her page, stopping to show me photos and announcing how many likes or views they got.

My old profile had fifty-three followers, mostly people in Theater Club. I don’t know anything about brands or narratives. I nod and pretend to understand as she explains the algorithm.

“So, new friend,” Anna says. “I’m guessing you haven’t actually been to countless Broadway shows?”

“No,” I admit. “I’ve only watched them on my laptop and phone.”

Anna covers her mouth. “That’s so sad.”

“Tragic, really,” I confirm.

“Well, would you be interested in attending the matinee of the newest show in town?”

My heart jumps. I could be going to my first Broadway show. I know there’s some rule about stranger danger, but Anna doesn’t fit the profile of a serial killer. And to see a Broadway show, it’s worth the risk. “I’m interested,” I say.

“Would you still be interested if the musical probably sucks? And will most likely close before opening night?”

The worst Broadway show in person is better than watching the best one on my laptop. My phone vibrates in my pocket. And I could use a distraction. “I would say I’m still interested.”

She claps, excited. “The show is called Last Tango in Paris. My friend last-minute canceled on me. She probably looked up the reviews. Anyways, would you like to join me?”

“YES,” I nearly scream, then hug Anna, celebrating as only the Wide-Eyed New Kid could.

“Okay, wow,” she says, surprised by my excitement. “Be cool.”

1:40 P.M.

The taxi to the theater was disappointing. I wanted my first cab ride in New York to play out like in the movies, with the driver speeding recklessly, yelling out the window, and constantly honking. None of that happened. The ride was slow and hot, but the destination—Times Square—is heaven. We passed electronic billboards stacked on top of each other like apartments. Anna played tour guide, and I acted blown away by her knowledge of the city.

While she pays the guy, I step out of the taxi and take in the theater. I can’t believe this is happening. Flashing lightbulbs line the marquee, bright enough to compete with the sun. Posters of actors dancing in front of the Eiffel Tower are plastered to the walls of the theater. Maybe one day, my photo will be up there.

We walk to the end of the will-call line—almost a block away—and wait. “Okay, August, let’s play a game called quick fire. I ask you questions, you answer quick—without thinking. Ready?”

“Sure,” Wide-Eyed Guy says.

“Favorite musical?”

Without hesitation I say, “Rent.”

She looks at me like she doesn’t believe me. “Why?”

I shrug. “‘La Vie Bohème’!”

“Favorite musical movie?”

“Don’t laugh,” I say. “Hairspray.”

She laughs anyway. “Sorry, it’s good, I guess. But I don’t love John Travolta as Edna Turnblad.”

“’Cause of his acting?” I joke.

“Well, yes,” she jokes back. “Why couldn’t they cast a woman to play the mother? There’s plenty of hilarious women.”

I’ve read a couple of articles about the decisions to cast Harvey Fierstein in the Broadway run and then John Travolta in the movie. “I think it’s tradition,” I offer.

“Tradition?” she repeats with disgust. “What does that even mean? It’s the mom, it should be played by a woman.” Anna shakes her head. “Let’s not get into this. It’s a hot topic at school now.”

“John Travolta?” I kid.

“Representation.”

“I don’t follow,” I say.

“I’m talking proper representation in theater. The stage needs more women, people of color, people with disabilities, transgender and nonbinary people,” she says, and gives me a knowing look. “If a role is meant for a marginalized character, they better not cast some white dude who then gets awards and praise for his quote-unquote bravery.”

“Like how Harvey Fierstein won the Tony for Edna?” I ask.

“Exactly.”

“But acting is about being someone else?”

“When it comes to acting now, August, it’s about staying in your lane.”

But I’m transgender. Is that my lane? I’m good at playing girls and boys. Can’t I play both? There are very few trans characters in theater. I want to ask her but don’t want my fear confirmed.

After ten minutes of slowly inching ahead in line, we’re close enough to the doors to feel the air conditioners. My pocket vibrates again. I pull my phone out and send Mom’s call to voicemail, hoping Anna didn’t see.

“Out with it, August: Why won’t you pick up your mom’s calls?”

“I’ll talk to her later,” I say.

“Don’t be mad, but Mr. Daniels said they aren’t cool with you being transgender.”

My face burns hot. I didn’t think Aunt Lil would tell him. “Yeah,” I say, deciding how much to disclose. I need to keep the Wide-Eyed New Guy thing going and not veer into Trans Teen Runaway. “They are religious,” I offer.

“Oh,” she says.

“The evangelical kind.”

“Got it.”

My plan was to never tell my parents that I’m transgender. Maybe I’d send a letter when I was eighteen and out of their house, but not before. The problem with that plan was, once I knew I was trans, the urge to transition got louder every day. I couldn’t wait years. I needed to tell my parents. I needed them to know. And I needed to say it out loud.

It was a week before my fourteenth birthday. Dinner table. My mom asked what I wanted for my birthday and I said, “Actually . . . I want to transition. I was born in the wrong body. I’m a boy. God made a mistake.” My mom said, “God never makes mistakes.” My stepdad stayed quiet. For my birthday, I got a new dress—and was told not to talk about that boy stuff again. God made me a girl for a reason. End of conversation.

“You ready?” Anna asks, handing me my first Broadway ticket. We pass through the metal detectors into the lobby. The air conditioner is on high, chilling the sweat on the back of my shirt and sending a shiver up my spine. An usher scans my ticket. Someone puts a Playbill program in my hand as Anna holds the other, leading the way.

I can feel her watching my face. She wants to see my reaction to walking into my first Broadway theater. I need to overact, but that’s easy—this place is magical. I look around, mouth open. Endless rows of red seats. Red curtain three stories tall. Balcony with more red seats. The ceiling, far away, with swirls of fancy blue-and-white etchings mimicking clouds. Two of the biggest chandeliers I’ve ever seen. When I look at Anna, she snaps another picture. “Baby’s first Broadway,” she says.

Another usher (in a beret) leads us to our seats. The theater feels old and unchanged, and there’s a musty smell of moldy carpet and popcorn. We find our seats, and Anna calls aisle. The seat beside me is empty, and I hope it stays that way. The well-worn chairs are too close together and too small. There’s an outline of Paris projected on the curtain. “I’m suddenly in the mood for French fries,” I joke.

“Oui oui,” Anna says, then checks her phone. “Five minutes until curtain. Back to the quick-fire questions?”

“Bring it on,” I say.

“Why acting?”

I shake my head. “You want a short answer for why acting?”

“Just try,” she suggests, flipping a page of her Playbill.

Things got dark after coming out to my parents. I was lost. And uncomfortable in a body that continued to defy me with the beginning of boobs and hips. My freshman year started, and I walked around in a thick cloud of blah.

My friend Hugo knew something was up—we’ve been friends since fourth grade—but I couldn’t tell him. Too scared he’d push me away. Being the best best friend, he came to me with the solution to my sads (that’s what he called it: “my sads”). Hugo’s big idea was to sign up for Theater Club. Cassie was joining, and he was looking to land the role of her boyfriend. He said it would be fun to act like somebody else, and that didn’t sound bad. That’s all I wanted—to be someone else.

We showed up to the first meeting, and I tried to remain invisible (my typical MO at West Grove High). The teacher asked us to break into small groups and perform for the club. I don’t remember much of the performance, but it felt good. It felt right. When it was done, Hugo ran over and said, “Wow, you can really act.” I didn’t believe him. What did he know? But then the teacher came up and said the same thing.

After I joined Theater Club, things got better at home. Turns out, I was an actor all my life—playing the role of a girl. My anxiety calmed down when I figured out that I didn’t need to be a girl; I only needed to act like one. For my parents, I played the part of their daughter. The world, I heard, is a stage. And it was working.

“August?” Anna asks. “Why acting?”

I find her eyes and smile. “It saved my life,” I say simply.

The lights lower and the crowd goes quiet. My heart speeds up. I can’t believe I’m here. When I go to turn off my phone, I notice there are no new calls. That’s weird. Did my parents give up?

Music fills the house—heavy on the accordion—as the ensemble enters from the wings for a high-energy high-kick group number with fake cigarettes hanging from their mouths. The lights are bright, the dancing is tight and fun, and the singing is perfectly harmonized. We’re close enough to see the facial expressions on the actors. Without warning, my eyes fill with tears. I’m overcome with what my life is right now. Yesterday I was on a bus heading to New York, and today, I’m sitting inside a Broadway theater after auditioning at SPA. I’m exhausted, scared, and completely inspired. I wipe the tears away, and Anna sees. She leans over and whispers, “Come on, the show isn’t that bad.”

When the lights come up for intermission, Anna is on her feet and says, “Follow me.” I trail behind her as she heads up the aisle, speed-walking past everyone. We make it to the restrooms before anyone else. “I don’t do bathroom lines,” she says.

I head into the men’s and lock myself in the teeny tiny stall. Barely enough room to turn around. I pull my binder up, allowing air to hit my stomach and back. I’m wearing a chest compression binder under my shirt to flatten my chest. It looks like a tight undershirt and feels three sizes too small. It’s wet with sweat, and the fabric is beyond scratchy—but necessary. Lucky for me, I don’t have tons of chest to compress, but the binder gives me confidence.

I ordered the binder online and had it shipped to Hugo’s house. I wouldn’t tell him what the box was, and he didn’t seem to care. If the package had arrived at my house, Mom would have intercepted and inspected for sure. Late at night, when my parents slept, I’d wear the binder around the house, imagining how it would feel to live as a guy. Or at least dress like one.

“August,” Anna yells when I exit the bathroom. I’m glad we hustled—the restroom line now snakes down the stairs into the lobby. Most of the audience is standing, stretching their legs, chatting in small groups. We head back down to our seats. “I didn’t think there was a show more miserable than Les Misérables,” she says. “But here we are.”

I nod in agreement. “I’m not convinced the leads are in love,” I say.

“I’m not convinced the leads remember their lines.”

I laugh hard. She continues, “Did you see the juggler drop his balls? You had one job, buddy.”

“It’s not the worst show,” I say.

“Stop,” she says. “This is terrible.”

“It’s not great,” I admit, “but think of the people who worked hard to make this happen. How many hours the set designer worked to build that Eiffel Tower. How many rehearsals the choreographer spent getting the tango right. The poor accordion player was playing so hard, I’m sure his fingers are bleeding. Even a bad show takes a lot of work and heart.”

“Ugh,” she says. “Please don’t make me feel guilty about my shade.”

We both laugh. A little too loud. The man beside me looks up from his phone. “You girls enjoying the show?” he asks with a friendly grin.

Why does he think I’m a girl? Maybe it’s my voice—I haven’t focused on keeping it low. My posture? My clothes? I feel caught. Exposed. An impostor. And embarrassed to get misgendered in front of a cute girl.

Anna leans over me. “Excuse me, please don’t assume our genders.”

“It’s all right,” I whisper to Anna. “I don’t mind.”

She gives me a Really, August? look, and I nod. This is my first day presenting male—I’m bound to get misgendered. The man apologizes and goes back to his phone.

“Anna, let me ask you,” I say, changing the subject. “Why acting?”

She looks up and shrugs. “It’s all I know. I love being onstage. It’s addicting, like a high. And I keep chasing it.”

“Best drug ever,” I say. The nervous energy before, the endorphins during, the applause after. Once you get a hit, you want more. Bigger stages, bigger roles, bigger audiences.

“Should we start Acting Anonymous?” I kid.

She flashes side-eye. “There’s nothing anonymous about acting.”

About an hour later, the last tango is tangoed and the musical ends. The applause wakes up the man beside me. The actors take their bows during curtain call as the audience claps politely. I feel bad for them. They didn’t choose to do the dance with cardboard Ferris wheels, but they did a great job despite the cardboard Ferris wheels. I stand up and clap loudly. Anna gets up—after rolling her eyes so hard I swear I hear it—and does the same. Other audience members get on their feet. By the last bow, the entire crowd is up and cheering. The cast smiles bigger than before.

We walk slowly with the herd of people to the exit and play the quick-fire game.

“Favorite musical song?” Anna asks.

I think through a catalog of my favorite songs. “‘You Will Be Found’ from—”

“Dear Evan Hansen, I know,” she says. “The Wild Party by Lippa or LaChiusa?”

“No clue?”

“Are you a virgin virgin?”

My face reddens up. This game has certainly taken a turn. “Can I go back to the Wild Party question?”

“No.”

“Are you?” I ask back.

She half smiles. “For the most part.”

“I am,” I say. My only kisses have been onstage.

We exit the theater and walk away from Times Square. The sun sets, turning the sky pink. “Are you with someone?” she asks.

“No,” I say with a laugh. “How about you?” I ask.

“Not really. I haven’t met anyone interesting enough to be my person.”

“Person?” I ask.

“Yeah, I don’t care about the gender.”

“Cool,” I say. “I’m into girls, but they aren’t into me.”

She gives me a little push. “Don’t worry, you’ll do fine at SPA.”

We stop at the corner of Forty-Sixth Street and Eighth Avenue and face each other. If this were a scene in a play, we’d kiss right now. She smiles at me and I look away, nervous. Instead of leaning in for a kiss, I ask for help calling my Lyft. When the car is one minute away, I start my goodbye. The big ending on the role of Wide-Eyed New Guy.

“Anna, this day was perfect. Thank you for being an exceptional tour guide.”

“Say it,” she demands.

“Thank you for taking my New York virginity.”

“You are so welcome, Augustus,” she says, grabbing my hand.

“Augustus?” I repeat.

“Mighty Augustus, that’s what you are to me. Breaking free from Whatever Grove Pennsylvania and moving to New York. You’re literally following your dreams.”

“I still have to get accepted,” I say, not wanting to jinx it.

“You will,” she says.

My car pulls up. Anna hugs me tight—her face close to my neck. The driver honks, scaring us into letting go. I’m about to get in the front seat when Anna directs me to the back. (Lyft virgin as well.)

After we get out of the Times Square traffic, the driver passes the aux cord back. “Want to listen to music?” Big mistake, buddy. I grab the cord and plug in my phone. This guy is too trusting with his ears. I find the Hamilton soundtrack and “My Shot” fills the car. I look out the window and try to process the day. After the song ends, I hit the back button, starting a new round of Not throwing away my shot. The driver sighs loudly, but I don’t care.

Three months ago, I tried to come out to my parents again. The first time I asked my parents to let me transition, I bombed. A true no-star performance. But after two years in Theater Club, I knew how to put on a show. I gave an impassioned plea to start my transition. They sat there quietly, listening. Then said no on the spot. The first time I asked, my parents could ignore it. The second time, they had to do something about it.

After that, they couldn’t even look at me. Their pride for me disappeared. They made me go to church more often. I had a weekly session with Pastor Tim, who thought there was a painful event in my past that made me confused about my gender. He asked me awful questions. I felt so alone. And ashamed.

My head went to bad places. I couldn’t get out of my house, couldn’t get out of my body, and couldn’t escape my family’s disgust for me. I don’t know what came over me, but I wrote to Aunt Lil and told her everything. I asked if I could come live with her. It felt like a big ask, but I was desperate. She called me and said she would start looking for a school. That was the light I needed to keep going.

While waiting at a red light on Thirty-Fourth Street, I watch the city move—people walking, biking, laughing; a dog poops while the owner scrolls through his phone. I love this city. I never want to leave. The ending not throwing away my shot rings out. I see the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror, daring me to play it again.

So—I do.

He looks back at me. “What’s your deal with this song, man?”

“I’m having a moment,” I say to him.

One of the first songs in most musicals is the “I Want” number. This is the moment when the main character sings about their dreams and sets the entire plot in motion. I want to be August. I want to be on a Broadway stage. I want it more than anything in the world. This is my chance at living my dream. I’m not throwing away my shot.

6:35 P.M.

The car pulls up to my aunt’s block. Her town house is hard to miss—bright yellow, green shutters, with golden pineapple statues littering the staircase. Aunt Lil is obsessed with pineapples. Seriously, her place is pineapple everything. Pineapple cookie jars, coasters, paintings, pineapple-shaped foods.

I head up the walkway and see lights on inside. That means she’s home. I can’t wait to tell her about my day. I unlock the entryway and front doors. Take off my shoes. I’m doing my best to follow the few rules she laid out when I arrived from the bus yesterday. Music fills the house. Well, music is a strong word for what’s happening. It’s more of an aggressive bongo with a woman making noises.

I start talking before I get to the kitchen. “Auntie, you will never guess—” I stop because someone is here.

“Don’t just stand there with your mouth open,” Aunt Lil says. “Say hello to our guest, Davina.”

“Hello,” I say to the African American woman wearing glasses (smart) with her hair in a large bun on the top of her head. Aunt Lil is sitting beside her, smiling. There are plates of green things, red things, and my sworn enemy: tofu. “Pleasure to meet you,” I say to the lady, not the tofu.

“Likewise, August. I’ve heard so much about you,” Davina says with a kind smile.

“I’m apparently infamous,” I say, looking at my aunt.

“Me too,” Aunt Lil says, “in certain circles.” She is a big fan of vintage clothes and designer glasses. Right now, she’s wearing a flowy purple dress and bright blue eyeglasses. Aunt Lil gets up and turns down the “music” so we can talk.

“I came home to seventeen messages from you-know-who,” she says with a frown.

My heart drops. It’s not a surprise that Mom would find me here. I didn’t have that many options. “Only seventeen?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood.

She shakes her head. “I haven’t checked my email yet.”

I sit down at the table. “You okay, Auntie?”

“Of course, sweetheart. I know in my heart this is the best thing for you, but I feel awfully guilty about stealing my sister’s child,” she says with a wink.

Aunt Lillian is risking so much for me to have this chance. Basically, her entire relationship with her sister. When it comes to my aunt and my mom, being sisters is the only thing they have in common. They disagree on politics, religion, ice cream flavors, whatever. Aunt Lil would drive through West Grove—maybe once a year—on her way somewhere better. We never once visited her in New York—Mom was too afraid.

Aunt Lil puts an empty plate in front of me. “August, tofu and vegetables? Maybe some brown rice?”

My stomach nearly screams. “No thanks,” I say. “I need real food.”

She heads to the kitchen. “I thought that might be the case.” Like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, Aunt Lil reveals a pizza box from the oven and plates two big slices. My stomach rejoices at the smell of actual cheese and grease.

“How do you two know each other?” I ask between cheesy bites.

Aunt Lil gives her a look. “Davina is my partner.”

“Oh, like art partner,” I suggest. They share a smile.

“Not quite.” Aunt Lil holds Davina’s hand. “She’s my girlfriend, although we’re too old to use that term.”

I stop chewing and let the information sink in. My aunt has a girlfriend. She likes women. I nod repeatedly, looking like a bobblehead. Aunt Lil lets out a playful laugh. “You’re not the only one who can keep secrets, August,” she jokes. “My parents—your grandparents—were not accepting of anything outside of one man and one woman. Just like your mom. Some apples don’t fall far from the tree.”

“And some fall very far,” I say. I don’t remember much about my grandparents—they passed when I was in elementary school—but keeping a secret like this all your life must be tough. “I feel sad for you, Auntie. To keep this part of your life from our family.”

She laughs again. I’m cracking her up tonight. “Honey, I may be related to them, but they aren’t my family.”

Davina laughs softly as she heads to the kitchen and puts her plate in the sink. She moves around the house like she knows the place well. Like she would know where every pineapple-shaped object is stored.

“Do you live here?” I ask Davina. I’ve only been here one night—maybe she was hiding.

“No,” Aunt Lil cuts in.

“I’m allergic to pineapple,” Davina says with a wink.

“And you’re never too old to do the walk of shame,” Aunt Lil adds.

“August,” Davina says, putting her hand on my shoulder, “I’m going to head upstairs and give you and your aunt time to talk. You’re a brave boy, and I look forward to getting to know you better.” The way she smiles makes me think everything will be all right.

“I’ll be up in a few,” Aunt Lil says to her. Once Davina has cleared the room, Aunt Lil turns to me and says, “I’m sorry for keeping this part of my life from you. I had a feeling you would understand, but your mom was always around. I could tell there was something going on with you when I’d come for a visit, but I couldn’t put my finger on what. I just hoped you would reach out if you needed me.”

“Thanks,” I say. “For being there when I needed you.”

“August,” she says, looking me right in the eyes. “It was your talk about ending your life that alarmed me most.”

A few days ago, an envelope changed my life. Mail doesn’t usually get my attention, but the address on this envelope, handwritten in tight cursive, was from Brand New Day Therapy. The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t remember from where. First result on Google was a web page promising a conversion therapy program for gender confusion. Then I remembered where I’d heard of it—the pastor had their brochures on his desk.

I didn’t know much about conversion therapy. But I knew it wasn’t good. I couldn’t believe my parents were considering sending me. They would take me out of school and out of theater. It would probably destroy me. It felt like there was only one option left—to end this life and hope I came back in the right body next time.

In desperation, I called Aunt Lil. I told her about Brand New Day and my dark thoughts. I could hear the concern in her voice. She had made a few calls and gotten me wait-listed for a dozen high schools, but no luck. I told her I couldn’t wait much longer.

She called me back the next day with the last-minute audition for the School of Performing Arts. We planned my escape and here I am.

“Thank you,” I say now, “for saving my life.”

“You saved your own life, August.” She slides her phone in front of me. “But I decided you need to call your mom.”

I slide it away. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“You need to call your mom,” she repeats, sliding her phone in front of me.

I push it back. “How about you call her?”

“I already did.”

“You did?” I ask, surprised. That wasn’t part of the plan. She went off book.

Aunt Lil removes her glasses and cleans them with a napkin. “I’m a lot of things, my dear nephew, but I’m not a child thief. I hated the thought of your mother not knowing where you were. She needed to know you were safe.” That explains why my phone stopped buzzing around Times Square. Guess that’s when they talked. She continues, “And I had some news to share.”

“News?” I ask.

“August, Mr. Daniels called. You’re accepted into SPA.”

Everything in the room slows down. My head starts spinning. “I got in?”

“Yes,” she says, then kisses my forehead. I let the news sink in. I was accepted. I’m going to one of the top high schools for performing arts in the country. I want to remember this moment forever.

“I can’t believe it,” I finally manage to say.

“Believe it, buddy. I knew you would. You must have really impressed Mr. Daniels. You can start classes on Tuesday if . . .”

“If?” I ask.

“If your mom signs the transfer forms. So, we need her on the team.”

“Did you tell her I’m August now?” I ask, worried.

“No,” she says in a soft voice. I feel instantly relieved. “Call her, please.”

I pull my phone out—just as it starts ringing. It’s my mom. Is that a good sign or bad sign? “What do I say?” I ask Aunt Lil, freaked out.

She runs her hand through my hair. “You know what to say. You can do it, brave boy.”

I wish I could believe her. I put the phone to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hello, sweet daughter.” She sounds relieved. That’s not like her. Good sign? Maybe the stress of a runaway child has changed her forever. “Do you have any idea how worried we’ve been about you? I have the entire church praying for your safety.”

And there’s my mom in all her religious glory. “I’m sorry, Mom, I really am.”

I hear her exhale. She’s probably standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter. Or organizing something—that’s what she does when she’s nervous. “Randy is going to drive up there tomorrow morning and get you. We need to have a long talk.”

Bad sign. Very bad sign.

“Wait. Mom, please, just hear me out,” I say.

“I’m listening,” Mom says, waiting for me to speak.

I clear my throat, raise my voice to the girl level. For my mom, I will play the part of her daughter. “If I go to the School of Performing Arts, I’ll have a real shot at being a successful actress. This is everything you want for me. I’m sorry I ran away, but my audition was today, and I knew if I told you—”

“I wouldn’t have let you go. You’re correct about that.”

“And I need this, Mom.”

She’s quiet. Thinking? Talking to my stepdad?

“All your talk about changing to a boy. I need to know that’s not going to happen there. You’re a girl. I know how liberal that city is. Randy isn’t happy.”

Oh, Randy. Stepdad of the year. He barely talks to me. Barely even looks at me. I want to scream, but I’m not throwing away my shot.

“If I let you stay, I need you to promise me one thing.”

“Anything, Mom.”

“Promise that you won’t change into a boy. Can you do that?”

My big dream won’t be stopped by this little problem. I will do anything for my dream.

“I promise, Mom.”