Act Cool

by Tobly McSmith

  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 soun
d 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.