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.”
Two
Tuesday, September 10
11:17 A.M.
As of this morning, I’m officially a student at the School of Performing Arts. Hard to believe that I was in Pennsylvania three days ago. Harder to believe I’m here now. If getting on that bus to New York was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, walking into SPA on my first day of school was a close second.
My locker opens after two attempts at the combination. I survived my morning classes. Assuming I survive lunch, my acting classes are in the afternoon. My day started extra early in the office of the guidance counselor—and his glorious sideburns—sorting out my schedule. Mr. Esteban rolled up his sleeves and made me a schedule for my junior year at SPA. It wasn’t easy for him—lots of squeezing me into full classes, overriding systems, and playing a mean game of “Schedule Tetris,” as he called it. Mr. Esteban took extra care to make sure my deadname—my legal name—wasn’t listed on any attendance sheets or forms. He smiled like he was proud of me. What world have I stepped into?
Mom signed the transfer papers yesterday. I hate lying to my parents—it’s not what I want to do. I missed Mom this morning. She has a cute first-day-of-school tradition of pancakes and packed lunches. A handwritten note in my sandwich bag. But Aunt Lil made a tofu scramble and ordered a Lyft so I didn’t have to deal with the subway on my first day. That’s a good tradition, too.
Before closing my locker door, I catch my reflection in the mirror glued inside. Talk about a fresh start. New hair, new clothes, new name, new school, new everything. And now I’m a student at that school. I can’t believe I’m here. It’s all happening so fast, but it helps to pretend I’m a character in a play—this play just happens to be my life.
The final bell rings as I head toward the stairs—the cafeteria is on the seventh floor. This school is big. All-caps BIG. Mr. Esteban said there are nearly a thousand students—triple the size of my old school and ten times louder. This school is loud. All-caps LOUD. In between classes, the hallways are filled with people talking, singing, dancing, making videos, and an occasional instrument will play out. The first-day excitement is palpable.
From the outside, SPA looks more like a business than a school—it’s a cement building with windows lining the seven stories. The inside feels a regular high school—with white-brick walls and faded yellow lockers—but also a museum with glass cases displaying art projects, sculptures at nearly every corner, and paintings on the walls. The school feels both historic and in need of a remodel.
My calves are burning when I get to the seventh floor. This school has only two elevators—everyone takes the stairs. My legs are going to be jacked by the end of this year. Every ounce of me wants to go hide in an empty classroom instead of facing the lunchroom—but Anna texted and asked to have lunch together.
A poster over a water fountain catches my eye. It reads: “Join the LGBTQIA+ Club! Everyone welcome!” This school is so open and accepting. You can be yourself. No need to hide who you are here. This poster would not fly at West Grove. There’s no LGBTQIA+ Club there, but even if there were, they wouldn’t advertise. West Grove is the opposite of out.
“Augustus!” Anna yells from down the hall. I smile and wave—relieved that I don’t have to look for her in the cafeteria. “My god, you exist!”
“I do exist,” I confirm, happy to finally be seen. Anna’s first-day outfit is well planned—black skirt, Ramones shirt, black Converse. I’m wearing jeans and a black shirt, both purchased at thrift stores near Aunt Lil’s apartment.
“Welcome to SPA, August,” she says, then hugs me. “Or should I say the infamous August Greene?”
She’s referring to the Insta handle I created yesterday. “I go by both,” I brag.
“Am I still your only follower?”
“You are,” I brag again.
“We’re about to change all of that.” She laces her arm through mine. “Are you ready to enter the lunchroom Thunderdome?”
I can tell our friendship is exciting to her. I’m something different, and she likes something different. “I’m ready,” I say, actually not ready at all.
“Walk cool,” she says, then pushes the double doors open, revealing a big room with high ceilings and circular tables. Posters on the walls promote arts events, not the next sports game like my old school. Everyone at the tables looks cool. Already famous. Heads turn and watch us walk by. I straighten my posture and push my shoulders back—playing confident—and try not to look at anyone. Anna tells me things about the people we pass. “That kid was on an episode of Law and Order” and “That girl’s sister was last season’s Bachelorette.”
I can feel eyes on me. They must wonder who I am—and to be honest, I don’t really know who I am either. August has no history, only future. He’s an underdeveloped character. I don’t want to be the New Guy—that character isn’t cool. I want to be like everyone in this cafeteria. This is the role I need to learn, and any good character development starts with research. So that’s what I’m doing—researching my role as a student at SPA.
We arrive at a table with four people in the middle of the lunchroom, near the trash cans. Anna puts her arm around my shoulder—I’m more of a prop than a person. “Everyone, this is August Greene from Pennsylvania. He’s here to conquer the world. I told you about his audition in the group chat—he’s genius level.” She sits down, and I take the seat next to her—happy to be her prop if she keeps calling me genius. “Don’t be shy; introduce yourselves to August.”
The girl across from me smiles warmly. She’s wearing bright clothing, and her hai
r is in pigtails. “I’m Meena. Pronouns are she and her. Tech theater major.”
“You stage manage?” I ask.
Her face lights up. “I’m lead SM for the fall musical this year.”
“That’s the most important job of the show,” I say. “Without the crew, the actors would never make it to the stage, have lights shining on our faces, sound, or a set. We’d pretty much be helpless.”
“I like him,” Meena says to Anna. “He can stay.”
“Jack,” the person beside Anna announces, then strikes a pose. “They, them pronouns. Dance major. Tell me I’m important, too,” Jack jokes.
“You’re so important,” I confirm. Jack looks like Alvin Ailey and carries themself like a dancer with excellent posture.
“And I’m Juliet. She and her, and art. I’m also trans,” she says with a smile. Her look is striking. She’s got sea-blue eyes and blonde hair with hints of pink and red making a rose-gold effect. Her nose is pierced.
They look at me, silent. My turn. “I’m August. My pronouns are he, him, his. Drama major. But I think Anna has already filled you in on my biography.”
“Only up to your early childhood,” Jack says. They are quick with the humor.
“Let’s give August a tour of the lunchroom,” Anna says, looking around the cafeteria. “See that girl three tables away? Black hair, brown shirt, looks like she’s already had plastic surgery?”
“Yes,” I say, not really knowing who she’s talking about.
“That’s Mindy Walters. She’s been in three Disney TV shows.”
“All walk-on parts,” Jack adds.
Anna points to another table. “That handsome Asian guy in the green tank top spent the summer doing Come from Away on a cruise ship. Oh, and that redheaded guy models for Gap, and not Gap Kids, Gap Gap.”
Meena points to a girl. “Bailey Jones landed one of those prescription pill commercials where the family plays catch while the voiceover lists the bad side effects like dry mouth and diarrhea.”
Act Cool Page 3