Act Cool

by Tobly McSmith

  “So not a comedy?” Aunt Lil jokes.

  I shake my head. “Lots of scenes with the main character yelling the most transphobic and awful things at the trans character. The worst words, Auntie. I still feel upset about it.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Off-Broadway can be more edgy. Are you feeling okay?”

  “I don’t understand why the trans character can’t be the funny best friend or hero or love interest.”

  “The play took place in the nineties?” she asks. I nod. “It’s possible that the writer wanted to stay true to the reality of that time. Even though it’s hard, maybe we need to see those stories to understand trans history and create empathy and understanding?”

  “I guess so,” I say, but it doesn’t make me feel better.

  “I’m hitting the hay. Good night, kiddo,” she says in her Randy voice, and walks out.

  Once the coast is clear, I open my computer again. Aunt Lil is right—it’s important for people to understand the history and struggle of being transgender. And it’s great when there’s a transgender character onstage, even if they are being bullied and hurt, but those aren’t the parts I want to play. I don’t want to stay in my lane.

  MY SUPER-OBJECTIVE by August Greene

  My super-objective is to play iconic male and female characters on Broadway stages. Roles like Sweeney Todd, Glinda, Evan Hansen. Characters usually only played by cisgender actors. A Jersey Boy, Pippin, Roxie Hart. I want to move the audience, make them feel things, think about things, and leave the theater changed. I want to be a star.

  Five

  Monday, September 16

  2:36 P.M.

  Between Improv and Audition Technique, I pay a visit to the gender-neutral bathroom on the first floor. There’s the boys’ dressing room in the basement, but I can’t bring myself to go inside. I feel like I don’t belong. I get up to the doors, panic, and retreat. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. I don’t want to make anything awkward. I’ve been in several men’s bathrooms, but that’s easier—no one knew me in there. In the boys’ dressing room, they will know I’m transgender. It’s easier to use the gender-neutral bathroom and wear the dress code for drama classes—a black T-shirt and jeans—to school every day.

  I head back to the basement and submerge myself in the crowd of people. Anna warned me that the lunchroom was socially stressful—and it can be—but I think the basement is the real popularity contest. Since every drama class takes place down here, it’s like a five-minute party in between each class—which sounds fun but can be intimidating to the new kid with a limited social circle. Anna usually finds me—I swear she has a tracking device. And I’m trying to make friends but don’t seem to be connecting.

  When I walk into Audition Technique, the chairs are pushed against the wall and everyone is sitting on the floor facing the stage. I find a spot with a good view and lean against my backpack. A deep breath takes more concentration now that my binder has shrunk. (Aunt Lil “sends” the laundry out and it comes back folded and smelling so clean—another reason New York is a magical place—but they shrank my binder. I will hand-wash going forward.) I’m having trouble taking a full breath when I’m seated, especially on the floor.

  I check Insta—I’m up to sixty-five followers. Only one hundred and seventy million or so away from Kim Kardashian. Not a great following. Not a great look. I need to do something about that. I take a couple of selfies, but the angle is wrong. Not flattering enough to post.

  Ms. Ramos enters the room with a big smile. She’s a fast-talking ball of energy, speed-walking around the room, always acting things out using accents and celebrity impersonations. There’s a chaotic energy to her teaching, but it keeps me interested. Today is no exception for the Ms. Ramos Show. She begins the class with a full review of the latest jukebox musical to hit Broadway. “Did there need to be an entire musical about the Goo Goo Dolls?” she asks rhetorically.

  Jukebox musicals tell a story through preexisting popular music. My favorite jukebox musicals are Jersey Boys, Mamma Mia!, and American Idiot. Ms. Ramos strums her air guitar and does a high kick. “Now give me a musical about Blondie. That’s my kind of show.” She plays more air guitar and sings, “I’m gonna get ya, get ya, get ya, get ya.”

  Whatever Ms. Ramos drinks or smokes before class, I want some.

  “Today,” she says, settling into a stool in front of the class, “we will start working on our cold reads. The curveball of the audition process.” She swings an imaginary baseball bat. “And I’ll throw a curveball by inviting a special guest to help.”

  A special guest? I sit up straight, hoping it’s someone famous.

  “As you know, I was the swing for Evita on Broadway. And made it onstage three times, even singing ‘Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina’ for a former vice president.” Ms. Ramos smiles proudly. She mentions this at least once a class.

  “Well, today we have the director of Evita and other Broadway shows. Class, please welcome Evan Lancaster!” She claps enthusiastically and we join in. An older man with a bald head and a big Hollywood smile enters the room. He’s wearing a black jacket, shiny blue jeans, and a white shirt. I’ve never heard of him, but I’m almost as excited as Ms. Ramos. A real Broadway director is here in the room.

  “Hello, friends,” he says, with a deep voice that could be on the radio. “I’m happy to be here with you today. As a former student of SPA, I know how important these years are for you. I learned so much, and having SPA on my résumé opened a few doors for me. But it was the friendships I made here that meant everything to me.” He pauses and looks around the room. I think he actually misses this place.

  “Show of hands, who here will be pursuing acting as their profession?”

  Every hand goes up.

  “Congratulations,” he announces, “you have chosen the profession with the lowest success rate.” Hands begin to lower. “Ninety percent unemployment rate, average income of seven thousand dollars, and a two percent success rate. Not great numbers,” he says, shaking his head. “Your seat in this class improves those odds. Casting directors will take note of which school you attended, alumni will help, and you’re learning from great teachers.” He smiles at Ms. Ramos, who blushes.

  “But the real factor that will separate you from the rest is your willingness to put in the work. You have to put in the work. You’ll find that shortcuts are mostly dead ends. And you’ll have to sacrifice. Don’t worry, there’s still time to turn back and pursue something a little less risky, like the stock market, perhaps.” Mr. Lancaster looks around for a reaction to his joke, but we’re all too stunned by his words to laugh.

  “Don’t mean to scare anyone, but I want to ground you. You can be a great actor. You can be in that two percent. But you’ll need to be humble and hardworking and hungry.”

  “Do you hear that?” Ms. Ramos asks. We all say some version of yes. “Today, Mr. Lancaster has kindly offered to critique your cold reads!”

  My stomach turns over with nerves. This is not how I imagined my first audition with a Broadway director. The class gets fidgety—they are as nervous as me.

  “No pressure, kids,” Ms. Ramos says, possibly sensing our worry. “We know this won’t be perfect. Just do your best.”

  Mr. Lancaster sits on the stool, so calm and collected, as Ms. Ramos hands pages to a guy and girl. They walk up to the stage and begin the scene. It starts slow and choppy, but I’m amazed at how quickly they adapt. The scene works, and we clap loudly. They bow and wait for notes.

  “Not bad, you two,” Mr. Lancaster says with a thumbs-up. “The scene started bumpy. Be careful of pauses. Let your words flow and follow your instincts.”

  Students write this advice down as Ms. Ramos hands out more scripts. Three new actors get up and do a scene on a train—all bouncing up and down like it’s a very shaky ride. It’s hilarious—the class cracks up. “Fantastic,” Mr. Lancaster says. “You were all present and playing with each othe
r. The casting directors like to see that in an actor.”

  “Yazmin,” Ms. Ramos says, “game to try a cold reading of a monologue?”

  And there she is—Yazmin Guzman. She’s in three of my drama classes and US History. We haven’t spoken since the first day, but I can feel the beginnings of a crush. She takes a script from Ms. Ramos on her way to the stage. Her hair is curly today (some days it’s straight), she’s wearing a baggy shirt and leggings (sometimes she wears jeans and sweaters), and she has a couple of scrunchies around her wrist (always). She has that pretty and tough thing, with strong eyebrows that define her face and bring out her eyes.

  She clears her throat and pushes the hair behind her ear. “What am I doing here?”

  The class watches as she finds her footing in the monologue. I hang on her every word. Yazmin acts self-assured and closed off, but onstage, there’s a vulnerable openness. There’s something different about her delivery, and something different about her. I look around—the class is caught up, too. Whatever it is, she’s got it. She could be in the two percent.

  After she finishes, her friends yell “Yes, Yaz” as the class claps. She smiles and my heart races.

  “That was wonderful, Yazmin,” Mr. Lancaster says. “But I’d like to see you make slightly bigger choices. Take more risks.”

  “That’s all I do,” Yaz jokes.

  “Stay up here for one more,” he suggests.

  “I’ll find you a scene partner,” Ms. Ramos says, stepping over and around us as she makes her way through the room. “Not you,” she says, patting someone on the head like it’s a game of duck, duck, goose. “Not you, or you . . .” Not me not me not me. “Not you, not you.” She stops by me. Please not me. Please not me. “You,” she says to me. “Would you join her onstage?”

  I get to my feet and take the script, my hand shaking as I try to scan the lines and walk to the stage. My foot gets wrapped up in a backpack strap, almost tripping me up. The script is about two con artists, I think. The couple hate each other—I think. I’m having trouble breathing. There’s no spit in my mouth. A panic attack is nearing.

  Once I’m onstage, I say, “Hold on, I need a second.”

  I know this looks silly—and the snickers confirm it—but I turn my back on the audience and shut my eyes. Focus on a breath. I just need one. I’m in a battle with my binder and no one has any clue what’s happening. I loosen my shoulders and get air in my lungs. Relief washes over me. I turn around, all eyes on me. “I’m ready.”

  “Wonderful, August,” Ms. Ramos says. “You had us all on the edge of our seats!”

  Yazmin has the first line. She goes small, and I decide to go big. I look up and nearly yell: “I cry all night because of you.” The class laughs at my strong and wrong choice. Yazmin goes bigger, meeting my energy. We make eye contact, but I get nervous and look away. I continue the angry-guy act even though the words are about forgiveness and love. It makes no sense, but I’m committed, and I carry it out until the end. The class laughs each time I say something, so I keep it up, even angrily saying, “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Very interesting choices,” Mr. Lancaster says. “You two didn’t connect as scene partners. The audience can tell.” I walk offstage feeling mortified. I try to smile at Yazmin, but she doesn’t look my way. Several more groups go onstage, then the bell rings, ending the school day. Everyone claps for Mr. Lancaster, then heads out. Some students wait to talk to the director, but I want to forget this class happened. I walk into the hallway expecting Anna to be waiting for me. She loves our after-school walks to the subway.

  “Hello, Mr. Greene,” I hear from behind me.

  I turn on my heel, facing Mr. Daniels. “Hello, sir,” I say.

  “Could I get a word with you?”

  “Of course,” I say, immediately running out of breath again. I’d like to cut myself out of this binder. I find a deep breath while we quietly walk to his office. My mind races trying to figure out what he wants to talk about.

  He opens the door for me. “Come in; this will just take a minute.”

  His office is mostly bookshelves full of leather-bound hardcover books. A globe by the window. Old Broadway posters framed. He’s so elegant with his elbow patches and globes. Mr. Daniels sits down behind his desk, and I take the chair facing him.

  “I wanted to check in with you, August. How was your first week here at our fine school?”

  Mr. Daniels seems relaxed. Maybe he just wants to chat. I loosen up a little. “The homework is as overwhelming as promised,” I admit.

  Mr. Daniels says, “Yes, it’s no easy task. We ask more from our students because we know they are capable.”

  “Who needs sleep?” I joke, but Mr. Daniels isn’t amused.

  “Mr. Greene, when you auditioned, I saw a spark. And I knew we could turn that spark into a flame. But I’ve been surprised by your attitude in class. I don’t see you taking notes. You make jokes. I worry you aren’t taking this seriously.”

  “Is this about my scene with Tess?” I ask, ready to explain.

  He shakes his head. “This is about you.”

  I feel like I’ve been kicked in the heart. I hate that he thinks that. The class clown is an easy role. I didn’t think it would lead to this. “Mr. Daniels, I promise I’m taking this seriously. Please believe me. This is all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “I don’t believe it yet. Please don’t make me regret my selection for this spot.”

  “You won’t,” I say.

  “I need to see more from you, August.”

  “You will.”

  I think of Anna and the day we spent together after the audition. The long hug. She went home that night and talked to her dad. He was probably on the fence about me until Anna put her foot down and demanded that I get the spot. Mr. Daniels—probably smoking a pipe and reading the paper—wanted to avoid an argument with his persistent daughter and agreed to it. Or worse, Mr. Daniels was going to pass on me, but Anna swore she’d quit acting or stop cleaning the toilet.

  Mr. Daniels picks a piece of lint off his turtleneck. “I understand that this must be quite an adjustment from Pennsylvania. And making new friends is important. But within these walls, respect goes further than a laugh. You should think about that approach.”

  “I will,” I say, letting the feeling of defeat really soak in.

  “And there’s a counselor at this school,” he says. “If you need someone to talk to.”

  My head gets hot. “I’m fine. But thank you.”

  Mr. Daniels stands up. “Very well. I’m looking forward to your monologue later this week.”

  “As am I,” I lie. I haven’t picked a monologue to perform yet.

  As soon as I step outside Mr. Daniels’s office, I deflate like a popped balloon. I give my binder a yank, trying to loosen it up. I’m glad the hallway is empty—no witnesses to my walk of shame. I exit the building, into the sunshine, and head toward the subway completely in my head about Mr. Daniels. I should have asked him if Anna is the reason I’m here. I just want to know. He doesn’t like my Funny Guy routine. He expects more of me. I need to get serious. I need to play the part of Serious Student.

  My thoughts are disrupted by a sharp whistle. Yazmin waves from across the street. I look behind me for someone else—she can’t possibly be trying to get my attention—but no one is there. Her wave turns into a “come here” movement. Is this really happening? And now?

  I cross the street and try to forget about Mr. Daniels. I stop in front of Yazmin. Put my hands in my jeans pockets. “That’s quite a whistle,” I say.

  “Keeps me safe.”

  “I believe it.”

  “I guess we don’t connect as scene partners,” she says.

  As if I needed another reason to feel terrible about today. “I’m sorry, Yazmin. I got nervous, made a choice, and went with it. Strong and wrong, right?”

  “More like loud and dumb,” she says, smiling.

  “Can you forgive me?” I ask
.

  She laughs. “I’ll think about it.”

  For Yazmin, I can be the Playful Guy. I put one hand on my heart and the other in the air. “Please, Yazmin, find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  “You’re hard to figure out,” Yazmin says.

  “How so?”

  She shrugs. “This mysterious cute boy shows up in class one day out of nowhere?”

  “I prefer International Man of Mystery,” I joke.

  She laughs again. “But do you have what it takes to be at SPA?”

  “I know I do,” I say.

  “Prove it.”

  “Gladly.”

  She looks around, then grabs my arm, and we walk in the direction of the bus stop. Yaz sits down on the bench, near two older ladies, and slumps down. I have no idea what’s going on. “I can’t believe you cheated on me,” she says, loud enough for the women to hear. They both look at me. I look at her and she’s got wild eyes. “With my best friend!”

  I hear a small gasp from one of the women. We are doing a scene for an audience of two. “You gave me no choice,” I say, then raise my hands up, “when you cheated on me with MY BROTHER.”

  I peek at the women, both watching. Yazmin takes my hand. “I couldn’t handle it anymore. You telling me what to wear and what to eat. You can’t control me.”

  “You signed the contract,” I say calmly.

  Yazmin almost laughs but stops herself. She gets up and yells, “I didn’t read the fine print!” We both walk off and hold our laughs inside until we cross the street. Then we laugh for a solid minute, reliving the scene and imagining what the ladies thought. It’s the kind of laugh that leaves you feeling spent in a good way. “I needed that,” I say.

  “Well, I’m still not convinced,” she says, walking over to a man drinking coffee. We pretend we robbed a bank and fight over how to spend the money. The man doesn’t seem fazed and ignores us, but it’s still hilarious.

  “One more?” I ask, then tilt my head in the direction of an older man reading a book on the steps of a building. The Playful Guy has an idea.