The song starts and the words appear on the huge TV behind me. I don’t need them. I turn to everyone. All eyes on me. “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes,” I sing, beginning one of my favorite songs from Rent. I push through the awkwardness like Party Guy would and gain momentum up to the chorus. People are watching. Some nodding with the beat. Anna and the guys have come closer to cheer me on.
“Sing along,” I yell into the microphone. Everyone joins in, “How about love, how about love,” and I put the microphone near Anna. She belts high with her arm around me. The guys give her some backup. By the end of the song, everyone is singing and dancing.
Anna grabs the microphone and starts flipping the pages of the songbook as the party gets louder. Mission accomplished. I head to the bathroom and get plenty of high fives and fist bumps along the way. One girl hugs me. I feel like I could do anything. Maybe that’s the vodka talking.
The bathroom is fancy and modern—there’s even a bidet. I can’t believe I’m at a party in New York City. Meeting people achieving their dreams. I’m so far behind the Duncans and Elijahs of the world, but it feels like I’m on my way. I spend extra time looking in the mirror and smiling at myself. August in the bathroom.
When I come out, someone is waiting for me in the hallway. Yazmin leans against the wall, arms crossed. I smile. She smiles. It’s just us now. “Nice job on the mic,” she says.
“I’m just getting warmed up.” Party Guy flirting. The lights are dim, and my heart is beating so fast I can hear it in my ears.
“Want to join me for a smoke?” she asks, nodding in the direction of sliding doors leading to the balcony.
“I’m down.”
I slide the door open and follow her out. The city looks big out here, like it could swallow me up. The balcony overlooks Central Park, but it’s too dark to see. It’s chilly out—the cold air feels good on my face. Fall is coming, pushing summer out of the way. Yazmin hugs herself, trying to warm up. I take off my leather jacket and put it over her shoulders. “What a gentleman,” she says.
“I try,” I say. “Does your boyfriend give you his coat?”
Her eyebrows go up. “Someone jealous?”
“Not at all,” I say. Party Guy is all confidence.
“We broke up last night. We’d been fighting.”
Well, this changes everything. I stand up straight. “I’m sorry,” I lie—I’m actually not sorry.
She leans back on the ledge and pulls a vape pen out of her pocket. “Want a hit?”
“That’s pot?” I ask.
She laughs. “Legal stuff from California.”
Yaz coaches me through using the pen. I inhale, hold it, and feel my brain get light enough to float away. I’ve only smoked pot once with Hugo in the parking lot of our sophomore year dance. I had to wear this yellow dress and felt so uncomfortable. I was glad to have some escape. I breathe a cloud out and cough. I can hear someone singing Miley Cyrus in the living room. The city is alive around us with car horns and sirens. Strands of her hair dance in the wind. For no reason, I start laughing.
She laughs at my laugh. “What?”
“One day I’m in West Grove, Pennsylvania, and another I’m on top of the world. With you.” She smiles but looks away. “I mean, you’re here, too. Not with you.”
“I get it,” she says, looking at the bright lights. “This city is magic, but I grew up here. If you’re always surrounded by magic, it’s hard to appreciate it. I want to be new to everything.”
The vodka and pot are partying in my brain and making me a little dizzy. “It’s wild,” I confirm.
“What’s wild was your monologue the other day.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing. I think of Juliet and her subtle ways of dropping being transgender into conversation. If this is something, I want Yazmin to know. This could be a good time. “Did you think it was good because I’m trans?”
She thinks, and I spiral. Is she processing that I’m trans? Did she know? Will this be over right now?
“I didn’t think of that,” she says. “Honestly, it was the steam coming off you. I felt the anger. The resentment of being forced to go die for your country. Your eyes did things.”
My body lights up like I hit a high score on a game. “Cool,” I say. She looks up at me and our eyes meet. It’s happening too fast to be nervous.
“What’s your favorite part of New York so far?” she asks.
I feel bold. Too bold. “You,” I say.
“Boy, you’re really going for it tonight.”
“Well, I did propose to you,” I remind her.
She bites her lip. “I do owe you a kiss, don’t I?” She leans in. I lean in. Our lips meet, and it’s perfect. She puts her arms around me. I want this to last forever.
“AUGUST,” I hear someone yell. We stop kissing and I see Anna with her arms crossed. I let go of Yazmin and feel like I did something wrong.
“Anna,” I say, but she’s already turned around and walked off.
“What’s her deal?” Yazmin asks.
“She kind of thought we were on a date tonight,” I admit.
Yazmin hits her vape pen, thinking. I hate the quiet. It makes me nervous. I want to tell her how I’m feeling. I want to kiss again. I need to go after Anna but can’t leave now.
“Yo, August,” she finally says. “That kiss was nice. Fire, even. But Anna is a talker. Could you ask her not to tell anyone?”
My heart leaps off the balcony. “You’re ashamed of kissing me?”
“No, I have a boyfriend.”
“I thought you broke up?”
“But we’ll probably get back together. And this school loves gossip.”
I shake my head and swallow my feelings. “I need to go see Anna.”
She hits her vape pen again. “Yeah, go deal with that.”
The party somehow doubled in size in the ten minutes I was gone, and everyone seems ten times drunker. Someone is belting the lyrics of “Candy Store” from Heathers: The Musical. I see through the crowd that it’s Tess. Of course it’s Tess.
“Hey, buddy,” Elijah slurs with one arm around Duncan and the other around me. “Where did you go-go?”
“I ruined everything,” I admit.
“Oh, please. I like you, August. We’re going to be best friends. Let’s hang tomorrow and every day.”
“Sounds good, but I’ve got to run,” I say while searching the room for Anna. I don’t see her, and I’m getting dangerously close to missing curfew. I compose a text to Anna while waiting for the elevator.
“Nice job on that monologue,” someone says.
I look up from my phone and see Tess. “Thanks,” I say cautiously while pressing the elevator button, hoping that speeds it up.
“Way to use your trans identity to carry your performance.”
The elevator opens. I don’t respond; I just get inside and push the button over and over. “What’s next—” Her words get cut off by the doors shutting.
I ride the elevator down, wondering if coming here was a mistake. I should have stayed home. I’ll call Anna once I’m on the train. Or text her. FaceTime. I’ll figure it out. I push open the front door and almost trip over Anna, sitting on the top step hugging her knees.
She looks back, sees me. “I’m not waiting for you. I’m waiting for my car.”
I sit down and accept that I’m missing curfew. I’ll be punished however Aunt Lil sees fit, which will probably be eating meatless things for a month. “How many minutes?” I ask.
She checks her phone. “App says two.”
It looks like she might be crying. The weight of my guilt hits me hard. “I’m sorry, Anna. It’s not you, it’s me.”
“Don’t feed me that clichéd bullshit,” she says.
“Anna, I’m sorry. I can’t lose you as a friend.”
“You lied to me, August,” she says.
Now I’m mad at Anna for lying about her dad. And Yazmin for having a boyfriend. Mad at Tess for n
ot leaving me alone. And my parents and their stupid church. “You lied to me, Anna. Who is your dad, Anna? Who is he? Could he be, I don’t know, our teacher?”
She recoils. “You knew?”
“Tess told me,” I admit. “But I was waiting for you to tell me.”
Anna checks her phone again. “I didn’t tell you on the day of your audition because I didn’t want you to like me for that.”
“And I don’t,” I say.
“Right, you just don’t like me.”
“I do like you. As a friend. You’re my best friend here.”
“That’s not what I wanted.” She shakes her head. “I regret what I told my dad.”
I knew it. “What did you tell your dad?”
“It doesn’t matter. My car is here. Bye, August. Good luck without me.”
I get home an hour later. Aunt Lil is waiting for me on the couch. She’s in a pajama dress and cross-stitching with NPR on low.
“You’re late,” she whispers to not wake Davina.
“I’m sorry, Auntie,” I say, my body slumped. I avoid getting near her in case I smell like vodka.
“You’re really giving me a taste of this parenting thing, aren’t you, son?”
“I had a bad night.”
“This is your warning,” she says. “But don’t do that again.”
I barely get my pants off before crashing into bed. I roll myself up in the bedspread. I’m utterly defeated by the truth of how I got into the school. It was Aunt Lil. It was Anna. It was never me. I didn’t earn my spot.
Eight
Monday, September 23
11:58 A.M.
I’m the only one in the basement—everyone in class or lunch. I left the cafeteria five minutes early to slay the dragon of entering the boys’ dressing room. I’m standing beside the double doors trying to will myself to go inside. The basement is empty, which means the dressing room will be empty. Sweat covers the back of my neck. If I get cast in Grease—even in the ensemble—I’ll be in the dressing room. I need to do this now. Break the seal. Rip the Band-Aid. Now is the time. Go. Move your feet, August.
But I can’t. No matter the logic, reasoning, or pep talks, I can’t push through the intense feeling that I don’t truly belong. I don’t want the guys wondering if I should be in there, possibly feeling uncomfortable. A few guys enter and exit. I’m jealous of the casualness. Something insurmountable to me is second nature to them. How easy it must be for cis guys to exist in the world. The first bell rings, and I turn away from the dressing room, defeated. I have just enough time to go to the gender-neutral bathrooms upstairs. Boys’ dressing room: 1. Me: 0.
Mr. Daniels walks into class two minutes late. “Students, my students,” he says.
“Teacher, our teacher,” we say back. This ritual started sometime last week as a joke. I check my phone before putting it away. Nothing from Yaz, but Elijah has texted often. At the party, he drunkenly announced that I’m his new best friend. I thought people didn’t stick to their promises when drunk, but Elijah is not most people. I don’t know why he’s so excited to be my friend—he’s a senior with thousands of followers. But I need a friend after getting dumped by Anna, who is sitting in the front row, probably planning my demise. Mr. Daniels locates his notebook and pulls out a piece of paper. “An announcement before we begin: the fall musical will be”—he pauses for dramatics—“Grease!”
The class starts buzzing with excitement and opinions. “Auditions will be held this Thursday. Please sign up on the web page.” He looks up and smiles. “Yours truly will be directing this year.”
The class claps politely. “Thank you, but your applause will not increase your chances of getting a role.” The clapping dies down. “Now, we’ve been studying the different methods of acting. You’ll discover which methods help you access characters through many years of perfecting your craft, but it’s imperative to know them. I can guarantee you will be asked by directors, and even some teachers,” he says with a wink, “to work a method during a rehearsal.”
As Mr. Daniels talks, my mind drifts to Grease. When I wasn’t wallowing in my despair over the party or doing homework yesterday, I was thinking about which role I would audition for.
“August,” Mr. Daniels says, snapping me back to reality. “Could you come up front?”
On my way up to the stage, I try to remember what he was talking about. The fear of getting in front of the class has disappeared. We’ve now seen each other perform—good, bad, and ugly—and we are over it.
“Take this,” Mr. Daniels says, handing me a piece of paper. “Give it a quick read and apply any acting method. I’ll give you a moment.”
He turns his attention to the class and regales them with a story about something, who knows, I’m not listening. While skimming the monologue, I search for the character. I’m an aging man, maybe a grandpa, looking for my lost dog. At the end, I realize the dog has been dead for years. I’m forgetting things, then mourning over and over when I remember they died.
I clear my throat. “I’m ready,” I say, even though I’m not ready.
“Very well,” Mr. Daniels says. I spot Anna in the front row, not even looking at me. Yazmin is watching me, smiling, making me instantly nervous. I look back down, take a breath, and get started. I am Grandpa; my mind is foggy. Things don’t make sense. I loosen my body, confuse my mind, and begin. I talk slow and take pauses like a man searching for his next thought. I really nail the ending. The realization surprises people.
“Nicely done, August,” Mr. Daniels says after I finish. “Hard to tell which method you were evoking for this exercise. Let me guess. Chekhov?”
“No, sir,” I say, not even knowing that one.
“Strasberg method?” he asks.
I hesitate. The truth is, none. For me, it’s not about being in the moment, or repetition of words, or using my own experiences or feelings. I have my own method. I step into the character, like putting on a mask. I can be Party Guy, or Serious Student, or Old Man with Dead Dog. Offstage and onstage, it’s all the same. But I can’t tell Mr. Daniels that.
“Yes,” I say finally. “Strasberg.”
“I knew it,” he says, acting victorious. “Tell us, what experience did you tap into?”
I hesitate, searching for a lie. “My dog died a couple years ago. I was so sad,” I say, giving puppy-dog eyes.
“Well, it worked. Good job, son,” he says. I take my seat feeling good.
5:25 P.M.
At Riley’s party, Elijah made me swear on a stack of Playbills that I would come with him to Underage Open Mic Night at Haswell Green’s, a bar in Times Square popular with actors on Broadway and Off-Broadway. Every Monday night, they open at five and host an open mic for teens. It’s cool to be in a bar—even if it’s not serving alcohol and smells like the inside of a beer bottle.
Elijah told me the whole school shows up—which I didn’t believe—but it turns out he was right. People are in the booths drinking sodas and eating fries, or standing around the pool table, or gathered in front of the small stage in the back. This night is well documented—everyone has their phone out taking selfies, group photos, and videos. One of the twins Anna introduced me to on the first day (the “twiple threat”) is onstage, strangling the mic stand, and belting at least two keys away from the right one.
Elijah finds me hiding at the bar and hands me a red plastic cup filled with soda. “What Tiffany is doing to ‘Defying Gravity’ should be outlawed.” He covers his ears as Tiffany hits the high notes at the end.
“She is defying my ears right now,” I kid.
Elijah hops up on a barstool, sipping on his Coke. “Take a drink,” he demands.
I take a sip and my tongue burns. “Yuck.”
“Yuck? Excuse me, that’s the finest four-dollar whiskey.”
“Thanks?” I offer.
“Are you going to grace the stage tonight?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.
“I don’t think so,” I say, getting nervou
s at the thought of being up there.
“I’m telling you, August, Amber DeJesus went viral from a video someone posted of her singing here, and now she’s doing sponsored ads for laxative tea. Adam Long got his agent from this, and one time, I got a kiss from Richie Valentine. Anything can happen.”
“Maybe next week?”
“Listen to me,” he says, adjusting an imaginary bow tie, “I’m a senior.”
“I listen to you because you’re the Gushers guy,” I say.
“Did you sign up for an audition spot?” he asks, avoiding any conversations about Gushers.
“I did,” I say.
Elijah puts his arms around me. “Your first audition at SPA.”
“Virgin right here.”
He claps. “Allow me to lay things out for you. Or maybe Anna told you?”
“She did not,” I confirm. She won’t even look at me anymore.
“There’s definitely politics to the casting of an SPA musical,” he begins, and I take a big drink of my soda. “Lead roles like Danny and Sandy go to seniors unless there’s an exceptional junior. Never an underclassman. The ensemble is filled with juniors and the occasional stand-out freshman or sophomore. Speaking roles go to the seniors mostly, but there’s room. I’ve had speaking roles since sophomore year, but I’m me.” He flashes a smile. Elijah has the confidence thing down.
“And you’re going for Danny?” I ask.
“Oh yeah,” he says in full Danny Zuko voice. “Hey, they won’t know what hit them,” he says, sounding more like a drunk John Travolta.
“Tell me more, tell me more,” I joke.
“Soon,” he says, dropping the impression. “But first, who are you going for?”
I haven’t told anyone yet. I’m worried about the reaction. But Elijah seems like a safe audience. “I’m going for Rizzo,” I admit.
“Rizzo,” he says, his mouth remaining open. “Rizzo. Rizzo?” His brain can’t understand it. “Why Rizzo?”
I don’t want to lie to my friend. “It’s my dream part,” I say.
He scoffs. “Your dream role is Rizzo?”
“She’s on the list.”
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