Act Cool

by Tobly McSmith

  “You’re weird,” he says with a laugh.

  “You wanted to be my friend.”

  “I like you because you’re weird,” he says, then finishes his drink. “To be honest, this Rizzo thing will improve your odds. There’s no sure-thing senior girl for any role but Sandy. Kelsey Whitton was born to play Sandy. That leaves Rizzo up for grabs. But you’re going to piss off some girls.”

  “I will?” I ask, alarmed. I don’t want to piss off anyone.

  “Possibly, but I support you auditioning for any role you want,” he says with the smile that makes everyone like him. “But I do wish you were my Kenickie.”

  “Who, me?” I ask, attempting the John Travolta accent. “I’ll be your Kenickie in real life.”

  Elijah looks around. “So, I can trust you with my secrets?”

  “Obviously,” I say, pumped to hear secrets.

  “Guess who had a make-out session in between parked cars after the party this weekend? Me! Me! Meeeeee!” he sings.

  “With who?” I ask.

  Elijah smiles big. “Here’s a hint. He’s a British cello master—”

  “Duncan?”

  “Bingo, baby. Can you believe it?”

  “No, actually,” I accidentally say. “I thought he was into Anna. Guess I read it wrong.”

  “You read it half wrong, my friend.” He shoots me a smile. “He’s pan.”

  “Pan?”

  Elijah smiles. “Pansexual means into a person regardless of gender.”

  “I knew that,” I lie.

  “But he’s not out about dating guys. He thinks it will hurt his career.”

  Elijah is about to divulge more but gets distracted. Maybe he spotted someone? “Actually,” he says, not looking at me, “I’ll be back, and we’ll do a duet.”

  “No thanks,” I say, but he’s already disappeared into the crowd.

  I’m headed toward the bathroom but stop to watch a girl with dirty-blonde hair walk onstage. She’s beautiful in a chill, hippie way—wearing yellow-tinted aviator glasses, high-waisted jeans, and an acoustic guitar across her chest. There’s already clapping and hollering—she must be a favorite. After centering herself in front of the microphone, she gives the guitar a strum.

  “Hey, guys,” she says in a small voice. The crowd cheers, and many people have their phones above their head, recording. “I’m Maggie Ridge, and I’m going to do an original. That cool with you?”

  The crowd claps loudly; there are even a few yells. Maggie appears nervous and uncomfortable to be in the spotlight. “Cool. This one’s called ‘Too Much,’” she says, then starts strumming and creating a melodic, catchy tune. As the song picks up, she becomes more assured and open. It’s a simple song about how things start good but become too much. Her words all make sense, beautiful in their simplicity, and they have heart. When she gets to the bridge, people are clapping along. The song ends, and the crowd goes wild.

  I clap until I can no longer ignore my bladder and head down to the bathrooms in the basement. After using a dirty toilet in a small, smelly stall and washing my hands, I emerge from the men’s room wiping my wet hands on my jeans. “Excuse me,” I hear from behind me. The voice sounds familiar. I turn and see the girl who was just onstage.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She laughs. “Do you even know what you did?”

  “No, but I could tell I should apologize.”

  Her shirt reads NIRVANA. I couldn’t see it before because her guitar was in the way. “You pushed that door open with no regard for the shy girl hiding in the basement.”

  She’s playing with me. I can be the Flirt. “Can I hide with you?”

  “I guess,” she says. “I like to get away after performing. Since there’s no backstage, I come here. I can’t deal with people talking to me about my music. Especially my own songs.”

  “So, this probably isn’t the best time to tell you that your song was amazing?”

  She smiles. Shrugs. “Amazing is a big word.”

  I lean against the wall. It’s sticky. We’re standing in a small basement filled with empty kegs, surrounded by the smell of pee, but I don’t care. “I love when music makes me feel things. Your music did that, Maggie.” I smile, proud I remembered her name. I like playing the role of the Flirt.

  She blushes. “I came down here to avoid that, but thank you.”

  “I’m August,” I say.

  We shake hands and there’s a charge of static between our palms. “Did you feel that?” I ask.

  “I did.”

  “What if we’re soul mates?” I ask with a smile.

  “And this is our meet-cute, right here, in the basement?”

  “You going to write a song about it?”

  “What rhymes with urine?”

  I laugh. She laughs. Soul mates.

  “You go to SPA?” I ask.

  “Yes, I’m in the New Music program.”

  “Cool,” I say, having no idea what that means. “I’m drama.”

  “Are you drama or do you do drama?”

  “Both,” I flirt.

  “Tell me, August, is it dangerous for girls to have crushes on actors? Aren’t they always acting?”

  This is loaded. Is she talking about me? Or another person? I take a drag of my imaginary cigarette and let out an imaginary puff. “Danger is my middle name.”

  She takes my imaginary cigarette and drops it on the floor. “I don’t like smokers. And I don’t trust actors,” she says, stepping on my nonexistent cigarette.

  “Both are bad for your health,” I agree.

  “I should probably head up and see my friends.”

  “Me too,” I say—though I’d rather stay here with her.

  We walk up the stairs together, and when we get to the top, Maggie turns to me and says, “Want to come with?”

  I can tell she’s a little nervous asking. Like how she was nervous before playing music. I’m about to say yes when I hear, “Hey, August.”

  I know that voice. It’s Yazmin. “Hey,” I say.

  She looks around, bored. “Didn’t know you were here.”

  “Same,” I say.

  “I’m going to head over to my friends,” Maggie says.

  Shit, I forgot about Maggie.

  “Okay,” I say, feeling torn between her and Yaz. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Having fun?” Yaz asks, texting on her phone.

  I shrug but she doesn’t see. “It’s cool, I guess,” I say.

  “Look.” She points back at the stage. Elijah walks on and adjusts the mic stand.

  “Hello, New York!” he screams, too loudly. I would cheer, but Yazmin has rested her head on my shoulder and I’m not moving an inch. Thankfully, Elijah forgot about our duet. Instead, he’s decided to tackle “Rose’s Turn” from Gypsy. There are laughs among the audience as he sings, “Here she is, boys” while high kicking. Everyone is on their feet by the time he goes full tilt into the ending. “Everything’s coming up roses!”

  Yaz bites her lip. “Did you talk to Anna? About not saying anything?”

  “Sure,” I lie. “All good.”

  “Thank you,” she says, then hugs me, like a reward. “I got back with my boyfriend. I didn’t want any drama. I got to jet. See you around?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, but in a super casual way.

  Once she’s left, I head in the direction of Elijah.

  Nine

  Wednesday, September 25

  11:21 A.M.

  My audition is tomorrow. Twenty-eight hours until I’m standing in front of SPA’s theater and music teachers. I should be more excited? Scared? Panicked? All those things. Instead, I’m focused on my unexpected lunch invitation from Yazmin.

  I close my locker and nearly run over Juliet. “Hey,” I say with a crack in my voice from the surprise.

  “Hello, August. We miss you at lunch. Did our camp stories drive you away?”

  “Just taking some me time,” I say. It didn’t feel right to sit a
t the table with Anna and her friends after what happened on Saturday. I didn’t want to make it weird. Or weirder.

  “And how long will this little tiff between you and Anna last?”

  I shrug. “No clue. She won’t even look in my direction.”

  “That’s Anna,” Juliet concedes. “She wears her heart on her sleeve, even when she’s wearing something sleeveless. And she likes you.”

  I nod. “I like her, too. Just not like that.”

  “Mmmm-hmmm,” Juliet says.

  “What?” I say innocently.

  “Anna told us about what went down on the balcony, Romeo.”

  “She really did tell you everything.”

  “You know Anna,” she says, then snaps her fingers and claps awkwardly. “Am I doing it right?”

  “That’s your hand jive?”

  “Needs practice,” she admits, then gives up butchering it any further. “Can’t believe the prestigious School of Performing Arts is putting on something as pedestrian as Grease.”

  I don’t care if it makes me nerdy to love Grease. I correctly jive my hands and say, “It’s a classic.”

  “No, what you’re doing is iconic.”

  I stop. “What’s that?”

  “Rumor is you’re going for Rizzo?”

  I look at her. “How did you know?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Guess who.”

  Of course, Anna is telling people. But how did she know? “I am,” I confirm, curious what Juliet thinks about my choice.

  “Pegged you as more of a Kenickie. Or Danny.”

  “Elijah will get Danny—no reason to try.”

  “I suppose.” She taps her feet together. “Are you auditioning for a female part as some kind of gender statement?”

  “No,” I say flatly.

  “My bad,” she says. “Don’t want to overstep, but you identify as male and present as male—why play a female role?”

  Rizzo is a great role. She’s a strong character with a killer solo, but that’s not why I’m auditioning for the part. The real reason is my mom. And Randy, I guess. They are planning on coming to see me in Grease. More correctly, they are coming to see their daughter in the show, and their daughter would play Rizzo. They can’t know I’m August. They can’t know I’ve socially transitioned. If they find out, they will take me back to Pennsylvania. Or send me to conversion therapy.

  I want to tell Juliet—if anyone would understand, it would be her. I wonder what she would say. Would she dissuade me or support me? Her family is supportive, and mine is not. She might tell people, too. It’s not worth risking. “Elijah said it was my best shot at a lead role,” I say. “Plus, I’ve presented female all my life, and the only roles I played at my old school were female.”

  Juliet thinks. “So maybe you’re scared to go for male roles?”

  “No,” I say, “I’m good at them, too.”

  “And it doesn’t bother you to present female? You don’t feel uncomfortable?”

  I shake my head. “When it comes to the stage, I’m not interested in playing trans characters. I want to be the trans actor playing all the great male and female characters, including Rizzo.”

  “Rizzo is a bad bitch,” she concedes. “August, you can always talk to me. That’s why I came here. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

  I lean over and nudge her. “Thank you,” I say.

  She picks at the polish on her nail. “I heard something else. Should I tell you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Juliet shrugs. “Anna will be the reader during the audition.”

  That’s not good news. Anna—the person who hates me most—will be in the room (judging me) and reading the lines with me (sabotaging me). “That’s not going to help my focus.”

  Juliet waves me off. “You just need to kiss and make up.”

  I tilt my head. “She’s pissed.”

  “Well, maybe not kiss. But I know she’ll forgive you.”

  “Did she tell you we fought about her dad?” I ask.

  Juliet stops fidgeting with her nail and looks up. “Actually, no.”

  Relief floods over me. At least she isn’t telling everyone that I’m a fraud who flirted my way into the school. “Thanks for finding me,” I say to Juliet.

  “No matter what happens between you and Anna, we’ll be friends.”

  “I’m glad,” I say, then we hug. I’m happy to have Juliet as a friend. I can be more myself with her than anyone else, even if I don’t tell her the whole truth.

  “Want to get lunch?” she asks. “I could skip the lunchroom today.”

  “I’d love that, but I have something,” I say, backing away. That something is a lunch date. With Yazmin Guzman. I woke up to something unusual: a text from Yaz. Even more unusual, she asked me to lunch. I nearly leaped out of bed and have been counting the minutes until now. My thoughts are crowded with Yaz. Will she like this shirt? Did they break up again? Is she thinking about me? I walk up to the fifth floor like she instructed. Yaz wants to have lunch with me but doesn’t want to do it under the scrutiny of the cafeteria. I spot her on a bench, looking at her phone. “Auggie!” she yells.

  “Auggie?” I repeat, walking to her.

  “You don’t like? That’s my new name for you. Auggie,” she repeats.

  Auggie is a kid’s name. Is that how she sees me?

  “I don’t love it,” I say, being honest.

  “You’ll love it when I say it. Now sit,” she demands, patting the bench. She reaches into her turtle backpack and pulls out a foil ball. “I want to tell you something about me. Something I don’t tell most people.”

  “Okay,” I say, my heart beating fast.

  “My family is from the Dominican Republic. My parents were born here, but my abuela, my grandmother, was born there. She lives with us and made these tamales.”

  Yaz picks off the tape holding the foil together with her long, bright green fingernail. The smell of corn and chicken hits my nose and wakes my stomach up. I watch as she peels the shell off and takes a bite. I do the same and the spice burns my nose, but the sweetness cools down my mouth. I want this moment to last forever.

  “My family’s not rich like Riley’s, not even close,” she says.

  I nod, thinking of the hedge-fund penthouse. “Same. I can’t imagine living like that,” I admit.

  She unpeels another tamale. “But I will be someday. I’ll be rich and famous. And buy my family a big house.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  She leans back, resting her head against the wall. “Of course.”

  “I heard your dad was some record producer,” I say.

  She pauses, thinking. Finally, she says, “He’s not.”

  “Why lie?” I ask.

  “Because people at this school like rich people with powerful parents. They get all hot and bothered in proximity to fame or power or whatever. So I lied. But I’m trusting you with my secret now.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” I say, wondering if I should tell her mine.

  “Thanks, Auggie.”

  I sit back and think. We both walk around with lies to protect our image. Yazmin Guzman is opening up to me. Her attention feels intoxicating.

  “Auggie,” she says in a cute voice. I still loathe Auggie, but do love hearing her say it. “Can I ask something?”

  “Sure,” I say, on guard about what she’s about to ask.

  She moves closer. “Can you not audition for Rizzo?”

  I recoil. To the end of the bench. I didn’t expect that. “Chill,” she says, moving closer to me again. “Let me explain.”

  I drop my shoulders and try to relax. She continues, “I want to be Rizzo.” She puts her arm around me. “And you could be my Kenickie.”

  The temptation is so real, but my parents would not approve.

  “What do you say?” She’s close enough to kiss me. “Will you be my Kenickie?”

  “I’ll think about it,” I say.

  �
��You do that,” she says, getting up and putting her backpack on. “I’m out. Talk later?”

  “Talk later,” I say. She leaves me holding the tamales.

  5:15 P.M.

  The subway from SPA to Brooklyn takes about forty-five minutes. There’s only a small body of water between Brooklyn and Manhattan, but the two boroughs can seem like two different worlds. Brooklyn is calmer and slower—and cooler. Better thrift stores. Less-crowded sidewalks. Everyone looks so low-key hip without trying, even parents pushing strollers.

  I walk down a paved sidewalk covered in fallen yellow and brown leaves and think about the audition. And Yaz. Kenickie would be the perfect role for me, and Yaz would be my Rizzo. Maybe I should go for it. I could think of something to tell my parents, but they might not believe me. To stay here, to pursue my dream, I need to be the daughter my parents expect me to be. But Yaz really got in my head.

  I’m looking forward to a quiet night. I need time to decide what to do; I need time to prepare for my audition. When I walk in the door, I expect to see Aunt Lil, and maybe Davina, making dinner and drinking wine. Instead, there’s a handful of people crowded around the kitchen table. Some standing, some seated, and everyone with a drink in their hand.

  “August! Is that you?” my aunt calls out when she hears the door. “Everyone, my nephew is here!” She navigates around the bodies and chairs—wineglass in hand—and puts her arm around me. Her cheeks are flushed from the wine. “This is August!”

  Several variations of “Hello, August” come my way from the group. They smile at me with pinkish teeth, slightly stained from the red wine.

  “What’s going on here?” I ask.

  “It’s my turn to host the Park Slope feminist book club. I told you about this last week!”

  How could I have forgotten? I would have stayed out longer. “What’s the book?”

  Davina holds it up. “Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay!”

  “Have you read it, August?” someone asks.

  “No,” I admit.

  “Neither did I,” a woman wearing a leather vest says. “Come hang out anyway.”

  I drop my bag and enter the feminist book club. I sit in the chair by the leather-vested funny lady. “I’m Ginger,” she says, her voice deep and scratchy.

  “Watch out for Ginger,” Aunt Lil warns.