Act Cool

by Tobly McSmith

  We’re about to do our first stumble through and no one feels ready. A stumble through is just like it sounds—we literally stumble our way through the show by throwing on costumes, forgetting props, dropping lines, and not finding our light. It’s a fantastic mess.

  “Why aren’t you getting in costume?” Jamaal asks, looking cool in his leather jacket and white shirt.

  My high-waisted jeans and tight white shirt taunt me from the hanger. “In a few,” I say, trying to delay the inevitable. I’m going to have to change from August to Rizzo soon. I just can’t decide where to do it.

  “If you don’t wear this,” Elijah says, tugging on my Pink Lady jacket, “I will.”

  “I’d look better in that leather jacket,” I say to Elijah, who is fully Danny Zuko’ed.

  “And I would look better in this,” he says, putting the pink jacket on over his leather jacket and snapping a few pictures.

  I can do this. I can change quickly. No one cares. I take off my pants and pull on the tight Rizzo jeans. I take off my shirt—feeling completely exposed with my binder on display to anyone watching—and pull the V-neck shirt over my head. Once in, I look around, expecting everyone to be staring at me, but instead, no one is looking. Not a single guy. I sit down in my chair and put my bow on. There’s lipstick, but I’m not doing that until the show.

  Elijah comes up behind me—I can see him in the mirror—and drapes the pink jacket around my shoulders. “You look so handsome, even in that,” he says with a wink.

  “Places,” Meena sings over the intercom.

  6:25 P.M.

  At the end of the first act, during an energetic and scattered version of “We Go Together,” a crash comes from the wings. It’s so loud that we freeze mid-dance.

  A loud “SHIT” follows the crash. Then crying.

  “Who has eyes on Yazmin?” Meena yells over the mic.

  “She’s right here,” a stagehand answers.

  “It’s Tess,” Justin says, running offstage. Mr. Daniels is close behind. We take a knee and exchange looks of concern. Injuries are so scary in the theater.

  “She fell on the stack of props,” someone says from backstage. Last time I was backstage, it was cluttered with props and quick-change costumes. The theater is quiet. A girl in the ensemble is crying softly.

  Elijah scoots over to me and whispers, “Bet she’s faking it.”

  A few minutes later, Justin carries Tess onstage like she’s a baby. “I’m okay, guys,” she says in a weak voice. We all jump to our feet, clapping with relief. We cheer as Justin carries her into the audience toward the exit. Before they leave, she waves, like she’s the queen.

  Meena throws her clipboard down. “This is inexcusable, guys. Props are everywhere. Your castmate could’ve been seriously hurt. Do you even care?” She’s about to cry. “We need to be better than this,” she says, then stomps offstage.

  “Has she snapped?” someone behind me asks.

  Anna looks at me and I nod. Whenever someone freaks out, no matter how weird or irrational, their closest friends must chase after them. It’s unspoken theater code. This is peak tech day drama.

  We find Meena in the green room, lying on the couch with her head buried in the cushion. “Meena, baby,” Anna says. “What’s going on?”

  She doesn’t answer. Anna gives me the say something eyes. I clear my throat. “Hey, Meena, want to talk?” I ask.

  Meena turns her face to me, her cheeks bright red from crying. “You wouldn’t understand,” she says.

  I nod. “I could try.”

  She fishes a tissue out of her pocket and blows her nose. “Being the stage manager really sucks sometimes.”

  “I can imagine. You do so much,” I say, always appreciating the stage manager and their hard work to make the actors look good.

  “Why don’t you invite me out after rehearsals?”

  My heart sinks. We didn’t tell her about Old John’s on Friday night. “Meena, I’m so sorry,” I say, feeling awful.

  “And you,” Meena says, looking at Anna. “You’re too bossy. Talking down to me. You won’t listen when I try to explain something.”

  “Calm down, Meena,” Anna says.

  “No way,” she says, sitting up. “You do this every show, but it’s ten times worse now that you’re assistant director. You treat me like your assistant. No thank-you. No appreciation.”

  Anna shakes her head. “The cast always gets you flowers after the show?”

  “You know what? At freshman showcase when everyone heard you pee? I didn’t turn off your mic on purpose! You were so mean to me that day.”

  “Meena!” Anna yells.

  I hold in a laugh. That’s kind of funny. Another good reason to be nice to the crew. It’s surprising to see Meena lose her shit. She’s always so headstrong and secure. Maybe she’s hiding her feelings and truths, just like me. There’s no question that Anna and others are putting on an act, but I didn’t expect it from Meena.

  Anna sits on the floor beside the couch. “Meena, I’m a jerk. I’m sorry. The truth is, Dad made me take the assistant director position. He said I wouldn’t get a part onstage. It was devastating. I’ve been thinking about going to business college.”

  “Be reasonable,” Meena says sarcastically.

  “I’m sorry that I’m bossy. It’s the Aries in me. I’ll work on it.”

  “I just want to be included. And thanked. Is that too much to ask for?”

  Anna hugs her. “Not at all. I’m sorry, girl.”

  “I’m sorry,” Meena says, “but not about the pee.”

  We all laugh. The room gets lighter. Meena gets up and puts her headset back on. “Can you not tell people why I got upset? Just say my parents are getting divorced.”

  “Sure, honey,” Anna says.

  9:12 P.M.

  Elijah and I zombie-walk to the subway. We hardly speak—all the words have been spoken or sung. I’m ready to collapse. My legs are tired, my vocal cords are spent, my body is done. I want a long shower and a warm bed. I wish I had a teleportation device because sometimes taking the subway is such a bummer.

  Elijah picks a greasy McDonald’s bag off the ground and throws it in the trash. He’s always trying to make the world better. “What was the deal with Meena?” he asks.

  “Her parents are getting divorced,” I say.

  He shoots me a look. “Her parents have been divorced.”

  “She was hurt we didn’t invite her to Old John’s,” I say, revealing part of the truth.

  “Crap,” he says.

  We arrive at the subway station. “You coming?” I ask.

  “Actually,” Elijah says with a mischievous smile, “I’m going over to Duncan’s place for a little hang.”

  I shake my head. “I think you like the drama.”

  “Who, me?” Elijah asks, smirking.

  10:59 P.M.

  After a long and hot shower—washing the day off—I’m headed to my room with two pepperoni slices from the pizzeria on our block. I wanted three, but Rizzo has tight costumes.

  Aunt Lil’s studio light is on. I thought she would be with Davina tonight. I peek in, expecting to see her painting, but it’s a sadder scene. She’s hunched over her table, empty wine bottle nearby, reading letters. She doesn’t see me. I duck out to go eat my pizza in bed and think about how to help her.

  Fifteen

  Tuesday, October 15

  4:50 P.M.

  Tomorrow is opening night.

  At this point, I’m no longer a human, more a walking, talking ball of nervous energy.

  This is our last rehearsal, but I could use three more. I’m not confident about entries, exits, props, or blocking. Got to remember my quick changes, choreography, songs, lines . . . It’s endless.

  “Are you nervous?” Kelsey whispers. We’re in the wings waiting for the next scene.

  “Not at all,” I say, because the Infamous AG wouldn’t be nervous.

  “Really?” she asks. “I’m practically ab
out to die from nerves.”

  “You’ll be great,” I assure her.

  She plays with her earring. “I really admire you, August. You walked into this school and fit right in. I would be a mess, and you just came in here like no problem. That’s cool.”

  I look at Kelsey, surprised by her compliment. She’s one of the most popular and talented seniors at this school. “Thank you,” I say, and give her a hug.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Greene?” Mr. Daniels asks over the speakers.

  “Let’s do this,” I say, heading toward my limelight.

  Meena cues the music. The band is rehearsing without the actors today—we stop and start too much, and it drives them nuts. I count the beats, then start singing. I love my Rizzo solo. It leaves me sad and empty, but the song is beautiful. There are worse things I could do than sing “There Are Worse Things I Could Do.”

  I go full out on the song, hitting all the notes, even flexing a little vibrato. My feet stop where they started as I hit the last worse things you could, and then I hold the last do until the music ends.

  Once the music is over, the theater is silent. I look in the direction of Mr. Daniels in the audience, but the spotlight is too bright. I see the shape of him get up and walk down the steps toward the stage. The whole theater is quiet. Every eye on me and him.

  He stands in front of me. “What’s this song about, August?” he asks.

  “Rizzo is thinking about the choices she’s made and dealing with what people say about her.”

  Mr. Daniels nods. I unclench my palms, both sweaty. “Has anyone talked about you behind your back?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say. He’s working the Strasberg method with me. I can play along.

  “And how did that make you feel?” he asks.

  I shift my weight. “Mad.”

  “And what they said, was it true?”

  “Not really,” I say, having no real example in mind.

  “And how did that make you feel?”

  “Like they had control.”

  Mr. Daniels gets excited. “And what did you do?”

  I would obsess about it, but the Infamous August Greene wouldn’t. “Eventually, I didn’t care what they said because I know who I am.”

  “Perfect,” Mr. Daniels says. “All those feelings of anger and control and acceptance. Use them. When you sing, think about those people saying things that upset you. See their faces in your mind. Understood?”

  “Understood,” I say, already knowing I won’t.

  “Meena, can you cue up the music?” he asks, heading back to his perch.

  The music starts. I should just pretend to use the Strasberg method. But I’m feeling bold. I don’t want him to take the credit for my work. “Actually, I have my own method.”

  Mr. Daniels turns around. The music cuts out. “What’s that?” he asks, annoyed.

  “I step into the character. I don’t use my own experience or emotions. For me, it’s like putting on a mask. I become the character,” I say.

  “So, you stay un-present and un-plugging into your own emotions?”

  “I act,” I say plainly. A couple of laughs escape from the wings.

  “And what do you call this style?” he asks.

  “The August method?”

  Mr. Daniels grunts. “Someone please write a Wikipedia page immediately.” Everyone laughs. “Son, your quote-unquote ‘August method’ might be working for you now, but it won’t always work. Then what will you do?”

  “It’s worked so far,” I say.

  “Why waste your time at this school if you have it all figured out?”

  “I came here to get better at my way of acting.”

  Mr. Daniels shakes his head, then turns toward the actors in the wings. “Grease is a light and fun musical, but the characters must feel real. There must be honesty in your acting. Otherwise, the audience will not connect with you. They will not care who put the bop in the bop shoo bop shoo bop.”

  Everyone nervously laughs.

  “Meena, cue the music,” Mr. Daniels says, returning to his director perch. “Mr. Greene, how about doing what I asked? Humor me, please.”

  I start singing like my life depends on it. I don’t use my own experience, but I use my own anger. And when the song ends, I hit my note, and there’s silence. “Nicely done, August,” Mr. Daniels says, “I could feel the anger.”

  “Let’s take ten and run the second act,” Meena announces.

  8:19 P.M.

  I’m slow-walking home from the subway. I didn’t know this level of exhaustion existed. And I still have homework to do.

  I regret calling it the “August method.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but I wanted to be honest about my process. And for that, I got my ass handed to me by Mr. Daniels. Elijah assured me it was no big deal and promised everyone would forget by tomorrow. The second act ran smoothly, but I was in my head. I was angry. I’m still angry. But not at Mr. Daniels. Oddly enough, I’m mad at my parents.

  I stop at my favorite bodega, two blocks from Aunt Lil’s, for a bacon-and-egg sandwich. No matter what time of day or night, breakfast is served at the bodega. While I wait for the sandwich, I scroll through my photo library and select a photo of me onstage in a silly pose. I post it with the caption: The August Method. I figure I’ll get ahead of the joke by making it first. I have over a thousand followers. Mostly people from school after hearing about the casting of Grease.

  When I get to the apartment, I try to be quiet—not knowing what to expect.

  “That you?” I hear my aunt ask from the kitchen.

  “No,” I say in a deep voice. “It’s the police.”

  “Come on and arrest me, then,” she says. I set my bag down, hang up my coat, and bring my foil-wrapped sandwich to the kitchen—ready to hear a lecture on the evils of bacon.

  “Hi, Auntie,” I say, on my way to wash my hands. There are five empty wine bottles in the sink. “Did you drink all of these?” I ask, both scared and in awe.

  She laughs. “I poured them down the drain in a dramatic gesture.”

  “I would have taken them,” I kid. After drying my hands, I sit down at the table.

  Aunt Lil clears her throat. “I’ve been struggling a bit. Don’t know if you noticed?”

  Oh, I noticed. The heavier drinking, sadder nights, no Davina. “Maybe a little,” I say.

  She takes off her glasses. Rubs her eyes. “Your mom’s upcoming visit has been weighing on me. Does it weigh on you?”

  “I’m worried they’ll take me back to Pennsylvania,” I answer. “Or worse.”

  “I hate that you have to play dress-up,” she says. That’s what Aunt Lil calls the dinner with my parents because I’ll be wearing girl clothes.

  “I hate it, too,” I admit. “I appreciate you being there. An actor needs an audience.”

  Aunt Lil frowns. That’s not a good sign. “August, this dinner has been bringing up all of my past crap. That’s why I’ve been struggling.”

  Is she not going to go? I need her to be at the dinner. If she’s there, I’m putting on a show for her. If she’s not, it’ll feel like one big lie. “It’ll be fine. It’s just acting,” I say. “And I’m playing the role of my parents’ daughter.”

  “I know, honey, and you’ll nail it. But I’m not good at acting. I’m nervous about messing it up for you.”

  I get more desperate. “You can invite Davina,” I say, then remember Mom doesn’t know about her. “Is that why you two are fighting?” I ask.

  “Not exactly. But she does think I should come out to my sister. The lying is tough on me. My parents never knew who I truly was, and that hurts. I’ve spent my life, like many queer people do, as two different people—the person my family knows and the person I am. I’ve not been honest with my family to keep them in my life, but also pushed them away so they don’t find out my truth. Thinking about this dinner with your mom, it’s surfaced all these feelings I’d tucked far away. Made me face them. And they’re ugly. Li
ke those two different people I am are fighting in my belly.”

  “And who will win?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “But once my sister knows the truth, she’ll never talk to me again, and that’ll hurt.”

  “If I understand any feeling, it’s that one,” I say.

  “That’s the problem—a child shouldn’t have to understand this feeling. We should have fixed this problem by now. If you love someone, how could you not accept them for who they are? It truly boggles the mind.”

  I’ve caused my aunt pain. I’m messing up her life. I don’t want to be a burden on her. “If you want me to move out, I can figure something out.”

  “Boy, you’ve lost your mind,” Aunt Lil says, pinching my cheek. “I would never push my future Tony winner out into the cold.”

  “You still want to be in my acceptance speech, right?”

  “Exactly,” she says.

  “Aunt Lil, I could really use you at this dinner. I need your help to make this work. More than anything, I want to stay here and keep going to SPA.”

  “Oh, dear love, I would never leave you. I will be there, and we will get through this together.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Lil. I love you.”

  “Love you more, muffin,” she says, then gives me a hug.

  I take my egg-and-bacon sandwich—probably cold now—and head to my room. Before I leave, I turn around and ask, “Why is Davina mad?”

  She smiles. “She says I won’t let her all the way in.”

  I look around at the pineapple statues, the pineapple-shaped bowls, pineapples dancing on the tablecloth. My aunt is the most welcoming, loving, and accepting person, and all she was taught as a kid was the opposite.

  When I get to my room, there are twelve text messages—all from Anna and Elijah in our group chat.

  ANNA: Guys, have you seen the news?

  ELIJAH: About Pokémon on Ice?

  ANNA: No. What? About Conversion play.

  ANNA: People are pissed about that Nickelodeon star

  ELIJAH: He couldn’t help that Nickelodeon made him a star

  ANNA: Lol. People aren’t happy that a cisgender guy is playing the trans part

  ANNA: Augustus? Where you at?

  ANNA: There’s going to be a protest at the school