ELIJAH: I’m there!
ANNA: You can’t be—it’s tomorrow night and you’re onstage
ELIJAH: Dammit.
ANNA: Augustus?
I’m over this day.
And too exhausted to handle much more.
I don’t know how to respond. Of course a transgender actor should be playing the transgender character—it’s so obvious. But why don’t I feel mad enough to protest? Why are cisgender people in my life more upset than me? Should I post online about it? Will people wonder why I haven’t posted about it yet?
AUGUST: People are really upset?
ANNA: UH-HUH. The Broadway World message board is on fire.
AUGUST: Why?
ANNA: August, really? It’s called REPRESENTATION. Trans people should represent themselves onstage. Why am I explaining this to you?
AUGUST: Do people only want to see transgender actors play trans characters?
ELIJAH: Not at all. Rizzo played by you, for example. . . .
AUGUST: I don’t know any trans actors playing cisgender characters on Broadway. That’s what we should be protesting.
ANNA: August, focus!
AUGUST: It’s cool that people care so much
ANNA: I’m going to bed
Sixteen
Wednesday, October 16
8:55 P.M.
“Come on, man, your fans await,” Elijah says, at the boys’ dressing room door. Everyone is headed outside to go talk to parents and friends and admirers. The front of the school is the equivalent to the stage door on Broadway.
I wave him off. “I don’t have fans.”
“Oh, now we’re acting humble?”
“I’ll be there in two minutes, I swear,” I say.
“Making them wait, total diva move,” he jokes, and leaves.
I look at my face in the mirror, red from the makeup remover wipes, and smile. I did it. My first show at SPA is done. I performed in front of one thousand people. It scares me how right this moment feels. This is what I want forever. The stage. The audience. Acting. Being out there tonight felt like a dream come true and also just the beginning. But that’s scary because if something goes wrong on Friday night, my parents could end this dream.
But right now, for this moment, I will live in this feeling. The show went by so fast—like a blur—almost like it didn’t happen. My performance was solid minus a slight wobble when my foot slipped through the set piece during “Look at Me, I’m Sandra Dee.” And I messed up a couple of dance moves in “Born to Hand Jive.” But my solo brought the house down. The energy from the audience was electric. At the end of the show, they were on their feet as soon as we hit our last pose. And during the curtain call, when I took center stage for my bow, the crowd went nuts. The feeling was explosive, like a firecracker going off in my body.
Backstage after the show was an orgy of emotion. Everyone hugging. Crying. Lots of compliments. Even Tess hugged me. I thought it was an accident, but she said good job. If you ever want to catch actors at their nicest, try after a show.
“What are you doing?” Meena appears in the doorway, careful to never enter the boys’ room. “Go outside and receive the praise you deserve.”
“Soon,” I say.
“You made magic happen on that stage, August. I wouldn’t bullshit—the audience was on your side. Ugh, you were freaking great.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing. “We’re headed to Old John’s. Want to join?”
She smiles. “Sounds good. I need waffles, or I’ll die.”
“Meet you outside?” I ask.
“Give me five,” she says, disappearing to her duties.
Anna got a bunch of flowers, and we called Meena onstage during the curtain call. She took the flowers, and a bow.
I check my phone. Twenty new followers since I walked offstage. I’m up to twelve hundred. I got a big bump when an article came out on Playbill.com about SPA’s diverse casting of an African American Danny Zuko and Kenickie, and a transgender Rizzo. I’d rather they write about my performance, but it was cool to see my headshot on the website. I’m worried about my parents seeing the article, but I don’t think they know how to google things.
I throw on my backpack and head toward the exit. When I open the door, I’m swallowed up by a crowd of people gathered around. I thought a couple of people would wait around, but it seems like the entire theater is still here. I’m sheepish, but not the Infamous AG—he acts like he does this all the time. I hear “good job” and “nicely done” and “you’re amazing.” A girl asks me for a picture—the modern-day autograph—and we pose as her mom takes the photo. An older man asks me to sign his Playbill. My head fills up like a balloon from the praise. Is this what it feels like to be famous?
Someone taps me on the shoulder. “Hey, star,” Maggie says, then hugs me.
“I didn’t know you were here,” I say. If I had time to have a crush, it would be on Maggie. I see her at school occasionally, but New Music and drama rarely cross paths. We could be the Romeo and Juliet of SPA, houses divided. Maggie’s music is amazing—I’ve found more online, and even some YouTube videos of her singing in her bedroom and coffee shops. Not stalking, just researching.
“What did you think of the show?” I ask. For the record, if any actor asks that question, it really means: What did you think of me?
“I think that Rizzo stole the show. August, you’re really . . .” She trails off, thinking of the word.
“Handsome?” I offer.
She smiles. “I was going to say exceptional.”
I let the word exceptional bounce around in my head. I’ll play it humble for Maggie. “I do my best,” I say humbly.
“I’m into it,” she says.
“Do you have other friends in the cast?”
She looks around. “I’m close with Justin, but I came to see you.”
My body warms up. That’s a good sign.
“The cast is going to Old John’s. Want to come?” I ask Maggie.
“I should probably get home.” She pushes her hair behind her ear. “Are you going to the closing party on Friday night?”
Justin Sudds is hosting the official Grease after-party at his famous dad’s apartment. Everyone is pumped. Who wouldn’t want to party in James Bond’s apartment? It all sounds amazing, but I’ll be at dinner with my parents putting on my second performance of the night as their daughter. “I can’t,” I say.
She looks confused. “You can’t go to your show’s closing party?”
“I have other plans. Family things.”
“Oh,” she says, looking disappointed. “Well, I’ll be there.”
“I’ll try to make it,” I lie. I want to be there more than anything, but this dinner has my future in the balance. It’s mandatory attendance.
“I hope so.” She hugs me and I don’t want to let go. “I’ll see you around,” she says, then turns away and heads toward the subway. I watch her walk away, hoping she’ll turn around. Before crossing the street, she does. And smiles. That’s a very good sign.
I make my way through the crowd and find Elijah holding a bouquet of flowers. “I want you to meet my parents,” he says. I follow him over and say hello. His dad’s in a nice suit and his mom is wearing a dress. They are as stylish as Elijah.
“You’re so talented,” his dad says with a kind smile.
“Well, your son is very talented, too.”
“Don’t we know it,” his mom says, giving Elijah a hug. His dad joins in, and I stand there. It’s clear they love their son unconditionally, and it makes me jealous. I wish my parents were accepting. Elijah’s parents say goodbye to us and hug him again.
“Who’s that?” I ask Elijah, pointing to the large group of people gathered across the street.
“That’s the protest for the trans character in Conversion,” he says.
There are about fifty people chanting, with posters reading TRANS RIGHTS and HIRE TRANS ACTORS and REPRESENTATION MATTERS.
Anna joins us
, carrying an armful of flowers. “Look at that protest, August. There were so many more people earlier. I’m proud of them.” She raises her arms above her head and yells, “I STAND WITH YOU!”
I look at the protesters across the street and feel guilty. I should be over there. I should be on the front lines fighting for my transgender community. Elijah puts his hand on my shoulder. “If they fire Caesar, maybe they’ll need a replacement?”
My heart speeds up. I can’t think about it. Even if there was a remote possibility of that happening, my parents wouldn’t allow it.
“Augustus,” Anna says. “You were fantastic tonight. I cried. No joke. I’ve never cried during Grease.”
“Thanks,” I say, getting shy.
Elijah dramatically clears his throat.
Anna smiles at him. “Elijah, you’re the king of Rydell High.”
“But did I bring it?” he asks.
“Oh, it was brought,” Anna says.
“Thank god. An agent came tonight to see me. So don’t you dare lie to me.”
“Are you kidding?” I jump in. “The audience couldn’t get enough of you.”
“Stop, you guys,” Elijah says. “Or keep going.”
After-show adrenaline is the best drug. I haven’t done many drugs, but I can tell. The high makes me feel powerful—like I could do anything, full of energy, all mushy with emotion, and ready for more. I can talk to other castmates about the show and what went wrong and what went right all night. Mix in all this attention and compliments and I’m on top of the world.
Someone messes up my hair from behind. I turn around and see my lunch buddies, Jack and Juliet, hand jiving away. I didn’t know they were at the show. I give Jack a huge hug. I haven’t seen them much—they have been focused on their dance performance next week. “August, you literally took my breath away. Smile,” they say, snapping a selfie to post. My follower count is going to explode this week.
Juliet takes my hand and twirls me around. “You were magnificent,” she says.
I take a bow. “I’m so glad you were here.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it.” Juliet waves her arm toward the protestors across the street. “Look at our community and allies coming together to fight the good fight.”
“It’s a beautiful thing,” Jack agrees.
“Do you think it’s fair that Chris Caesar will lose his job?” I ask.
Juliet fidgets with her earring. “I think it’s fair to hire trans actors to play trans characters.”
I nod. “I think that, too.”
“Everyone, let’s move out!” Anna yells, signaling to the actors it’s time to say goodbye to our fans and head to Old John’s.
Juliet and I say goodbye to Jack, who needs to go home, and walk toward Old John’s. We walk behind the group so we can talk. “I wanted to finish our conversation from the other day,” she says.
“About the chocolate chip cookies,” I say, evoking our inside joke.
“Exactly. I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“You have?” I ask, honored.
“I have. You should have someone to talk to about these things. Even though we’re the same age, I feel like your fairy trans-mother or something.”
“That’s nice,” I say.
“Have you heard of gender dysphoria?”
“I have,” I confirm. “It’s the uncomfortable feelings I’m having around missing that body part, right?”
We cross the street. “Right. And everyone has a different level of discomfort. Each trans and nonbinary person is like a unique and beautiful snowflake. Some people are more comfortable in their body and don’t need surgery or hormone therapy, and others do. No one way is right or wrong, and what you’re feeling is your gender dysphoria.”
“Today doesn’t feel as bad as the other day. Can it change day to day?”
She laughs. “It can change hourly. But know this: It’s okay to feel uncomfortable in your body. And it’s okay to be mad at your body sometimes. I know how that feels.”
“So maybe seeing a show called Naked Boys Singing could have thrown me?”
“It’s possible,” Juliet says.
“How do you deal with your gender dysphoria?” I ask.
“I talk to my therapist about my feelings. And I have a gender-affirming doctor to help align my body with my gender identity.”
“That must be nice,” I say. “The minute I stepped foot in New York, I become August and my life became busy. I haven’t had time to think about, process, or accept much of anything. August was a role I jumped into when I got here. I could have used a couple more rehearsals.”
Juliet looks at me, confused. “I thought you were out in Pennsylvania.”
My heart drops. I hate when I forget a lie. There’s no reason to lie to my friend who only wants to help. “My parents were not accepting of me being trans. They didn’t let me transition. I think they were going to send me to conversion therapy. They don’t know I’m August now. They still think I’m a girl.”
We stop outside Old John’s. “August, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
I watch as my friends go into the restaurant. “I didn’t know what you would think.”
“Oh, August,” Juliet says.
“August!” Elijah yells from the door. “Get your butt in here.”
“You coming?” I ask Juliet.
“No, I’m going home. Have fun, and I hope you really celebrate. You deserve it,” Juliet says, with a big smile.
“Fairy trans-sister. How about that?”
“I’ll take it,” she says.
Before I go in, I slip back into the Infamous August Greene.
Seventeen
Friday, October 18
5:25 P.M.
How can this be the last show? Three performances are not enough considering the amount of work we put into getting it up. And now it’s over, just like that? I’m ready to be in a Broadway show with eight performances a week and no closing date on the calendar. I’m dreading the show starting tonight, because then it will end and this will be over. Grease has been special. The cast bonding was the tightest and most real I’ve ever experienced. We’ll still be in the same school and same classes, but it won’t be the same. It never is.
I can’t get properly in my feelings about the show ending because I’m worried sick about my parents’ visit. Everything must go perfectly, or this won’t just be my last show—it’ll be my last day as a student here. I’ve played the role of their daughter for sixteen years. What’s another night? Being a professional actor is my dream, and this is my path to achieve it. There can be no mistakes tonight, both onstage and especially off.
Two minutes before call time, I walk through the dressing room doors feeling nostalgic. The show isn’t over, and I already miss it. The feeling is mutual—everyone hugging and exchanging handwritten cards with pieces of candy taped to the envelopes. A few cards wait for me on my workstation. I eat the candy while arranging my makeup but get distracted by my phone. That happens a lot now. I’m up to two thousand followers. There are more each time I check. Social media feels like a game, and for now, I’m scoring points.
There’s also a text from Mom. My parents arrived in the city a couple of hours ago and checked into their hotel. She sent pictures of their small room in Times Square with a view of a brick wall. Aunt Lil is about to escort them to the theater. I wouldn’t be able to pull this off without Aunt Lil. We spent an hour last night going over the details. This isn’t easy for her, but she knows I need her.
I’ve thought about everything that could go wrong with my parents. Mom could talk to someone at the show. My exit plan could fail. Something could happen at dinner. To avoid the concession stand—which could be a hotbed for parent small talk—I had Aunt Lil pack snacks and water bottles. They don’t do social media or the internet—so I’m not worried about that. I hope I didn’t miss anything.
“August Greene,” Meena says over the intercom. “Mr. Da
niels would like to see you onstage.”
My heart stops. What could this be? He’s mad. He hates me. He hates my performance. He hates me and my performance. He’s going to make me sit out the show. I walk down the hallway thinking up every worst-case scenario for this impromptu meeting. I enter from the wings and find Mr. Daniels sitting on the lip of the stage typing on his phone. “Hello, August,” he says without looking up.
“Hello, Mr. Daniels,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and low.
“Come have a seat.”
I walk across the stage and lower myself near him, our legs hanging over the stage. “How’s it going?” I say, feeling the need say something.
“Fine, fine,” he says, then drops his phone into his coat pocket. “Last show.”
I nod. “I’m sad it’s ending.”
“Did your parents come up from Pennsylvania to see you?”
I straighten my spine. “They’ll be here tonight.”
“Well, they will be proud of you. August, you’ve done an excellent job as Rizzo.”
“Thank you,” I say, feeling immediate relief.
“And you know what will be in this theater after Grease ends?”
“Yes, I’ve heard all about Conversion,” I say.
“Did you hear that Chris Caeser is no longer with the production?
“No,” I say, my pulse quickening.
“No one has—it hasn’t been announced. The producers listened to the demand for a transgender actor to play the role.”
“That’s surprising,” I admit.
“Is it?” he asks. “There are some good producers out there.” Mr. Daniels shifts his body so he’s facing me. “August, the producer and casting agent are coming to the show tonight. They want to see you perform.”
My hands fidget. “They are considering me for the part?”
He picks something off his sweater. “They might be. It would make a good story, hiring a trans actor from the very high school they’ll be workshopping at.”
I think of Mom. She won’t let me be in that show. How would I keep it from her? This won’t work. I can’t do something like this, not now, not with my parents. “I don’t have enough experience,” I say.
Act Cool Page 17