3:30 P.M.
“This is my dressing room?” I ask.
“With all the amenities,” Brady says, presenting a folding table with a desk lamp and full-length mirror. The room is basically a walk-in closet with a shelf of cleaning supplies. This is not the men’s dressing room.
“Is this a joke?” I ask, hoping this is a prank.
Brady holds his hands up. “I’m just the stage manager. I don’t make the calls.”
There’s another folding table and mirror across from mine. Same plastic chair. Tons of makeup piled up. “Who’s there?”
“Betty Lauderdale.”
“Oh,” I say, putting the pieces together. “This is the transgender dressing room?”
“Gender-neutral dressing room,” Brady says, knowing that probably doesn’t make it better. I sit down on the chair and the back nearly breaks. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, checking his watch. “Onstage in ten.”
“Thanks, ten,” I say.
“Oh, August?” Brady says, making eye contact. “You’re doing great out there.”
The first half of rehearsal has been bumpy, and I can only imagine what will happen next. After this break, it’s time to rehearse the scene with my monologue. “Doesn’t feel like it,” I say.
“Hang in there,” he says, already on his way out the door. I turn toward the mirror with the horrible desk lamp lighting. Good thing I don’t wear makeup for this show. This room smells like bleach. This feels wrong. I should be in the men’s room and Betty should be in the women’s, and that should be the end of discussion. Is this even legal?
I rub my eyes, exhausted from last night’s Rocky Horror disaster. I avoided Elijah and Anna all morning, and skipped the cafeteria, opting for a nap in an empty classroom. I don’t have the energy to deal with it. All my brainpower goes to thinking about Joshua Downs. I feel obsessed. I want to impress him. I want him to see that I can be Ajax. I can’t fail at this role. This is my big chance.
Today was supposed to be my day. My big put-in rehearsal. I walked into the theater channeling the unapologetic attitude of Dr. Frank-N.-Furter. I kept my head up and pretended like I owned the room. I skipped my seat and stood onstage because it was my day. Only to be told by Brady to go sit down as they worked on the second act.
Two hours later, Joshua turned to me—sitting like a good boy in my assigned seat—and told me it was time. I was put into five scenes, the understudy showing me the blocking while Joshua gave notes. Each time we’d run the scene, I would get very specific notes like: Your foot needs to be here. You need to look more upset. Why did you put your arm like that? Each note whittled down my confidence. When we’d run the scene, I’d be thinking about the notes Joshua gave and anticipating what he would say next. My Ajax hasn’t been great.
“Five minutes,” Brady’s voice sings over the speakers.
“Thanks, five,” I say to an empty room. I wish I had time for a walk. I need to get out of my head. I’ve practiced the monologue for hours, trying different faces, pauses, and deliveries. I’ve put in the work, but I don’t trust myself. This is my moment to prove myself. I need to show him I’m better than Chris Caesar and deserve to be here.
“Oh, looks like I have company,” I hear from behind me. Betty dries her hands with a paper towel.
“They put me in here,” I say, hoping she’s not mad.
“I was getting used to having my own dressing room, even if it’s a janitor’s closet that smells like an old mop at a strip club.”
“Only the best for us,” I joke.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Betty says with a wink.
“Do you want to be in the women’s dressing room?” I ask.
“Those girls can get loud.” She sits down at her makeshift station. “This isn’t the best I’ve had, but it’s not the worst. Like most things in life, it is what it is.”
“It is what it is,” I repeat, watching her powder her cheeks.
“One thing is for sure,” she says. “Mr. Joshua Downs has a huge crush on you.”
I laugh, not expecting that. “I think he’s warming up to me,” I say.
“I’m afraid he’s just getting warmed up. That man can run hot, hot, hot. Oh lord, the tantrums that man-boy threw when they let go of Chris Caesar. He broke a chair that day.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
“Was Caesar that good?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.
Betty stops brushing her hair. “Are you kidding?” She lets out a loud laugh. “That entitled prick couldn’t act his way out of a wet paper bag. Joshua wanted his social media audience to come to the show and make him relevant.”
“I have three thousand followers,” I brag.
“Not bad, but Chris Caesar had three million. Joshua needs a miracle to keep his career alive after the past two failures. Everyone knows that. Especially Joshua. You can feel the pressure building inside him. Bet he doesn’t sleep, just paces around his apartment all night chewing on toothpicks.”
It feels good to talk to Betty. Chris Caesar wasn’t an amazing actor—just a big draw for tickets. I can’t match him there, but I can act myself out of a paper bag.
“Honey,” Betty says. I turn around and look at her. She scoots over close to me. “You have a tough scene coming up. Very emotional. And Joshua isn’t going to make it easy on you. Reminds me of a show I did last year called Tough Broads. In the final scene, my character murders her boyfriend after years of domestic abuse. My scene partner—his name was Ronny—would hug me before and after we did the scene.”
“Why?” I ask.
“He wanted to make sure I knew it was just acting, the feelings weren’t real, and that I was safe. Would you like to do that with me?”
“I would,” I say, feeling those tears coming.
She pats my knee. “Good. It’s done, then. Keep that chin up and stay strong.”
I wipe away a tear.
“And do not cry in front of that man; tears are his power pellets. Don’t feed the beast.”
“Places,” Brady announces over the intercom.
I’m the first one onstage. Joshua is typing on his phone at the director’s table in the audience with his feet up. The reading lamp lights up his face—his beard shaggy, and a messy mop of curls on his head. He’s got an aura of gross around him. He looks up and sees me, smiles, and goes back to his phone. Hope he’s ready. I’m going to show him that I’m a star.
After the cast is out onstage, Joshua puts his phone down, picks up the mic, and says, “August, are you ready to run your scene?”
“I’m ready.”
“Fantastic,” he says. “Betty and August, why don’t you run the scene and we’ll work out the blocking after. Other actors, find a seat in the audience.”
“You got this, August,” an actor yells as I head into the wings with Betty. The cast claps, and someone whistles. No matter what, actors support each other.
I stand backstage and wait for Betty. My hands shake and my eyes have trouble focusing. My mouth feels dry. I need water. There’s no time.
“You ready?” Betty asks, then gives me a big hug. She smells of coconuts and vanilla. “Put your arm over my shoulder and I’ll walk you to the desk. Sound good?”
“That works,” I say. Ajax is coming from electroshock therapy and would be in pain. The scene is in Ajax’s room. “Actually, bring me to the foot of the bed and stay close.”
“I’ll sit when you cry. I got you,” she says. I shut my eyes. I am Ajax. The conversion therapy has worn me down and electroshock therapy has broken me. I have no hope, no fight, no future. There’s only one option.
I put my arm around Betty, tighten my body, and let my head bob like it’s disconnected from my spine. We walk onstage and start the scene.
“You’re okay. It’s all over,” Betty says in a soothing voice as she walks me to the bed.
“My brain is scrambled,” I mumble. I take my arm off Betty and drop down on the bed. “I�
�ll never do that again.” I curl into a ball at the foot of the bed.
“I felt that same way my first time in the shock chair, but you’ll adjust. It helped me. It’ll help you, too, Wendy.”
“My name isn’t Wendy!” I yell. “My name is Ajax.”
Betty takes an audible breath. “Your name is Wendy; my name is Dennis. And you’re a girl, and I’m a boy. The quicker you accept those truths, the less shocks they’ll send through your body.”
The script says Ajax cries. I bury my face into my jeans and make weeping sounds. Betty continues, “You need to believe that our Lord is stronger than the demons inside of you. And, Wendy, I can feel him fixing me. I’m almost there.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
“He does not make mistakes.”
I actually hate that line because my mom used to say it. I pull myself out of the ball and sit up. “I’m not a mistake. I don’t need to be fixed.” I stand up and yell, “I am Ajax, and that is my truth.”
“You better quiet down, or they’ll take you right back to that shock chair. Is that what you want?” she asks.
I take short breaths to make my words feel winded. I know everyone is looking. I know this is my time. I stand up and begin my monologue. Once finished, I sit back down on the bed, acting dizzy and spent. Betty stands up and fluffs my pillow. “You need sleep. Lie down and I’ll bring you dinner later. We can pray together.”
I watch as Betty leaves, and say, “Hey, what will you do if they ever let you out of here?”
Betty smiles. “Find a wife and start a family.”
After Betty exits, I pull myself up and walk over to the desk. There’s a prop knife hidden under the desk table. I fish around and find it. Look at it. The lights go dark and I scream.
The actors start clapping. I can be better, but it felt good. I smile at Betty, who hugs me again. “You did good, kid,” she whispers.
Joshua walks down the steps slowly, like he’s thinking. The smile is gone. He jumps up onstage and walks over to me. I want to hide behind Betty.
“Was that a joke?” he says, stomping on my confidence.
I straighten myself up. “No,” I say.
“What was that curl in a ball thing? Where did you learn that? Surely not this prestigious school of performing arts.” Joshua swivels and faces the actors. “Did you know he goes to this very school?” He turns back to me, arms crossed.
“I was just feeling the scene out,” I say. “I can do better.”
“And that—what was that?—weeping? Do you think that’s how a real person would ever cry?”
“No,” I say, my mouth tasting sour with hate.
“And the yelling, oh my god, the yelling. Is Ajax a yeller to you?”
“He’s frustrated.”
“Frustrated? He’s frustrated? You think he might be a little past frustrated?”
“What would you like?” I ask, my face red and sweat building on my forehead.
“I would like something to work with; you’re giving me NOTHING.” He turns around and walks into the audience. “Do it again.”
Betty and I head backstage. She gives me a hug, and we start again. I don’t curl in a ball, don’t weep, and act like I’m done with the world. Lights out, I scream. No claps this time. The lights come back on and Joshua says, “Run it again.”
“No notes?” I ask.
“I’ll give you notes when you give me something to note.”
We head backstage, Betty hug, scene, lights down, scream. “Again,” Joshua says.
We do it again. “And again.”
We run the scene two more times before Joshua asks me to stand in the middle of the stage. I glance over at the cast, embarrassed. I shouldn’t be—I wouldn’t think less of an actor, watching this unfold—but I do. “Why aren’t you crying?” Joshua asks from the audience.
“You want me to cry every time?” I ask.
“That’s what the script says.”
“I can try,” I say, my throat sore from the scream.
Joshua paces the aisle of the dark theater. “What’s Ajax’s objective in this scene?”
I can almost hear Mr. Daniels laughing. “His objective is to end his life.”
“I don’t think that’s what he planned at the beginning. Do you?”
“He hid a knife in his desk earlier, I think he’s been planning it.”
Joshua laughs. I don’t know why. “And what’s Ajax’s super-objective?”
I think for a moment. My super-objective was to not play this kind of role. I guess if you go against yours, then bad things like Joshua Downs happen. “He wanted to be himself.”
“You’re transgender, like Ajax, correct?”
“I am transgender,” I say, tensing up, ready for an attack—verbal or otherwise.
Joshua stops pacing. “Then why can’t you connect with Ajax?”
“I don’t connect with my characters, I become them.”
Joshua laughs again. His laughs are menacing. “Become and connect are different?”
“To me,” I say.
“How did it feel when you came out to your parents?”
If he only knew the whole story. “I was scared,” I say.
“Use that.”
“But Ajax isn’t scared?”
Joshua throws up his hands. “Then what is Ajax?”
“He’s defeated.”
“Defeated,” Joshua repeats. “We can make that happen.”
His words send a chill down my back.
“Run the scene again,” he demands. Betty and I reset and hug. This time, I deliver each word with a raw desperation, hoping that this will end soon. The lights come back up.
“Do it again.”
I’m like a boxer going to the corner of the ring between rounds and coming back bruised and exhausted. This must be our tenth run. The others must be mad at me, and just want to move on. He is making them dislike me. Maybe I am worthless. Maybe I’m not an actor. “Ready?” Betty asks, and gives me another hug.
“I can’t do this,” I say.
“Yes, you can,” she says. “Let’s go.”
I can’t tell if Betty is annoyed by me. “You’re okay. It’s all over,” she says, then the scene starts again. Anger comes through; every line is seething with anger for Joshua, for this scene, for myself. The lights go off. I shut my eyes and ready myself to hear “do it again.”
“August,” Joshua says instead. “What was your name before August?”
“Joshua,” Betty says with a tone. “That’s not appropriate.”
“My bad,” he says, holding up his hands. Betty turns and walks backstage.
“August, what’s that line before the end of the monologue?”
“There’s no reason to be here.”
He shakes his head, frustrated. “No, the next line.”
“I can’t do this anymore?”
“That’s the line. Take center and give me that line.”
I walk into my limelight, but it doesn’t feel so warm anymore, and say, “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Again.”
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“Again.”
After three more agains, I get desperate. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Three times in a row.”
We continue this for a minute, but it feels like forever. He tells me to shout it. To scream it. Whisper it. My throat hoarse, my voice going, I say it over and over. And then I yell it loud enough that all of New York can hear. “I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE.”
“I felt that one,” Joshua says. “Do the scene again.”
Backstage, Betty hug, arm around her, we walk out, and the scene starts again. When we get to the part in the script where I cry, I start weeping, real and painful tears. I continue with tears through the monologue. The lights go off; I scream.
“Next time, August, less crying,” Joshua says. I drop into the desk chair onstage, my legs weak. I can’t give anymore, can’t do anymore; nothing is r
ight. “That’s enough for today, gang, we have a long day tomorrow. Let’s huddle up.”
The actors start clapping and get onstage. Betty puts her hand on my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. I join the hand-holding circle, standing in all my shame and all my lack of talent. Andy holds my hand and smiles at me. I try to smile back but forget how.
“Today was tough for August, but,” Joshua says, looking me in my eyes from across the circle, “I’m here to make you a better actor. That’s why I push you. And everyone take note, you need to connect with your character and their pain. If you don’t, the audience will know. Get some sleep. Tech begins tomorrow,” Joshua says.
The thought of coming back tomorrow and doing this again is almost unimaginable. Joshua walks offstage. I think I hear him whistle on his way out.
“Hey, August.” Andy grabs my shoulder. “That was really intense. Are you okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Is this normal?”
Andy laughs. “With Joshua, nothing is normal, but that was extra. You handled it well.”
“I did?” I ask. Nothing feels right about what I did.
Twenty-Two
Saturday, October 26
9:25 A.M.
If Joshua Downs wanted to break me, I think he accomplished his mission. I woke up this morning feeling broken. No energy, no emotion, nothing. Empty. Numb. Every step I take on my way to school for hell day at Conversion feels forced. Even my feet know this is a bad idea.
I’m mad at Joshua. I’m mad at my parents. And I’m mad at Ajax. This isn’t the character I want to play. Not over and over. I’m not connecting with him. Maybe it’s Joshua Downs. Maybe it’s the role. This isn’t a dream come true; this is a nightmare.
And what will today be like? Twelve hours with Joshua Downs.
But I need this role to get ahead. The way people look at me at school. The news articles about me. The social media following. All that goes away if I lose the role. And I jeopardized my two best friendships here for this show. I can survive hell day. I need to be stronger than I’ve ever been.
Brady is waiting for me in the school’s foyer. He’s almost unrecognizable without his headset. “Hey, man,” he says, his face serious. More serious than I have ever seen. Even his freckles look concerned.
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