“That’s a heck of a lot for anyone to deal with,” Aunt Lil says. “I should have been more persistent about getting you help.”
“Did you hide your medicine from me?” I ask them.
“Oh,” Aunt Lil says. “I did, yes, when you went to bed last night. August, I love you so much. I can’t think about losing you. I want to do everything to keep you here.”
Davina puts her hand on Aunt Lil’s. “We actually spent the afternoon looking up therapists for you. Therapy is a great way to talk to someone honestly and heal. We found a transgender man named Sam Golden; he’s been working with trans and nonbinary teens for years.”
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Aunt Lil says.
“Will you talk to him?” Davina asks.
I feel the love surrounding me, and for the first time in days, I feel safe. I dread talking to a therapist but know it will help. “Yes, I will,” I say.
“That’s great news,” Aunt Lil says.
“Can I read you my character study?” I ask.
“Please,” Aunt Lil says, sipping her tea. I can see her hand shake a bit. This must be hard for her.
I open my notebook and clear my throat. “I am August. A boy born into the wrong body and to the wrong parents, but that didn’t stop him. He once believed that if he was good enough at acting, his parents would accept him for being transgender. He now knows that’s not reality. He can’t change their minds. So, he must change his own mind.”
I look up from my notebook and see their eyes on me. I nod and continue, “Before today, August thought he was an impostor. And he was right. He was trying to put an act on, whether it be the party guy, the class clown, or some heightened version of himself. He was always trying to be someone else. August realized that if you’re always acting like someone else, then you will feel like an impostor.”
I flip the page. “I tried to act cool, but it’s gotten in the way of being me. Of being August. And in the moments when I was genuine and real—I was August.”
I close my notebook. Aunt Lil wipes a tear. “That’s wonderful.”
Then Davina says the four most beautiful words: “Let’s go get pizza.”
Twenty-Four
Monday, October 28
12:45 P.M.
“Joshua Downs, please report to dressing room three,” Brady announces over the speakers. I sent him a text this morning and asked him to do that. I wait for Joshua on my broken folding chair in my janitor-closet dressing room with a box of things in my lap. Betty isn’t here yet—she usually makes it to rehearsal right before call time. My body is shaking and sweating, but I’m ready.
The door swings open, revealing Joshua. He’s wearing one of those tattered sweaters that look like they’re from the garbage but really cost a thousand dollars. “Ah, August, I was going to come check up on you,” he says with a cheesy smile.
I stand up, holding my box. “My parents were going to send me to conversion therapy. That’s why I left Pennsylvania.”
His face registers shock. “I didn’t know that,” he says.
“I didn’t tell you that.”
Joshua enters the dressing room and leans against the sink. “Why are you telling me now?”
“Because at my audition, you asked why I was qualified to play the part. If my parents had their way, I’d be in conversion therapy right now. But I’m not, I’m here with you, and that makes me qualified to understand Ajax in a way you never will.”
Joshua throws his hands in the air dismissively. “I’m so sick of this representation stuff,” he says, and I nearly drop my box in horror. “An actor doesn’t need to directly experience what the character is going through. I’m sorry, August, you just aren’t giving me what I want.”
“I’ll never give you what you want,” I say, keeping my voice steady and low. “You want Chris Caesar and his followers.”
He crosses his arms. “Yes, I know, it’s so wild for me to want an established actor to play a role. What an irrational concept! But I can’t because of representation.” He puts air quotes around representation.
“What you don’t seem to understand,” I say, gripping my box like a shield, “is that people want to see roles played by the people who have lived experience.”
I learned the term “lived experience” last night from Davina.
Joshua rolls his eyes. “I disagree,” he says flatly.
“Representation is important because these are our stories to tell, so let us tell them.”
“Then why can you play Rizzo?” he asks.
Davina and I didn’t prepare for that one. I shift my weight between my feet while thinking. I want to make up a story, but I stay honest. “I played the part for my parents.”
“That makes it okay?” he asks defiantly.
“Before this show, how many transgender characters have you had in your productions?”
“None.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“Actually, one. I did Rent.”
“One character out of twenty shows?”
He scans his résumé in his head. “Thirty.”
“And you question how a trans or nonbinary actor could make a career with that lack of representation? We need more roles, but we also need to be hired when we are the best person for the role.”
“Maybe you aren’t the best one for this role,” he says.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore. Go ahead and fire me if that’s what you want,” I say, nearing the door. “But in the meantime, I’m going to the men’s dressing room. That’s where I belong.”
I walk out of the room, expecting Joshua to say something, but he doesn’t. The guys welcome me to the dressing room, and we make small talk for the few minutes before rehearsal begins. This feels like a win—possibly the only one today—but I’ll take it.
An hour later, we’re running the show full out—costumes, lights, mics, and nearing the end of act one. The show seems to be in a good place for the opening tomorrow. We haven’t had to halt for a lighting problem, set fix, or an actor missing an entrance. And Joshua has yet to make anyone cry.
The next scene is my monologue. I wait backstage in the darkness and get focused. The crew moves quietly around me, adjusting props, helping with costumes, and moving sets. Brady cues the lights and maintains the sound levels. The actors pass by, entering and exiting the stage. I love the minutiae of theater, so many people working at once to make it happen. It’s a beautiful thing. It’s my favorite thing. This is what I want for the rest of my life. This is my dream. And even if Joshua fires me, it will continue to be my dream. I won’t let him take it away from me.
“Hey, kid, you ready to jam this out?” Betty asks.
“Piece of cake,” I say, having no idea why something being easy is a piece of cake.
Betty gives me the pre-scene hug. “You’ve got this—I know you do.”
I put my arm around her, and we walk onstage. I am August, playing Ajax. I think of my parents wanting to send me to conversion therapy, and sadness comes over me, then anger follows. The feelings start in my chest and push on my heart. I channel them. My posture changes, and my jaw clenches. I think of how badly I wanted my parents to accept me and let the desperation boil. I don’t push the pain away; instead, I use the uncomfortable feelings that I was too scared to face and become Ajax.
“You’re okay. It’s all over,” Betty says, starting the scene.
“My brain is scrambled,” I mumble, and drop to the bed, slouched. “I’ll never do that again,” I say.
“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.”
I think about every time my parents deadnamed me. “My name isn’t Wendy!” I yell. “My name is Ajax.”
Betty looks shocked, calms herself. “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.”
This is w
here the script says to cry. I put my head in my hands and think of my parents not accepting me. Rejecting me. Wanting to put me in one of these places. And I cry very real tears.
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, wiping my eyes.
“He does not make mistakes,” she says.
I let the words echo in my head. I look at Betty and pretend she’s my mom. “I’m not a mistake; I don’t need to be fixed.” I stop and let the anger build in my body. “I’m Ajax, and that is my truth.”
Betty shushes me. “You better quiet down, or they’ll take you right back to that shock chair. Is that what you want?”
I stand up as Betty looks on from the bed. “Don’t you see how they are brainwashing you? This isn’t right. They tell us we are wrong, but they are wrong.”
I walk upstage and find my limelight. Ajax’s story isn’t a light and happy one; it’s a sad one. But it’s an important one to tell. A warning. A call to change. A chance to represent the hard parts of being transgender and make things better. It’s hard to use my feelings, but if it helps bring awareness to these awful conversion therapies and changes anything, it’s worth it.
“Does Jesus Christ watch over when they shock us? Gaslight us? Starve us? Slap us? This isn’t religion, it’s torture. This isn’t God, this is the Devil. Why can’t you see that?”
I settle down and let defeat enter every part of my body. “They are breaking me. I can feel it. I wake up in the morning and feel nothing. I want this to end, but I don’t know how to make it stop. I want to feel like my body is mine, and my life is mine. I’m sick of this place telling me I’m wrong.”
I stop, shut my eyes, and think of Mom flipping through her Bible for answers. “That Bible doesn’t tell you how to be a better person; it tells you how to be a follower. What’s heaven? Clouds in the sky. What’s hell? A fiery pit to pay for your sins. What’s earth? A place to judge everyone’s else life against a book. I don’t know what the point is anymore.” I shake my head and picture Mom and Pastor Tim talking about me. Frustration fills me up. I let it all wash over me and fall to my knees. “I will never be what they want to me to be. I’d rather die than go against who I am.”
Betty stands up and fluffs my pillow. “You need sleep. Lie down and I’ll bring you dinner later. We can pray together.”
I let my shoulders slump. “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 walk over to the desk. Find the knife. The lights drop. I envision those pills from the Wawa—my supposed option to escape the pain. My supposed way to have control. And I scream.
In the dark, I pull the feelings back inside. I didn’t take the pills. I’m not stronger than Ajax; I just had the support I needed in that moment. Hugo was there. Juliet was there. My aunt was there. And because of them, I am here.
“And that’s intermission,” Brady announces. “We’ll start the second act in fifteen.”
“Thanks, fifteen,” I hear from the actors offstage. The lights come back on and I see Joshua still in his seat. I stand there and wait to see if he will say anything. He nods slowly. “That’s what I needed from you. I’m glad we got there.”
I almost throw up at the thought that he had anything to do with my process. “Thanks,” I say, then walk offstage.
7:45 P.M.
Once I get to Haswell Green’s, I stop and catch my breath after literally running here. The open mic is almost over. I smooth out my clothes and stand up straight. Tonight, I won’t be Party Guy or Flirt or anyone other than August.
I open the door to a packed bar. The place is wall-to-wall with people. Tess is onstage singing “I Hate Men” from Kiss Me, Kate. Makes sense; I heard that Justin broke up with her. I stop and watch her finish the song. She’s actually killing it—her voice and performance are really impressive. The crowd is hooting and hollering when she finishes.
I look around for Anna and Elijah. I need them to be here. I see Jack dancing, and Meena filming them. Jamaal is at the bar with a girl, and Yaz is talking to a group of friends. I have met so many awesome and creative people at SPA. Then I spot Elijah and Anna talking by the pool table. I’m relieved they are here, and now nervous because of what I’m about to do.
On my way to the stage, I run into Tess.
“August,” she says, ignoring the people trying to talk to her.
“Tess, that song was amazing,” I say, being honest. “I’m sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have said those things.”
She shakes her head. “No, August, I’m the one who needs to apologize. I’ve been beyond rude.” She stops and takes a breath. “I’m sorry about how I have acted toward you. Everything you have, you deserve. I just get weird when I feel threatened. I’m working on it with my therapist.”
I smile. “I have one of those, too.”
“Everyone in New York has a therapist,” she jokes.
“I have to go,” I say. Before I leave, Tess hugs me.
I walk directly to the DJ table on the side of the stage. Mitch Oswald is the weekly host and a senior at SPA. We’ve never spoken, but now I need a favor.
“Hi, Mitch,” I say, “I’m—”
He cuts me off. “August Greene, yes I know. Dude, how is Conversion?”
“Guess we’ll see at opening night tomorrow.”
“Any chance you can get me some tickets?”
“If you’ll do me a favor?”
“Anything,” he says.
After we talk for a bit, Mitch takes the stage and adjusts the mic. “We have a special guest here. A first-timer to our stage. A Haswell Green’s virgin!” The crowd cheers. “Come on up, August.”
I walk across the stage, owning my virgin vibes. Mitch queues up my song selection, and the music begins. I tap the mic and hear the thud echo through the bar. A couple of people scream my name, but I can’t tell who. “This song is for my two best friends, Anna and Elijah.”
The recorded track of piano picks up, and I sing “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” from Toy Story. The audience sings along—because every theater person knows the words—and we really lean into the chorus, practically yell-singing, “We stick together and we see it through, ’cause you’ve got a friend in me.”
I try to be fully in this moment. I’m in New York singing in front of my whole school. I’m going onstage tomorrow with Broadway actors, and I’ve earned my spot alongside them. Maybe they call them dreams because when they happen, it doesn’t feel real.
I really sing out “But none of them will ever love you the way I do” and hope my friends will accept my apology. The crowd is clapping and I’m dancing, letting myself get carried away in the song.
And just as the last chorus begins, Elijah and Anna jump up onstage. They circle around me and lean into the mic, and we sing together. I’m so happy to have them onstage with me and back in my life. We make eye contact on the final “You’ve got a friend in me.” We finish the last note—a nice mix of harmonies—and immediately group hug.
“I love a grand gesture!” Anna yells over the applause.
We clear the stage for the next performance, and they lead me back to their table.
“I’m sorry, guys,” I say. “I was acting so full of myself at the Rocky Horror party to hide the fact that I was insecure about Conversion. And I handled the Duncan thing poorly.”
“August,” Elijah says, “I was out of bounds that night. You did the right thing.”
“And,” Anna jumps in, “we both realized Duncan is slimy. Ugh, I should have known a cello player would be no good.”
“He wasn’t even that good at kissing,” Elijah says.
Anna rolls her eyes. “Agreed.”
“So we’re okay?” I ask.
“We’re solid gold,” he says, then puts his arm around me.
“Listen up,” Mitch yells into the microphone, effectively getting our attention. “It’s everyone’s favorite part of the night. Our resident songstress, Maggie Ridge.”
I watch Maggie take the stage. She’s wearing her yellow-tinted aviator glasses, a flowy red dress, and she has her acoustic guitar. “Hello, Haswell Green’s,” she says. “I’ll be playing a new song tonight. It’s about a boy.” The audience oohs and aahs as she strums her guitar and tunes a string. “It’s called ‘Limelight.’”
The back of my neck goes hot. I told her all about the limelight on our walk home from the Grease after-party. This song is about me.
You’re always trying to be
What you need for the scene
But I know it’s an act
Yeah I know it’s an act
When the lights go down
And no one is around
Do you know who you are
’Cause I know who you are
The world is a stage
And you’re just playing
But what’s the truth
You aren’t sayin’
Step into your limelight
There’s only a few
Who can do what you do
You have what it takes
But what is at stake
Step into your limelight
Find that perfect spot
Hit your mark and stop
Tell me what you see
Do you ever see me?
The crowd claps and cheers, and goose bumps run over my body. I excuse myself and head down to the basement—the place of our meet-cute.
After a couple of minutes of awkwardly hanging out in the small space that smells like beer and pee, footsteps come down the stairs. I smile at her, and she smiles at me. “Is it vain or was that song about me?”
She laughs. “That was for you.”
“I never had a girl write a song about me.”
“August, you nearly begged for it.”
“I’m here in this basement to tell you that—I’m here. Not some act. Just me.”
“How can I be sure?” she asks.
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