Content Warning: This novel depicts transphobia, homophobia, misgendering, deadnaming, and suicidal ideation. If you feel that any of these subjects may trigger an adverse reaction, we advise that you consider not reading this book. If you do read the book and some part of it is beginning to distress you, please stop reading immediately. If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, feeling hopeless, and need a safe place to talk, many resources are available to you, including the trained counselors at the TrevorLifeline at 866-488-7386 or www.thetrevorproject.org. If you are in immediate crisis, dial 911. As someone who has been there, I want you to know you’re not alone, you’re important, and the world needs you in it. Never ever give up.
Dedication
To my best friend, Bob McSmith.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Act One: New York
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Act Two: Grease
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Act Three: Conversion
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Tobly McSmith
Back Ad
Copyright
About the Publisher
Act One: New York
One
Sunday, September 8, 2019
12:00 P.M.
If you saw me now, you’d say my dreams are coming true. I’m about to audition for a spot at the most prestigious art high school in the country. That’d be any actor’s dream. But last night, I dreamed I was naked in a classroom full of people. Will that be coming true? What about the one where I’m onstage and can’t remember my lines? I’ll pass on both. But this dream, I wouldn’t mind if it came true.
I smooth out my shirt, run my hand through my hair, and walk into the classroom. Unlike in my dream, I’m wearing clothes. It’s a regular classroom except for the fact that there’s a stage and a Steinway piano. Back home, we’d push desks out of the way and roll in the slightly out-of-tune piano from the band room. Other than that, it’s a normal classroom that could possibly change my life forever. No big deal.
The man I assume is Mr. Daniels looks up from his tattered paperback. He’s got messy gray hair and a slightly less messy gray beard. Glasses sitting low on his nose—all smart people wear glasses—and slumped posture. Beside him sits a girl—a cute girl—possibly the same age as me. I notice her eyes first, big and brown. She has black hair and high cheekbones, reminding me of a young Idina Menzel. She smiles at me. They both make me nervous for different reasons.
“I’m here for the audition,” I announce in the deepest voice possible.
“Ah, you must be the infamous August Greene.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, wondering what’s so infamous about me.
“I’m Mr. Daniels and this is Anna, my assistant.”
“Very nice to meet you. Thank you for taking the time—”
“Let’s get started, shall we?” he asks, cutting off my hashtag-blessed speech. I drop my backpack on a desk and find center stage. “Did you bring us a headshot and résumé?”
“No, sir,” I admit. “But I have played the lead in every musical at my school.”
“How charming. Did you at least prepare two monologues?”
“I did,” I nearly yell, relieved to have something. “First one is from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. But—could I have a moment?” I ask. I need to ground myself.
“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Greene. We will wait.”
“Thanks,” I say, ignoring his sharp tone. His words have bite, but his eyes are kind. I turn my back on my audience of two. A rush of nerves hits hard, causing my muscles to clench. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. Right now, I’m not the “infamous” August Greene auditioning at the School of Performing Arts. Right now, I am Brick. It’s summertime in Mississippi. I’m sweaty, angry, and tired. Also, drunk—very drunk—and secretly gay. I direct my anger and confusion toward my wife, Maggie.
I face my audience. Mr. Daniels flips a page in his book, almost challenging me to keep his attention. His assistant gives me a big smile, making me feel things. Holding myself up with a stool—Brick has a broken leg—I step into character. “All right. You’re asking for it . . .”
I put everything into the next two minutes, ending the monologue feeling spent. Last night, I read audition tips online—one suggested watching the “signs” from the people across the table. Anna snaps to show her support. Good sign. And from what I could tell, Mr. Daniels kept his eyes on me and not the book. Another good sign.
“August, nicely done. I see why your aunt speaks so highly of you.”
He’s not a fan of nepotism. Bad sign.
He continues, “Do you know how often a spot opens up in the drama department at SPA?”
“Not often?” I guess.
“Never,” he says, then pulls an orange out of his desk drawer and starts peeling. “A student relocated to London last minute to join the cast of Pippin in the West End. This has only happened a handful of times in my tenure here. . . .” He stops himself. “So please know how rare an opportunity like this really is, son.”
I stand up straight to show my readiness to accept the great weight of this opportunity. “Thank you,” I say, having no idea how to respond.
He eats an orange slice. “Not saying it’s your spot. I’m merely confirming the existence of a spot.”
That’s a bad sign. I shift my weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable in this moment. This audition means everything to me. Based on this man’s decision, my life could completely change for the better, or get much worse. I’m freaking out and he’s having a snack. I need to connect with him. “I love oranges,” I offer.
“This is a tangerine,” he says, then Anna laughs. “Now that I think about it, August, I wonder if your aunt sent the student to London herself.”
He appears to be half-kidding, half-serious. “Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past her,” I joke, earning a smile from Mr. Daniels. That’s a good sign—one small step closer to becoming a student here.
“I’m late for a chess game in Central Park. What’s your next monologue?”
I unzip my backpack and dig around. “Another one from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.”
He shakes his head, disappointed. “Brick again?”
“No,” I say. That would be a mistake. I did some research about the audition process at SPA after my aunt called two days ago. Everything I could find online said two diverse monologues that show range. I’ve got the range but had no time to prepare, so I went with two monologues from the play we did for sophomore showcase at West Grove High.
“Big Daddy?” Anna guesses.
I pull out a blonde wig from my backpack and put it on my head. “Maggie.”
They laugh—not at me, at the surprise. (I hope.) For the second time, I turn my back to my adoring audience. I am Maggie. Born poor, married rich. A fighter. I love my husband, but he’s not interested. I loosen up my body and slowly turn back around. Here goes nothing. “Oh, Brick. I get so lonely. . . .”
After the final words leave my mouth, I crumple to the ground and hold there, the blonde hairs falling over my face. Maggie leaves me feeling frustrated. I stand up, remove the wig, and dust my shirt off.
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Mr. Daniels takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes. “Tell me, why did you leave Pennsylvania?”
“I had to,” I say without hesitation.
He nods, hopefully understanding everything I don’t say. “One more question. Why do you deserve this spot at SPA?”
“I don’t,” I say, pausing to watch his expression—he cracks a little. I guess this is my third monologue. I am August, desperate to go to this school. “Like you, Mr. Daniels, I’m not a fan of getting something because I know somebody. But my situation back home isn’t great. And there’s no way to study at this level in West Grove, Pennsylvania. Just give me a chance, sir.”
He smiles. “August, you’ll hear from someone soon. If accepted, you will be starting classes on Tuesday. Will that work for you?”
I’ll take that as a good sign. “Absolutely,” I say.
“But if you’re not accepted, I wish you the very best of luck.”
Dammit. Bad sign.
“Oh,” he continues, “please say hello to your aunt for me?”
“Will do,” I say, while stuffing the wig into my backpack. I say my thank-yous and goodbyes and walk out with no clear sign on how that went.
12:25 P.M.
Having nowhere to go, I sit on the cement benches in front of the school and process how I did. Before today, I’ve only auditioned in front of my teachers for school shows. Not really high-pressure situations. Also, I didn’t sleep much last night, my mind running lines from the monologues over and over to avoid thinking about other things.
I untangle my phone from the Maggie wig, ignore the five voicemails on it, and dial my aunt. I promised I’d call after the audition. She dropped me off on her way upstate to sell art. No clue what “upstate” is exactly, but it sounds fancy, bucolic, rich. Nothing like downstate. I picture Aunt Lillian driving her bright yellow vintage truck. After two rings she picks up. “Tell your favorite aunt some good news.”
I wish I had good news to deliver to my only aunt. “I’m still alive,” I announce.
“Hallelujah,” she sings. “And how was the audition, my love?”
“I truly don’t know, but I did my best.”
“Good,” she says. “That’s all we can do in life.”
“I don’t think Mr. Daniels warmed to me,” I admit.
She laughs. “Yeah, he can be a real sonofabitch, but there’s a heart somewhere in that chest of his.” The way she says “chest of his” makes me wonder if they once dated. I don’t know much about my aunt’s love life. “Now, how will you spend your first day in the city?”
I look around at the concrete buildings stacked up over me. “I’ll wander around. And try not to get kidnapped.”
“Wonderful. I’ll be home for dinner. Call if you need me. Bye, love.”
When I end the call, there’s another voicemail waiting for me. And twenty-one unread texts. All from Mom. Each one more urgent and angrier. The most recent text mentions the cops. I should call her before I end up on a missing-child commercial, but Aunt Lil and I made a plan to call her after we find out if I get into SPA.
This is my first attempt at running away from home. It’s too early to write my official review—I’m only twenty-four hours in—but so far, it’s been a roller coaster. For the most part, it’s one long adrenaline rush—I’m free! I can do anything!—and panic attack—I’m going to jail! Or worse!
When I look up from my phone, there’s a new friend at the end of the bench. “Hello, pigeon,” I say to the bird. He stares at me intensely with one eye while the other wanders. His feathers look like they were glued on by a child. The bird hops closer to me. Is this how I die?
“What are you doing?”
I look up, thrown by the interruption. Mr. Daniels’s assistant is standing over me, blocking the sun. “Just making new friends,” I say, nodding to the pigeon. She laughs, then claps twice—effectively frightening the dirty bird to the ground—and sits down beside me.
“I feel like we haven’t had a proper introduction. I’m Anna.”
“And I’m the infamous August Greene.”
“What was that about?” she asks.
“No clue.”
“August, your audition was something else. You killed it.”
“Did I?” I ask, unsure.
“Um, yes. I think you have a real shot.”
“I don’t think Mr. Daniels was impressed.”
She waves off my comment. “Oh, that’s just him. But he knows talent when he sees it.”
“Thanks,” I say, then take my first deep breath of the day.
Anna squints. Sizing me up. “Can I ask a personal question?”
“Yes,” I say hesitantly.
“You nailed both Brick and Maggie. I haven’t seen that before. Does being transgender make playing both boy and girl parts easier?”
How did she know I’m trans? Maybe my aunt told Mr. Daniels and he told her. Or could she tell by looking at me? I wonder if it’s obvious. “As an actor, I can step into both genders, if that makes sense. I can play any character on earth.”
“Bold statement, sir,” she says with a sweet smile.
I first heard the word transgender in my eighth-grade history class. I’d heard the word before (I don’t live under a rock), but never really heard it. It was end of the year—my last days in middle school. The teacher was giving a lesson on LGBTQ history for pride month. The teacher was talking about the L, and G, and B, and I was Z(oning) out as usual. But then he got to the T, talking about how transgender people feel uncomfortable in their assigned gender, and everything he said fit me to a T.
I went home after school—locked my door—and looked online. I took a quiz called “Are You Transgender?” and it said I was, in fact, transgender. I took three more, just to make sure, all with the same result.
Those “Are You Transgender?” quizzes suggested that I talk to someone. But in a conservative town like West Grove, who was I supposed to talk to? I didn’t know any transgender people. I couldn’t tell my folks. I knew what they would say. I decided not to tell anyone else—not even Hugo, and he’s my best friend. It was just this big secret that I carried while wearing Mom-mandated dresses.
Anna taps on my shoulder, bringing me back to earth. “So, August, you’ve got me curious. What’s your deal?”
Good question. My deal is complicated, and I don’t know how much I should tell the assistant of the man who has my future in his hands. I need to play this cool. For Anna, I’ll be the Chill Guy. Unfazed, unworried, aloof. I sit back, spread my legs. “My deal is that I moved here. Living with my aunt.”
She tilts her head. “You just moved?”
“Yeah,” I say, so very chill-like. “But I’ve been here tons. Most weekends,” I lie.
She gives me a look of major doubt. “How many Broadway shows have you seen?” she asks.
“Lost count,” I answer. Translation: I lost count of the bootleg recordings I’ve watched on my old scratched-up laptop.
“Vague,” she announces. “I’ve seen twelve. Where do you live?”
My aunt told me the neighborhood last night, but I can’t remember. “Somewhere in Brooklyn off the orange subway line,” I say.
“Orange subway line?” she repeats.
One thing is clear: Chill Guy isn’t working. I don’t know enough to act like I don’t care. Time to flip the script. For Anna, I’m Bright-Eyed New Guy. Naive to my new world and easy to excite.
“Actually,” I admit, “it’s my first day in New York.”
“I knew it.” Anna throws her hands up. “A real-life New York virgin!”
My face reddens up. “Go easy on me.”
“No promises,” she says, then pulls out sunglasses from her purse. The glasses are oversized—cartoonishly big—but stylish. I see my reflection in the lenses, almost unrecognizable from two days ago. Goodbye, flowery shirt and long skirt; hello, white tee and jeans. I run my hand through my short hair, still not used to it. Aunt Lil gave me a haircut last
night. We printed out a picture of Shawn Mendes for inspiration and she did her best. The sides of my head are super short with a nice patch of curly hair on the top. Nothing like Shawn, but a lot more like me.
My phone starts vibrating in my lap. Anna peeks at the screen. “Answer it,” she says.
“It’s probably a robocall.”
“Dude, I can see it’s your mom. Maybe she wants to, I don’t know, hear how your audition went?”
Or maybe she wants to know where the hell I am. She’s worried, and she loves me, but she doesn’t approve of me being transgender. I send the call to voicemail. “I’ll tell her about it later,” I say, losing my cool a little.
“Someone’s hangry,” Anna says, then pulls a tinfoil ball from her purse. “Do you know what a bagel is, newbie?”
“Of course I know what a bagel is,” I say, but lean into my newbie status: “And of course I’ve never had one.”
She laughs and unwraps the bagel. “That’s cream cheese.”
“Wow,” I say, pretending like I’ve never seen cream cheese before. Anna hands me half and I take a big bite—too big a bite—letting the carbs and cream cheese wash over me.
She takes a picture of me. “Baby’s first bagel.”
After a few seconds on her phone, she looks up. “What’s your Insta? I’m trying to tag you in my Story.”
“Oh,” I say, swallowing. I haven’t had time to create a profile for August yet. “I’m not online.”
“What planet are you from?” she asks.
“Pennsylvania,” I joke, leaning into New Guy. “Do you think I should?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes. Obviously. That’s how people get noticed. And every casting director and producer checks that stuff. They want to know you have built a following that will follow you to the theater and buy a ticket.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
She waves off my question and continues, “At SPA, your social media is everything. It’s how you tell your story and control your narrative.”
I laugh a little. I don’t mean to—it just slips out.
“Laugh all you want, buster, but look at mine,” she says, and shows me her phone. There’s over three thousand people following her. Who are all those people? She scrolls through her page, stopping to show me photos and announcing how many likes or views they got.
Act Cool Page 1
