“We have the same agent,” Anna brags.
I nod. I’m definitely in over my head in this school.
“So, August,” Juliet jumps in, “what do you think of SPA?”
“Still a blur,” I admit. “Very different from my old school.”
Jack gives a high-pitched laugh and claps. “Can’t imagine there’s a theater scene in Podunk, Pennsylvania. Tell me, were the chickens and goats onstage with you? Or are they the audience?”
“I bet the goats have a union,” Anna jokes.
“How’d you guys meet?” I ask, wanting to shift the attention away from me.
“We grew up together,” Anna answers. “Well, same neighborhood, same schools.”
“Same Long Lake Theater Camp every summer,” Meena says.
Anna snaps. “Where I lost my stage fright.”
“And I lost my virginity,” Jack adds.
“Anna took my virginity yesterday,” I brag, silencing the table with shock.
“Not as juicy as it sounds,” Anna adds. “I took him to his first Broadway show. Too bad it was Last Tango in Paris. . . .”
While Anna gives a scene-by-scene takedown of the musical, I study Juliet. I’ll never tell her, or anyone, but this is my first time meeting another trans person. She looks nothing like me, acts nothing like me, but we are the same. It’s comforting to be in the company of someone like me, but I’m scared of saying something incorrect, or not acting trans enough. I bet she can tell that this is all new to me. It must be so obvious.
Juliet interrupts my thoughts. “So, August, you live with your aunt?”
“In Park Slope,” I announce with confidence.
“Right off the orange subway,” Anna teases.
Jack shakes their head. “My parents would not let me move without them.”
I’m relieved they understand. Maybe I’m not the only one with controlling parents. “’Cause they wouldn’t be able to watch over you?”
“Oh, no,” Jack says, then cackles. “My mom wouldn’t miss out on being an active participant in my life.”
“Your dance things?”
“My dance, my school, my love life. I’m sure she’s tracking my bowel movements.”
Meena jumps in. “When I came out to my parents as a lesbian, they were so mad at me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, knowing exactly what it’s like.
Meena laughs. “Oh, no, they were mad because I waited so long to tell them.”
“Sounds nice,” I say.
“Sounds nice until your mom throws you a coming-out party. It’s so embarrassing.” Meena hides her face.
Juliet jumps into the conversation. “When I came out to my mom, around ten, she wanted to throw a party for me.”
“Not a bad idea,” I offer. “Have the gender reveal party in middle school!”
She laughs, then continues, “I was lucky; my parents have been supportive from day one. They got me a therapist. A doctor. Books. And we go to the Philadelphia Trans Wellness Conference every year.”
I shouldn’t be surprised to hear stories of such accepting families—this is New York City, after all—but it’s almost shocking. Our lives are so different. They are practically competing for most supportive family.
“August,” Jack sings. “What’s the deal with your parents?”
I wish I had a family like theirs. But I don’t. If I told them the truth, they would feel sorry for me, and I’m not playing that part. I sit with four potential friends. I don’t want to jeopardize that by being different.
“They weren’t baking rainbow cakes for me, but they let me be me. They’re cool,” I say, making Anna’s head tilt. “And they knew I should be here and not Podunk, Pennsylvania.” I lie, lie, lie. Or better: act. Anna looks confused. I give her an I’ll explain this later look, but I don’t think she gets the message.
The energy in the cafeteria shifts—people on their feet, packing up their stuff. The bell must be about to ring. “We need to get to class, Augustus,” Anna announces.
Nerves kick in. My morning is academic classes, very standard issue: teacher, textbook, assignments, and test schedules. No one noticed me this morning—there was no reason to notice me—but that won’t be the same for my drama classes. I have Acting 3, Improv, Musical Theater, and Audition Technique. A schedule of my dreams—if I could shake these first-day jitters.
“Picture time,” Anna says, holding her phone up and finding the angle to fit everyone into the shot. “Smile,” she says, and takes the photo. I watch as she adds the text Introducing the new star of SPA @infamousAugustGreene and posts to her Stories. “That should get some new fans. Everyone better follow the infamous August Greene,” she playfully demands.
“Done and done,” Jack says, head down in their phone.
“Jack has, how many, ten thousand followers?” Anna asks.
“Ten thousand nine hundred twenty, but who’s counting,” they say with a smile.
“How?” I ask, stunned at the number.
“By being me,” they sing, kicking their foot in the air. “Well, the online version of me.”
“And that’s different?” I ask.
“Social media is performative,” they say. “You create a persona, make content, try to trigger people’s emotions—good or bad—and build an audience.”
“Persona is dramatic,” Anna decides.
“It’s me,” Jack says with an eye roll. “Just a bigger, brighter, more beautiful version. I’m going to be an international pop star someday, so why not act like one now?”
“Or you could be yourself,” Meena says.
“And that’s why you have two hundred followers,” Jack jokes, but it stings.
“I call them my friends,” Meena corrects them.
“Don’t worry about it, Meena,” Anna says, coming to the rescue. “Stage managers don’t need that kind of thing.”
Meena shrugs off both comments and turns to me. “I post pictures of celebrities made from food,” Meena says proudly.
“My favorite was Pasta Malone,” Juliet says, having otherwise kept quiet through this conversation.
The first bell rings, ending the conversation like a bell concluding a round of boxing. Anna and I say goodbye to my new friends and take the stairs down to the bottom of the school. “All drama classes are in the basement,” Anna explains. “Like we are little underground theater trolls.”
The basement doors swing open to reveal a mob of people filling the basement from wall to wall. Everything is overwhelming—the loud voices, the people making videos, the guys running around, the hugging and laughing, singing and dancing. Unsurprisingly, Anna says hello to almost everyone we pass.
Anna stops to talk to identical twins with blonde hair and matching outfits. One of them says, “Loving that first-day look.”
“Likewise,” Anna sings. “That skirt is everything!”
“Thanks, girl,” they say in unison.
“August, this is Brooke and Tiffany. Twin triple threats!”
Triple threats are people who can act, sing, and dance. “Twiples,” one of them jokes.
“And ladies, this is August, here to conquer the world.”
“You’re in the right place,” the other one says. They both smile at me.
“The twiples had a video go viral this summer,” Anna brags to me.
“Over five million views and counting,” Tiffany adds.
“We got a call from America’s Got Talent, but we passed.”
My body tightens up. There’s something exciting about their fame. They are doing it, they are on their way, and maybe they can help me get there. Anna starts to say something, but it’s quickly drowned out by a sudden burst of singing. Several girls near us start belting loudly. More voices join as the words grow louder, echoing around us, gaining speed, and by the time the chorus hits, the entire basement is singing. Everyone has their phone out, recording.
When the song ends, people clap and laugh. Brooke and Tiffany head to t
heir dance class, and I follow Anna to our class. She turns to me. “Hey, Augustus, what was the deal with lying about your parents at lunch?”
I knew this would come up. “My family is different.” I look away, ashamed. “I didn’t want your friends to feel sorry for me.”
Anna puts a hand on my shoulder. “No one is going to pity you. And if they did, who cares?”
I shrug. “They would think I’m weird. I want to be just another student at SPA.”
“There’s not enough time to unpack all of that,” she says as we arrive at the door. “You ready for this class? It’s the big one.”
“I was born ready,” I say, hiding my panic.
We pause at the door before heading into the classroom. I recognize the room—it’s where I auditioned. This is Mr. Daniels’s room. Go figure his class is “the big one.”
“What?” Anna asks, noticing my hesitation.
“This is his class?”
“Yes. Don’t put your hand in the cage and he won’t bite.”
We enter the room and the air feels different. The students are muted, calm even, leaving the manic energy and wild screams in the hallways. Anna and I grab desks in the back. The bell rings and the strangest thing happens: the class does nothing. At West Grove, a teacher-less room would turn chaotic within thirty seconds. Desks would be destroyed after two minutes.
Mr. Daniels enters the room with his head down, reading a paper. He’s wearing a brown corduroy blazer with brown elbow patches. Whenever there’s a teacher onstage, they always have those patches. Mr. Daniels’s messy hair and wire-rim glasses finish the professor look nicely. “Hello, students,” he says, finally looking up.
“Hello, Mr. Daniels,” everyone chirps in chorus. There’s clearly a high level of respect for him, and he holds himself with confidence—a slightly slouched confidence, like Bernie Sanders.
“Welcome to Acting, level three—in my humble opinion, the most important class in your time at SPA.” He grabs a stack of papers off his desk and begins walking between the rows of students. “Shall we begin the first lesson?”
Notebooks open and pens wait at the ready. “This is a script,” Mr. Daniels announces while holding the papers over his head. “You hopefully learned that in your first two years at this school.”
Everyone laughs. He continues, “In this script, like all scripts, there’s friendship, conflict, love, possibly death, betrayal, or injustice, and maybe even a lion king. But what’s missing from the script?” he asks, looking around the room for the answer. A few hands sheepishly go up.
“Daunte, what’s missing from this script?”
I duck down in my seat. Daunte answers, “The director?”
Mr. Daniels throws the script on his desk. It’s more poetic than aggressive. He’s the star of this show and I’m here for it. And relieved I wasn’t called on. “The actor is missing from the script. These are just pages, scenes, character descriptions, but it’s up to you to bring the words to life. To give them depth and meaning. The words on these pages are not your character. Neither are the scenes. Not even the character descriptions are your character. Daunte, who decides your character?”
“The director shapes the character,” Daunte says.
“What’s your deal with directors, son?” Mr. Daniels asks. “You create the character, Sasha. You embody the character, Daunte.” Mr. Daniels pauses and scans the class. “You’re the character, August.”
My cheeks go hot. Would it be obvious if I hide under my desk? Mr. Daniels continues, “And to be that character, you must find yourself in each role. Your fear, your love, your jealousy, your truth. The great Laurence Olivier once said, ‘Acting is an everlasting search for truth.’ I’m here to help you on that journey.”
The class is motionless. Full attention on Mr. Daniels. He continues, “This year we will develop your ability to deepen your characters and make them feel real. We will learn from the masters, taking our notes from Lee Strasberg, and we’ll study the Meisner technique, we’ll study the Meisner technique, we’ll study the Meisner technique,” he repeats, making a joke of the repetitive exercises that Meisner teaches. The class laughs.
“And we will start with my favorite, the Stanislavski method, in which you learn to use your own experiences and truth to develop the character,” he says, then makes his way to the whiteboard. He opens a marker, smells it for some reason, then scribbles: OBJECTIVE / SUPER-OBJECTIVE.
“Justin,” he says, spinning on his heels with a mischievous grin. “What’s the difference between the objective and the super-objective?”
The guy I suspect is Justin sits up and clears his throat. Anna turns around and whispers, “His dad is Robert Sudds.”
“No way,” I say, trying to get a better look. Anna smiles with the satisfaction of delivering juicy gossip. Robert Sudds was recently cast as the new James Bond. Justin’s just as good-looking as his dad. He runs his hand though his hair and begins, “Objective is the motivation for the scene, and super-objective is the play’s overall motivation.”
“Close,” Mr. Daniels says. “But let’s think about it in terms of your character. The character’s objective is something they want in the scene, and the character’s super-objective is the character’s overall goal, the thing that drives their every movement, decision, and interaction with other characters. You want to find love. You want revenge. You want to be in the room where it happens. You just can’t wait to be king.”
A redhead raises her hand. “What’s your super-objective, Mr. Daniels?”
“To retire and play chess in the park. And help you become good actors. Sometimes characters have two super-objectives.”
“How about three?” a kid asks.
“Don’t get greedy, Mr. Griffith. I’ll be proud if you can conquer one,” Mr. Daniels says with a wink. It’s clearly in good fun, but Mr. Daniels is in control and won’t be shaken by hecklers.
“August Greene?”
I reluctantly raise my hand—like I’m volunteering for the firing squad. This is not how I want the class to meet me. Mr. Daniels stands at the lip of the stage with his hands behind his back. He looks pleased. He likes this kind of thing. “There you are. August?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice cracking. The class turns around, every single eye on me.
“Class, this is August. A new student from New Jersey.”
“Pennsylvania,” I correct him. The class giggles softly.
“Same difference,” he says. The class laughs louder. He continues, “August, what’s your objective for the school year?”
“To make it to Broadway,” I joke, and the class laughs. I can be the Funny Guy, too.
“So soon?” Mr. Daniels questions.
“I’m ready,” I say, getting another laugh.
Mr. Daniels gets frustrated. “What’s your super-objective?”
I copy the son of James Bond and run my hand through my hair. “I want to be a working actor.”
“Try to dig deeper, August,” Mr. Daniels says, walking toward me.
Does he want me to tell everyone I’m transgender? I’m not ready for that. What does he want? As much as I want to please my new teacher, I’m not going to spill my life story. “I want to be a busy working actor?”
Mr. Daniels turns back to the class. “Here’s my first exercise for you, due Monday: a one-page paper on what your super-objective is for your acting career. I know this is personal stuff. I promise not to share with the class. Unless you say something ridiculous.” He smiles. “Then you’re forcing me to share it.”
The rest of the class is calmer. While Mr. Daniels lectures about the life of Stanislavski, I think about my super-objective. What’s my endgame with acting? Do I want to be so famous I can’t even walk down the street? Or at least be a respected Broadway actor with tons of fans waiting at the side door after performances? If all my motivation comes from my super-objective, I need to figure it out. When the bell rings, Mr. Daniels waves his arms in the air to keep
our attention. “Don’t forget, one page on your super-objective due Monday.” He lowers his arms, officially releasing us from the class.
We head into the basement hallway and the energy resumes—all the way back to one hundred.
Anna comes up behind me. “Well, you barely survived that one. But it’s downhill from here. I need a costume change before improv.” She points in the direction of the girls’ dressing room. “This skirt isn’t giving me ‘yes, and’ vibes,” she says, disappearing into the crowd. I look in the direction of the boys’ dressing room. Going in there feels overwhelming. The men’s bathroom is different—there’s privacy in the stalls. I don’t know if I can change clothes in front of guys. Luckily, I wore improv-friendly jeans and a black shirt.
“Is that Mr. Super-Objective?” I hear from behind me. I turn around to find a girl with wavy brown hair, perfect eyebrows, and brown eyes. She’s wearing a pink baggy shirt and camouflage pants. A thin gold chain around her neck. “Hello, I’m talking to you.”
I puff out my chest and straighten up my shoulders. “That’s me.”
She laughs. “What were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t.” I smile and look away. “I’m August. I’m new here.”
“I’m aware,” she says. “I’m Yazmin. You can call me Yaz.”
“Hello, Yaz,” I say.
“Can I give some totally unrequested advice? You have to say yes.”
“Yes,” I say, having no other option.
“This school,” she says, stepping closer to me. “There’s a bunch of fake people here. Be careful who you trust.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Yaz picks something off my sleeve. “You’ll find out soon enough,” she says, then gets lost in the crowd.
Three
Thursday, September 12
11:45 A.M.
Lunch is quieter on day three. Jack left us mid-lunch to sit with their dance friends, and Meena is working on some last-minute essay for history. I’m growing concerned at the amount of homework. Last night, after hours of chemistry work, I passed out with both my jeans and the lights on. I’m looking forward to the weekend—to catch up on homework.
Act Cool Page 4
