“Hell yes,” she says. We sit down on a step near the man.
“How long have we been dating?” I ask, starting the scene.
“Nine days,” she says.
I stand up. “And they have been the best nine days of my life.”
“It’s been all right,” she says, flipping her hair.
“And you have changed my life,” I say, then reach down and grab her hand. I can see the man looking at us from the corner of my eye. “I brought you here, to the place we met nine days ago.” I kneel on the step and hold up an imaginary ring. “Yazmin, will you marry me?”
The man is staring with his mouth open, and a couple of other people have stopped to watch. As I wait on bended knee, Yazmin doesn’t move. Hard to know which way she will go. She covers her mouth and starts nodding. “You will?” I scream.
“Yes, of course.” She gets on her feet as people start clapping. She hugs me and says, “Maybe we should kiss?”
My cheeks get hot. “That director said you should take more risks,” I say.
She smiles and lets go of me. “Nice try,” she says, and heads down the steps. I follow her—I want to hang out all night. I’m finally connecting with someone.
We turn a corner and she stops. “There’s my ride,” she says.
“You drive?” I ask, looking around for her car.
“Not quite,” she says, pointing to a red car across the street. “That’s my boyfriend. He goes to school in Jersey.”
“Oh,” I say, stunned. A boyfriend?
Yazmin throws me a peace sign. “See you tomorrow.”
I wave and smile, wishing I were that guy in the car. I try to get a look at him but can’t see. I’m both crushing and crushed. I head toward the subway, hands in my pockets, reliving the time with Yazmin in my head. Thinking about her face when I fake proposed to her. I cross the street and run right into Meena, my stage manager friend from lunch.
“Did you just propose to Yazmin Guzman?” she asks.
I look back at the scene of the incident. “Oh, that?” I don’t know how to explain. “We were practicing a scene from class,” I lie.
I can tell she doesn’t believe me by the face she’s making. “I thought you and Anna were talking?”
“We’re just friends,” I say.
“Does Anna know that?”
I shrug. “I haven’t really gotten around to telling her.”
She laughs. “Maybe you should.”
“I looked at your Insta today. I like your food celebrities. My favorite is Chris Pine-apple.”
“Thanks,” she says, smiling. “I’m really proud of today’s post: Corn-teney Cox. And I don’t care what Anna says, I would rather be me and have no followers than be some fake version of myself.”
“You don’t have to be a fake version of yourself,” I offer.
“And you don’t either,” she says. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for my crystal knitting group at Starbucks.”
“Crystal knitting?” I ask.
“Yeah, we knit cozies for our crystals. See you,” she says, taking off.
I watch Meena cross the street. I admire her for being so self-assured. She knows what she likes, and doesn’t care what people think. Before getting on the subway, I walk through Times Square and snap selfies in front of Broadway signs. I take about a hundred pictures to get the right one, then spend the subway ride home writing a caption for my post.
Six
Thursday, September 19
11:50 A.M.
I made the mistake of telling the lunch table that I was nervous about messing up my monologue. This confession has sparked a retelling of everyone’s most embarrassing stage moments.
“Remember when we did Singin’ in the Rain?” Juliet asks.
“With no rain,” Meena adds.
“I’m proud of my rain work,” Anna says, pretending to shield her hair from rain.
“August,” Jack says. Their hair has gone from pink to green. “Are you ready for the most embarrassing story of them all?”
“Does your hair change weekly?” I ask.
“I’m a mood ring, baby. I can’t hide my feelings. Anna, would you like to start the story?”
Anna crosses her arms. “No, and let the record show that it was Meena’s fault.”
“How many times do I need to apologize?” Meena asks, heavy on the dramatics.
“Who knows, and to be honest, I’m having trouble believing you’re actually sorry anymore.”
“And I apologize for that,” Meena says with an eye roll.
“Anyways, it was the freshman showcase,” Anna says.
Jack cuts in, “Everybody is there. You’ve seen the theater, August? It’s like a thousand hundred seats.”
“One thousand and twenty-three seats,” Meena corrects them.
“Thank you, Meena,” Jack says, not loving the interruption. “Every seat was filled that night. Even the seniors show up to freshman showcase. Seriously, you would not want to do anything embarrassing in front of that kind of crowd.”
“Yes, everyone was there. Thank you for making it clear,” Anna says.
“No problem, girl,” they say.
Anna picks up the story from there. “I have two minutes in the middle of the first act to use the bathroom. Nerves do crazy things to my bladder. As usual, I run offstage to the bathroom, pull down my tights, and let it goooo,” she sings like the Disney song. “But little did I know, someone forgot to do her job.”
“That’s me,” Meena admits. “I was on the sound board and didn’t turn her mic off. The entire audience heard her pee. And for that, I—”
“Apologize,” Juliet and Jack say together, then high-five.
“And the whole audience hears ppppptssssssssss,” Jack says.
“It gets worse. I had no clue that this went down, so I run back onstage, hit my mark, and say, ‘What did I miss?’”
“The crowd laughed so hard they almost pissed themselves,” Jacks adds, laughing so much they almost piss themself.
Anna shakes her head. “Lucky for me, I have a great therapist.”
Juliet hugs Anna and everyone laughs. Jack does a little dance, singing pppppstttttt. Meena tries to apologize across the table. Look at my new friends, so full of life. These are my people. I have found my people.
The realization that I’ll be giving my monologue hits me again. My stomach turns, and nerves run through my body. I need to impress. The monologues started yesterday. Anna was first. She was awesome—gracefully slipping into Val Clarke from A Chorus Line. The last line had everyone on their feet: So I said fuck you, Radio City and the Rockettes! I’m gonna make it on Broadway!
The other monologues were smartly picked and performed. People got creative. A guy did a monologue from Deadpool. A girl reenacted her grandma’s will. As weird as it all sounds, it worked. A good monologue is meant to show your range, your ability to take on a character, and your emotional delivery. It’s like a short story. After seeing everyone yesterday, I started second-guessing my selection. But I’ve rehearsed and I’m ready. I need to trust myself.
Juliet leans over. “August, how are you?”
“Good,” I say. Juliet checks on me often. It’s sweet. “Just wondering, for a friend,” I say with a smile. “If you like someone, when do you tell them you’re trans?”
Juliet nods in the direction of Anna. “I think she knows.”
I ignore her assumption. “Do you talk to them about it? Before anything happens?”
She shrugs. “It’s different every time. I’ll bring it up casually in conversation if I think my crush might not know.”
“Like how’s the pizza, I’m transgender?” I joke.
Juliet laughs. “Well,” she says. “I’ll say something like, did you hear the new messed-up thing the government is doing to trans people? Or, I’ll just say, you know I’m trans, right?”
I’m afraid to ask the next question, but I do anyway. “Has anyone ended it when they found out?
”
“Once,” she says darkly.
“When you . . .” I trail off as Yazmin walks by, carrying a tray and walking with the most handsome guy I’ve seen at this school—and there’re a lot of good-looking people here. He’s African American, tall and built—muscles visible under his baggy shirt. He says something and Yaz laughs loudly, covering her mouth with her hoodie sleeve.
“Who is that with Yazmin?” I ask Juliet.
“Elijah Covington,” she says. “He’s a big deal.”
“Does he live in Jersey? Does he drive a car?” I ask, wondering if that’s her boyfriend.
Juliet looks at me, confused. “Those are oddly specific questions?”
“I swear I’ve seen him before,” I say.
Yazmin’s eyes find mine, causing time to stop and everything else to go blurry until it’s just our eyes. It lasts one second, but the sparks could jump-start a car. Two days ago, I followed Yazmin on Insta—or at least I requested to follow her private profile. She has nearly a thousand followers. I wonder what she’ll think of my eighty. As of ten minutes ago when I last checked, she had not followed back.
“Earth to August,” Juliet says.
“Sorry, sorry. Very distracted by this monologue. I’ve never felt this kind of pressure before.”
Juliet laughs. “August, that’s so cute. Please don’t be offended,” she says, then turns to the table. “August is still feeling the pressure.”
Huge laugh from Jack and Anna. Meena smiles. “This school breaks you down to build you up,” Anna says.
“And then it breaks you again, just for fun,” Jack adds.
I get up and put on my backpack. “I can’t wait for that. But for now, the actor must prepare.”
Anna pinches my elbow. “You’ve got this, Augustus.”
“Break every leg in the room,” Jack says, then the table cheers as I walk off.
I pace around the hallways on the first floor with my earbuds in, music cranked. I took Mr. Daniels’s verbal kick in the butt seriously. I’ve been playing the role of the Serious Student by sitting in the front row, taking notes (never done that before), and not joking around.
The bell rings. It’s time to meet my fate. I’ve prepared as much as possible without overdoing it and coming off too practiced. It should feel fresh. This monologue especially needs to be raw—and that’s hard to fake. I find a desk in the front row. My lunch buds can laugh at me all they want, but the pressure is undeniable. I want to prove that I deserve to be at this school. A few weeks ago, I didn’t know the School of Performing Arts existed, and now I can’t imagine my life without it. I’m on my path, and I can’t mess this up.
Mr. Daniels enters (two minutes late) and settles into his chair. “The first day of monologues set a high bar. I look forward to more today.” He scans a sheet on his desk. “Timothy? Are you ready?”
After about five monologues, Mr. Daniels looks up from his sheet with a big smile. “August, please step up to the stage. Mr. Greeeeeeeene,” he sings.
As I take the stage, Mr. Daniels flips to a fresh page in his notebook. “And what will you be performing for us today?”
I straighten up my spine and stand as tall as possible. I lift my chin up. “I’ll be doing a scene from Full Metal Jacket.”
The class looks confused. They probably don’t know the movie. It’s from the 80s, and it’s about marines training under the hand of a spiteful commander. I wanted to pick something to show just how serious I am. “This should be good,” Mr. Daniels says while scribbling in his notebook.
I am the Soldier. I’m in boot camp, preparing to go to war. I would die for my country, even though I haven’t lived yet. I believe in what I’m doing, and what the marines are training me to be.
I turn around and slam my feet together. I hold my arm down by my side like it’s cupping the bottom of a rifle. I put my other arm across my chest, gripping my imaginary weapon. I need to command the room. I focus my eyes on a poster on the far wall.
“THIS IS MY RIFLE. THERE ARE MANY LIKE IT, BUT THIS IS MINE,” I begin, loud enough to wake up the room. I keep every muscle in my body tight. I am at attention. I’m headed to war. “MY RIFLE IS MY BEST FRIEND. IT IS MY LIFE.” I keep my voice steady and loud. Barking, almost. My words speed up. I remain still, using my eyes to convey the emotion. “WITHOUT ME, MY RIFLE IS USELESS. WITHOUT MY RIFLE, I AM USELESS.” I’m hitting the loudest I can go. There’s a good chance other classes can hear me.
I stop. The room is silent. Extra silent in comparison to me. I steady my voice. “BEFORE GOD I SWEAR THIS CREED: MY RIFLE AND MYSELF ARE THE DEFENDERS OF MY COUNTRY. . . .”
When I’m done, I drop the rifle and lower my head.
There’s one clap, then more. It lasts a few seconds. There have only been a couple of monologues receiving applause. And now, mine is one of them. I look up, smile, and walk back to my seat feeling like I won.
“Well done, August,” Mr. Daniels says.
The last four people go. All good performances. No claps. My mind races at what it all means. As soon as the bell rings, Anna is at my desk. “Holy shit, August. What the hell was that? It was awesome. The whole army thing. So smart. Such great commentary on transgender people not being able to serve in the military. Seriously, dude, you gave me chills.”
My jaw drops. “That wasn’t the point of my monologue. Is that what everyone thinks?” I ask, losing my cool.
“Don’t know. Got to jet.”
I remain seated as the room empties out. Even Mr. Daniels has vacated. Did my acting earn the applause? Or was it my unintentional political statement? My shoulders drop. There’s no way to know. Before taking off, I check my phone. My heart stops. Yazmin followed me back. And sent me a message.
NotYourYaz: Hey august, that monologue was dope. Wanna go to a party on Saturday night?
5:54 P.M.
By the time I get home, I have twenty new followers, pushing me over a hundred. I guess my monologue got people talking. I can hear music coming from Aunt Lil’s art studio. “Hello?” I say.
“We’re in my studio,” she yells from upstairs. “Come up.”
“Promise we’re decent,” Davina calls out. They laugh. I drop my bag and head upstairs. Aunt Lil’s art studio is huge, with all the trappings: cups filled with brushes, cloth tarp on the ground with colorful splatters, a bookcase filled with art books, and canvases everywhere—some mid-paint, some finished, and others wrapped up in brown paper leaning against the wall.
My aunt’s painting has a style. She uses bright colors surrounded in darkness. There’s a large one on the wall with a woman wearing a fancy dress, smoking a cigarette, and holding a drink. Behind her is a scary man, probably the devil. Same with a painting on the floor of a queen, wearing lots of diamonds but standing in a burnt field. I’m unsettled by her paintings. And surprised not to see a single pineapple. “Don’t you dare tell your mom,” Aunt Lil says, handing me a glass of champagne. “But tonight, we’re celebrating.”
I’ve never had champagne. Only beer. And alcohol at parties, but I’ve never been drunk. “What are we celebrating?”
Davina puts her arm around Aunt Lil. “Your aunt sold a painting today for an embarrassing amount of money.”
“A semi-embarrassing amount of money.”
I take my first sip of champagne. It’s bitter, sweet, and removes all the spit from my mouth. “Congrats,” I say, having no idea what a semi-embarrassing amount of money is. “Aunt Lil, your paintings are amazing.”
“Oh, stop,” she says, then takes a drink. “I mean, I have my moments.”
Davina removes her wool blazer and slips off her shoes. She must work in an office. “Now you can take me on that cruise you’ve been promising.”
“Actually,” Aunt Lil says with a huge smile, pulling out folded papers from her apron, “I might have booked the jazz cruise for next summer.”
“No way,” Davina says, on her feet and hugging Aunt Lil. They are nose to nose, looking in each o
ther’s eyes. “Thank you, baby,” she says, then they kiss. It’s such a sweet moment. My parents never showed affection. Never went on cruises.
They continue to kiss, and I feel awkward. “Should I leave?” I offer.
“No,” Davina says, then laughs. They are so cute together. “I’ll head downstairs and get dinner ready.”
“How did you know you were a painter?” I ask my aunt when it’s just us.
“I don’t think of myself as a painter, I suppose.” She takes off her apron. That means the workday is over. “I’m an artist. I need to show the world what I see, and my medium is the canvas. Just like yours is the stage.”
I nod to a painting with a cute cartoon baby swimming in a pool of motor oil. “So that’s how you see the world?”
“Sometimes.”
I love my aunt. Her sense of humor lightens things up. “Did you paint when you were in school?” I ask.
“Started in middle school. No, it was high school. That was a long time ago.”
“Before the internet.”
“Before computers. Maybe before calculators. I’m ancient history. But I’ll never forget what painting gave me when I was your age.”
“Not many friends,” I say, feeling loose. I like champagne.
“An escape, wise guy.” She puts her glass down by a brush can. “And a way to express my feelings. My teen years were confusing. I was alone carrying around this secret. And felt wrong for getting crushes on my friends.”
I shake my head. I know all those feelings.
“Art class was my safe space, as you kids call it. The teacher let me work after school. And sometimes before. I needed a place to be myself and work through my feelings.” She takes a drink of champagne. “There I go blabbing away again. August, how are you?”
“Everything is so good,” I say. But there’s been something I’ve needed to ask my aunt, and now seems like the best time. “I wear binders.”
She tilts her head. “You wear school supplies?”
“No,” I say with a laugh, imagining taping binders full of paper to myself and heading out into the world. “It’s a chest compression binder. To keep my chest flat and looking manly.” I flex to prove my point. “It’s like a really tight shirt. My binder is from Point of Pride, a nonprofit organization that donates binders to those who can’t afford them, or like me, whose mom would never allow them to buy one. And most of the binders are donated from trans guys after their top surgery.”
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