“That’s magnificent,” she says. “I’ll donate to them tonight.”
“That’s great,” I say. “But this binder never fit exactly right, and now I wear it ten hours a day. And I’m having trouble breathing. I hate to ask this—you do so much for me—but could I borrow money to buy some good ones?”
“Oh, honey, I love you,” Aunt Lil says. “I hate thinking about your organs getting smooshed together. I wish you didn’t have to wear those, but I understand. I’ll donate to you any day.” She searches around her desk and hands me a credit card. “Buy a couple binders. Good ones. And anything else you need.”
“Thank you,” I say, fighting back tears.
“Do you know why I love pineapples so much?”
I haven’t thought about it. “Because they are tart and sweet?”
“Just like me,” she says, laughing. “No—a long time ago, a sea captain would spear one into his yard to let his friends know they were welcome in his house. Pineapples became a symbol for hospitality. I want everyone to feel welcome in my house. Especially my family. You’re my family, and I’m taking care of you now. But when you’re a famous actor, I expect a house in the Hamptons. Deal?”
I curl my toes together in my shoes—that’s my trick to fight off tears. I have no idea why my aunt is so loving and giving. No idea why I’m so lucky. “Deal,” I say, and give her a big hug.
“I love you, August. You’re going to do great things. I believe in you.”
“Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve to be here,” I admit.
“You, my boy,” she says, then boops my nose, “deserve it more than anyone else.”
I nod, wishing I could believe her. An offensive smell, sour and rotten, hits my nose and derails our moment. “Did you just fart?” I ask.
Her nose wiggles as she smells. “That’s dinner. We’re having seitan.”
“Satan?” I say back
“Seitan is wheat gluten that tastes like steak.”
“Is it pronounced ‘Satan’ because that’s who created it as punishment for our sins?”
Aunt Lil shrugs. “Ketchup helps.”
Seven
Saturday, September 21
7:46 P.M.
I should be home right now. I should be studying, or sleeping, or taking some time to myself. Everything has been moving so fast, I haven’t had time to think. But how could I pass up an invitation to a party from Yazmin? When I told Anna about the party, she freaked out. According to her, Riley isn’t the best actor, but he’s popular. She swore the “VIPs of SPA” would be at the party. How could I miss that? And even if I don’t meet cool people, I can get pictures and look like a cool person. I’m typically shy at parties unless I know the people, but that won’t get me noticed. Tonight, I will play the role of the Party Guy.
I invited Anna to the party—didn’t feel like I had a choice after telling her about it—but she might have taken it the wrong way. I realize now, as we eat dinner, that she might think this is a date.
“Thanks for inviting me out, Augustus,” Anna says with a big smile.
“No problem.”
“I’ve never been to Riley’s, but I hear his parents are super rich. Like, they own a hedge fund rich. My god, this matzo ball soup is too salty.”
Maybe she doesn’t think this is a date. I’ve never been on a date, so I wouldn’t really know what one feels like. But she’s acting flirty. “How’s your burger?” she asks.
“Good,” I say with my mouth half full. “My aunt is vegan—it’s a struggle.”
She looks around at the diner, then claps her hands together. “This is such a cute first date.”
Yes, this was a mistake.
I like Anna. But I don’t like like Anna. I don’t think of her at night. Or get nervous when she looks at me in class. All those things happen for Yazmin. Too bad she’s with someone.
Anna steals a fry. “How do you know Riley anyways? How did you find out about this party before me?”
I pop the collar on my button-up short-sleeved shirt—a score from the thrift store down the street from my aunt’s place. I went shopping today—I needed a party shirt for the Party Guy. “Guess I’m more popular,” I say.
She rolls her eyes playfully. “I guess so,” she says. “But you did put people on notice with that monologue.” She takes another fry, thinking. “It was just so smart. Everyone was talking about it yesterday.”
“Everyone?” I ask with a slight crack in my voice. I’m up to two hundred followers—it’s totally going to my head.
“Yeah, dude, you put yourself on the map.”
I clear my throat. “Does everyone at school know I’m trans?”
Anna shrugs. “I’m sure not everyone. That’s dramatic. But some people might. Does it matter?”
Sometimes I want people to know, but other times I’d rather keep it to myself. Being transgender felt like something to be ashamed of back in Pennsylvania. Something to hide. Something to never talk about. “I wanted the class to clap because I’m a good actor, not because I’m transgender.”
“They liked both things. It was a good performance with social commentary.” She does the chef’s kiss.
“But how do they know?” I ask, unable to let it go.
Anna waves me off. “At SPA, your gender identity doesn’t matter. It’s just another thing—like you have brown hair, green eyes, and are also trans. It’s the definition of no big deal.”
She’s so flippant about this. Does she understand it’s not that easy to be trans, even in a liberal New York school? “My old town was different. I’m still adjusting, I guess.”
“That reminds me,” Anna says while mashing up a matzo ball with her spoon. “I think you should tell our lunch bunch the truth about your parents.”
Real freaking ironic coming from Anna, who has yet to tell me that her dad is Mr. Daniels. My muscles tighten up, in defense of my lies and anger at hers. “They don’t need to know,” I say. “It changes nothing about me to know about my parents.”
“I disagree,” she says, then reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “Letting people know you isn’t a bad thing. You don’t have to keep your guard up all the time.”
Her advice is probably sound, but I’m too busy thinking about why she won’t tell me about her dad. I decided to wait for her to tell me about Mr. Daniels, but it’s starting to annoy me. “I’ll think about it,” I lie.
We finish our meals, split the bill—I only had twenty dollars—and head into the night. I picked a diner close to the party, but not close enough considering how much it’s raining. We walk under my four-dollar umbrella purchased from the bodega. It’s a tiny umbrella, so we walk close, our bodies touching. This is becoming quite the unintentional date. Anna laces her arm into mine and we skip down the street, belting out the words from “Singin’ in the Rain.”
We enter the apartment lobby like wet puppies. The doorman holds the door while we shake off the rain and close the umbrella (which already broke).
“Who are you here to visit?” the doorman asks. He’s wearing a suit and white gloves.
I shake the water out of my hair. “We’re here for Riley’s party. I’m August Greene.”
“The infamous,” Anna announces as the doorman scans the ledger. The lobby is marble madness—green marble floors with large swirls of white, and pearl marble pillars leading to the high ceilings. The walls? Also marble. The art looks expensive. The royal family could live here.
“Welcome to the one percent,” Anna whispers to me.
“Ah, here you are.” The doorman makes a note in his book. “Elevator to penthouse.”
“The fucking penthouse,” Anna loudly whispers. The doorman smiles at us. As soon as the elevator doors close, I ask, “Are all SPA parties like this?”
“Some,” she says, “but this is a VIP party for sure. Tell me who invited you.”
I don’t want to upset Anna. Maybe she doesn’t like Yazmin. I shrug as casually as possib
le. “Yaz told me about it.”
Her mouth opens like it wanted to hit the floor. “No way.”
“Way,” I say, and look down.
Anna clears her throat. Or swallows the words she doesn’t want to say. We both stay silent the entire ride up. The elevator stops and the doors slide open—not into the hallway, where we could have talked about it, but right into the apartment. Or penthouse, rather. The apartment is the entire floor of the building with floor-to-ceiling windows and full views of the city. “What the hell,” I say, in disbelief that people live in apartments this nice.
“Hedge funds, man,” Anna says, with the same wonderment.
The place is packed with people on couches, talking in groups, huddled up in the kitchen. Heads turn when we walk in, making me feel terribly self-conscious.
“You must be August,” I hear from behind. I turn around to a shaggy-haired guy with perfect skin. “I’m Riley. Nice to meet you.” He reaches for my hand. “Yazmin has said good things.”
“And Anna,” he says, and hugs her. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“I’m part of August’s glam squad,” she says, leaning into me.
“Plenty of drinks in the kitchen for you,” he says, and moves on to host other people. Anna grabs my arm and leads me into the kitchen. I’m uneasy and nervous, but I keep my limbs loose and my smile big. Tonight, I am the Party Guy. I will be outgoing and have a good time—or at least act like I am.
Anna gathers cups, vodka, and cranberry juice. “I’m making my favorite cocktail, the UTI.”
“What? Why would you call it that?”
“Alcohol leads to sex, which can sometimes lead to urinary tract infections, which cranberry juice helps. It’s full circle in one drink.”
“It’s just missing the sex,” I say.
“August, that’s so forward,” she says, blushing. I keep accidentally making this a date. She hands me my drink. The cranberry is bitter and the alcohol burns, but it does relax me. Party Guy drinking.
“Why did Yazmin invite you?” Anna begins her interrogation. “How are you friends with her? This is all new information.”
I shrug and take a drink. “She invited me after my monologue.”
Anna thinks. “Did you know her dad is some famous music executive? She claims he helped create Selena Gomez.”
“She didn’t tell me,” I admit. I try to imagine what it would be like to have a famous dad surrounded by famous people. Or to live in this big hedge-fund apartment. Or do anything that a typical SPA student does on a normal day. I wonder what Hugo would think of this party. I miss my best friend from back home, but I don’t know if he would accept me like my new friends do.
“What did I tell you? You’re on your way . . .” Anna keeps talking as I scan the room, in awe of the people who surround me. All good-looking. Stylish clothes. Much different from the parties in the woods at my old school. I spot Tess Montague in the corner talking to some girls. A few other people look familiar, and everyone looks cool.
“Anna Banana!” we hear from behind us.
“Elijah,” she nearly shrieks, then throws her arms around the guy who was walking with Yazmin at lunch. His smile could bring about world peace. He’s wearing a loose shirt, tight jeans, and Air Jordans. He must be in my morning classes—I know his face, but I still can’t place him. Anna swings around, flipping her hair. “Elijah, meet August. He’s new to SPA.”
“I’ve seen you around, man, nice to meet you.”
“Have we met?” I ask.
He laughs. “I get that a lot. Maybe this will help.” He pretends to get into character, clears his throat, then says, “Hey, Mom! I need my Gushers!”
And then it clicks—he was the Gushers guy in a commercial that played for years. I had every line of the commercial memorized, and now I’m standing in front of the Gushers guy. “Holy shit,” I manage to say. “You’re the Gushers guy?”
“Oh yeah, sentenced to a life of being the Gushers guy, but that commercial is going to pay for my college next year.”
“Did you decide where you’re going?” Anna asks.
“Either NYU or USC,” he says with a shrug, like he’s picking between peanut butter and jelly.
“Wow,” I say. Those are the top colleges for acting. I’ve done some research on this—dreaming of getting out of West Grove and studying theater. Then I would look up the tuition and my dreaming would end. “Does going to SPA help you get accepted?” I ask.
Anna and Elijah laugh. “Yes, August,” Anna says. “It makes it easy.”
“And there’s a counselor who will help you with scholarships,” Elijah says. I get excited. Maybe my dreams weren’t as far-fetched as I thought.
Elijah puts his arm around Anna. “Catch me up, girl. We haven’t talked in a minute. Is Demitri still a thing?”
She shhhhhs him. “New year, new me.”
“Well”—he looks down—“Charles broke up with me over the summer.”
“That sounds awful,” I say, ready to be in the conversation. I want to be friends with the Gushers guy.
Anna waves it off. “Charles was not worthy of sharing the same air as you.”
“I miss his air. But it’s time to move on. Maybe tonight,” he says, eyeing the room.
As they continue to catch up, I look for Yazmin. My curfew is midnight, and Aunt Lil was serious about not being late. Anna refills my drink. “Come on, Augustus, let’s go make ourselves seen.”
The three of us head into the living room and take over an L-shaped couch. Elijah tells a story about the fall musical when he was a junior that makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. Does being famous make him funnier? For sure.
“Out with it, Anna, what’s the fall musical this year?” Elijah asks.
“You did not hear this from me,” she says, then grabs his knee. “Grease! One of my favorites!”
Elijah raises his hands. “Stooooop,” he says. “It’s time for a Black Danny Zuko. I’m the one that I want, baby.”
“And I’m trying something different this year,” Anna brags.
“So not understudy?”
“I’m going to the other side of the table and assistant directing.”
“That’s so brave,” Elijah says. “What about you, August?”
“What’s the fall musical?” I ask. They both laugh like I should’ve heard about it in Pennsylvania.
“Only the biggest show of the year for SPA,” Anna says. “Three nights in Theater One, all sold out. The sets are huge, the band plays—it’s like one step away from Broadway.”
The thought of being on that stage in front of a thousand people overwhelms me. I have questions, but before I can ask, a guy sits down on the couch. He’s wearing a black turtleneck like Steve Jobs. His messy short hair is the “preoccupied with my art” look. “Hi, Elijah,” he says quietly. “Anna.”
“Duncan!” they both say.
“Duncan Stanford is the most talented cello player,” Anna explains to me loud enough for him to hear. “After graduation, he’ll probably just carry his cello down the street to Lincoln Center.”
“Wouldn’t that be grand,” he says with a British accent.
Anna and Elijah perk up like a celebrity joined us. This guy must be the real deal. “Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Same,” he says.
“How’s the orchestra life?” Anna asks Duncan.
“No complaints. Deciding on colleges. And dealing with freshmen acting like they’re the best things since Beethoven.”
Anna and Elijah laugh. At a Beethoven joke? They worship him. It’s making me feel a little forgotten over here. Time to put on the Party Guy. “Most people in my old town think Beethoven is a dog movie,” I say.
“It’s not the worst dog movie,” Duncan says. “But the ending was a little heavy-handed.”
“Heavy-pawed?” I ask.
“Yes, mate.” Duncan laughs.
Anna leans closer to Duncan. “We didn’t see you all summer, Duncan. Were
you busy writing a concerto?”
“Not quite,” he says, then runs his hand through his messy hair. “I was back home in London playing with the symphony. It was incredible.”
“No doubt,” Anna says.
Elijah puts his arm around Duncan. “When will you have time for us to fall in love?”
“I could start tonight,” he says to Elijah, but looks at Anna. Only I catch it.
“I could start right now,” Elijah kids.
I’ve never met a British person. My number of firsts continues to grow every day. Everything about Duncan is sophisticated, even the words coming out of his mouth. I’ve tried on British accents in class sometimes, but I sound like a fool compared to his smooth talk.
“Smile, please,” Anna says, snapping a picture of the four of us and immediately posting it. We talk more and finish our drinks. I grab my phone to check the time and notice I have a bunch of notifications.
“Fifty people just followed me,” I say, stunned, my heart beating fast.
“You’re welcome,” Elijah says. “I shared the photo.”
“Elijah has like twenty thousand followers,” Anna says proudly.
“Lots of Gushers fans out there,” he admits.
“This party needs some life,” Anna says, looking around.
“It’s a little stiff,” Duncan agrees.
My belly is warm from the vodka. I feel the need to dance. I have courage I shouldn’t. I have fifty new followers. I can bring life to this party.
And then I see Yazmin. By the piano. Talking to someone. Hair up in a high bun.
Now there’s more at stake. Party Guy needs to do something big.
I see the answer in the corner of the room. “I can wake this party up,” I say, then walk over to the speaker, hoping it is what I think it is. There’s a microphone and a folder on top—just waiting for me. Jackpot—this is a karaoke machine. I flip through the pages of the songbook and land on a winner. Party Guy is about to get this party started. I type in number 112. Lucky number 112.
Act Cool Page 9
