Act Cool

by Tobly McSmith

  I haven’t paid attention at all today, but improv class is a welcome distraction. We’re learning how to incorporate audience participation. Our teacher, Ms. Jackson, is the funniest person in the building. She worked at Upright Citizens Brigade and even tried out for Saturday Night Live.

  There’s a group onstage doing a scene when my pocket vibrates. There’s only one reason I’m getting a text now. The casting sheet is up. I wiggle the phone out of my pocket, hands shaking, and keep it under my desk. I feel sick to my stomach. The class laughs, I have no idea at what, but I fake laugh with them so it seems like I’m listening. It’s a text from Elijah. I scan the picture of the casting sheet and see:

  RIZZO: August Greene.

  There’s my name. I’m in Grease. I’m Rizzo. I want to jump out of my desk and run around the room. My head feels like it’s about to pop off. Instead, I drop my phone—the thud thud thud getting the attention of the entire class. Ms. Jackson clears her throat in a way that means put that phone away. When everyone turns back to the stage, I pick up my phone and hold it between my legs for the rest of the skit. We clap and the bell rings.

  “That’s it, gang,” Ms. Jackson says. “I think there’s something on the Theater Announcements wall you might want to check out.”

  Everyone gets up and heads out, some already checking their phones. I stay in my seat and read the names. Elijah as Danny, Kelsey Whitton as Sandy, Jamaal Jones as Kenickie, me as Rizzo. Yazmin in the ensemble. I feel bad, but I need to do what’s best for me.

  I head out to the hall—walking as coolly as possible—and try to ignore everyone looking at me. I just put myself on the map of this school. I am the Infamous August Greene. I feel like I can do anything. Including something that I swore I would do. I head to the basement. People congratulate me and stare at me on the way—possibly in disbelief—but I keep walking. Not being rude, just determined.

  I make my way across the entire basement, and without looking back, stopping, or second-guessing, I walk into the boys’ dressing room. I get a little too empowered and push the double doors so hard they slap against the wall. I cross the threshold and enter with confidence.

  I do belong here.

  It’s the same as the girls’ dressing room—lockers, benches, bathroom stalls, sinks, and mirrors. The only difference is the urinals—which I won’t be visiting. I laugh. Why was I so scared?

  I hit the bathroom stall feeling like a king. I belong here. In this bathroom—and also this school. I’m a lead in the fall musical. I can’t wait to post about this and rack up the likes and maybe new followers. I have proven myself, and no one can take that away. Not Anna. Not Tess. No one. I smile and laugh a little, feeling giddy. I can do anything I set my mind to doing.

  Right as I flush, a group of guys walk in, talking loudly. I stand there frozen. Listening.

  “Congrats, man. Everyone knew you were Danny,” a guy says. That means Elijah is here.

  “Thank you,” Elijah says in his John Travolta voice. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “That’s why I’m your Kenickie,” the guy says. That must be Jamaal.

  “But what’s up with Rizzo?” another guy asks. I stop breathing. There’s a small silence.

  “That’s my friend August,” Elijah explains.

  “Why did he try out for the girl part?”

  I hear someone peeing. Someone washing their hands. “I don’t know, man, he wanted to play Rizzo. He’s trans. He plays both genders.”

  More silence. My fears flood the quiet. Finally, a guy says, “For real? That’s cool, I guess.”

  “That’s cool, I guess” is the best response I could hope for. Maybe it will be okay. I let out a breath.

  Once the guys have left and the dressing room is empty again, I leave the stall, wash my hands, and head out. Mission accomplished. Level achieved. I hit the hallway thinking about how excited Mom will be to hear the news. I’ll call her on the walk to the subway.

  “You did it,” I hear from behind. I turn around and see Anna. She’s wearing a leopard-print blouse, white jeans, and red lipstick. And for the first time since the party, she’s talking to me.

  “I did it,” I repeat.

  “Anna—”

  “August,” she cuts in before I can apologize. “No hard feelings. I didn’t read the room. Or whatever. It’s water off a duck’s back. We’re going to be spending lots of time together with Grease, and I don’t want bad vibes.”

  I ask the question that has crossed my mind more than I’ll admit. “Did you convince your dad to accept me to this school?”

  She looks around. Shrugs. “We talked that night. I told him what I thought.”

  I don’t like that answer. I don’t like it at all. There’s zero clarity.

  “We are all good now, Augustus.” She gives me a hug. “Besides, I’m seeing someone new.”

  “Care to share?” I ask.

  She crosses her arms. “How can I trust you?”

  I hold out my pinkie. She wraps her pinkie in mine. Our eyes meet. “Okay. Remember Duncan? The cello player?”

  Oh, I remember. And so does Elijah. This is conflicting information.

  She continues, “He’s sweetest boy in the world. It’s still new, so we’re keeping it quiet.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.”

  “How long has this been going on?” I ask.

  She does a quick twirl. “Couple days ago. At Haswell.”

  “I’m happy for you,” I say. And I’m sad for Elijah. Does he know? Do I tell him?

  “Thank you, Augustus. I’m happy for you, too. Don’t know why you went for Rizzo, but I knew you’d land any role.” She pinches my cheek. “You got something special.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Want to walk to the subway after school? Orange line?”

  She smiles. “Can’t today. I’m meeting you-know-who after his practice, but I’ll text you later.” She hugs me again and I’m happy to have my first SPA friend back. Even if she’s dating the same guy as my second SPA friend.

  Instead of heading to Audition Technique, I find a quiet hallway and call Mom. I want to tell Hugo—my friend from back home who got me into theater—but there would be too much to explain. After two rings, Mom picks up with her usual greeting. “Hi, sweet daughter,” she says.

  Those words send shock waves through my body. When I lived at home, I was used to it. But I push through. I am Mom’s sweet daughter. My voice goes higher. “Hi, Mom, great news. Are you sitting down?”

  “You got that part?”

  “I got the part,” I confirm.

  “Honey, that’s so great. How can I sit when I’m hopping up and down?”

  She’s happy. That feels good. “Don’t hurt yourself, Mom.”

  “This is the best thing. The Lord has blessed you with a gift, and He’s creating a path for more to see it.”

  She brings the holy spirit into everything. “The theater has a thousand seats,” I brag.

  “We knew this would be your path. Didn’t we? I knew it the first time I saw you onstage as Mary Magdalene.”

  “We did know. Thank you for letting me be here.”

  “Of course; I trust you and your aunt.”

  “Are you proud of me?” I ask, feeling small.

  She laughs. “How could I not be? I’m so proud of my daughter.”

  I shut my eyes. I lied to my friends, ruined any chance with Yazmin, probably have Tess planning my death, all to hear that. That she’s proud of her daughter.

  And what will I have to do for her to be proud of her son?

  Act Two: Grease

  Twelve

  Friday, October 11

  5:35 P.M.

  I’m trying to enjoy this moment. It’s not every day that you stand in front of your first dressing room station at the School of Performing Arts. I know it’s mine by the card taped to the mirror with my name in cursive. This is my station. This is my chair. I earned this spot. The two weeks of rehearsals
leading up to this dressing room station were brutal. Rehearsals during school, after school, on weekends. I’m exhausted. I’m behind on homework. I’m having the best time of my life.

  Over this two-week rehearsal process, I’ve really come into my own. Well, not exactly my own. Nobody is impressed by a newly transitioned guy with a family who doesn’t accept him. I’ve come into my character. No more bit parts like Confident Guy and Party Guy. Now I am the Infamous August Greene, a student at the School of Performing Arts with talent and confidence, who’s quick to the joke and flirty, and who doesn’t have a lot of backstory.

  The future is bright for the Infamous AG. Already booking a lead role at SPA, and the sky’s the limit. Basically, I’ve become the social media version of myself. Fake it until you make it, right? I can act big and bold and confident until I am those things.

  Tech rehearsal for Grease starts tomorrow. Tech week is when we move into the theater and the sets are put up, lights are programmed, sound is checked, costumes are finalized, and the band gets added. Something always goes wrong. Most things go wrong. And the only thing guaranteed about tech week is blood, sweat, and lots of tears.

  I hear “Auuuugust” from the hallway. Meena is coming after me. I must be late for something. She wasn’t kidding that first week of school: Meena is a hell of a stage manager. The devil doesn’t wear Prada—she carries a clipboard. And does not suffer fools. “Everyone is waiting onstage. Where’s your head?”

  “Just taking in the scenery,” I admit, then snap a picture of my station to post later. It’s all about capturing the moments of tech and putting together a multiple-picture post with a sappy—yet humble—caption. My seven hundred followers will be inspired. I’m already writing the post in my head.

  “Come on, mister,” she says, pulling on my shirtsleeve. “You think you like this view, wait until you stand on the stage.”

  We walk fast, nearly running, down the hallway. Meena has been at every rehearsal and serves as the glue holding this ship together. I can’t wait to see her flex her management skills all over this week. It’s already obvious she takes pride in her walkie-talkie headset. “Found the missing greaser, be there now,” she says into the mic. We arrive at the double doors leading to the stage and Meena stops. She looks at me and smiles. “You ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” I say. I’ve seen Theater One, but not from the stage. She pushes the doors open and I step into the light. The stage is washed with bright spotlights, making it hard to see. A thousand empty seats face me—the fluorescent orange upholstery almost offensive to the eye. In one week, they’ll be full. We have three shows. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. All sold out. My parents are coming on Friday night.

  “Thanks for joining, August. Now we can begin,” Mr. Daniels says. I walk over to the huddle of actors around our teacher and director.

  Meena covers her walkie-talkie mic and whispers, “Eagle starting the speech.”

  “Actors, we have made it to the final stretch. Thank you for your hard work over the weeks,” Mr. Daniels says. Everyone claps politely. He continues, “But this, as you know, will be a demanding week. I want you to get plenty of sleep, eat good meals, and take care of yourself. We don’t want anyone getting sick. Well, maybe the understudies do,” he jokes. People laugh nervously.

  Mr. Daniels finds Meena. “Please regale everyone with the schedule.”

  She weaves through the people and takes her place beside Mr. Daniels. “Tech starts tomorrow. This week will be backbreaking, soul-crushing. Someone won’t make it out—”

  “Meena,” Mr. Daniels cuts in. “The schedule will be fine for now.”

  “Right.” She looks at her clipboard. “Actors have tomorrow off as the set and lights are put into place. Your call time on Sunday is ten. In the morning. Don’t be late. We’ll be doing a cue-to-cue for the lighting, sitzprobe, then a stumble-through.”

  My heart starts beating. Cue-to-cues are boring; it’s just standing in place so they can move the lights and program the sound, then moving on to the next scene. But the sitzprobe—when we finally sing with the band—is the most exciting moment. Then the stumble through is a mess but helps us get our bearings. I’m now living for Sunday.

  Mr. Daniels clears his throat. “The seats are empty now, but soon they will be full of people looking to get away from their problems, to be entertained, to escape from life for a couple of hours. Grease is pure entertainment. Can we give the audience some summer loving? Some beauty school dropout? Some fun? Can we give them that?”

  Everyone yells in the affirmative.

  “You’ve all worked hard, and I thank you for that. This week you must work harder, and that may sound impossible, but you can do it. Your discipline and focus will get you ahead in this business. Now, go home and get some rest. See you on Sunday.”

  Mr. Daniels walks offstage and Meena fast-walks behind him, whispering into her walkie-talkie.

  Jamaal turns around and smiles. “Nobleman August,” he says. “To Old John’s or not to Old John’s? That is the question.”

  Jamaal believes he was Shakespeare in a past life. This belief influences his speech, movements, and sense of importance. He’s attractive and straight, a deadly combo in theater. I’m still deciding if the Shakespeare thing gets the attention of girls, or if they ignore it because he’s so good-looking.

  “When it comes to Old John’s, the answer is always yes,” I say, then we fist bump. When Jamaal isn’t busy channeling his past life, he’s a great Kenickie and probably the nicest guy I’ve ever met.

  Before heading out, I take a picture of the empty seats—both for my montage post and to send to my mom. I text her the picture and say: SEE YOU IN SEVEN DAYS!

  I’m acting like my parents’ upcoming visit is exciting, but I’m more nervous about playing the role of their daughter than Rizzo. They are driving up on Friday for the last show and spending the night at a hotel in Times Square. For one night, I will play the role of their daughter. It’s only a show and dinner after. As much as it hurts that they don’t accept me, I do miss my mom. I can’t wait to hug her after the show.

  She writes back immediately: Can’t wait to see you shine but not ready to see your short hair. ☹

  An emoji? That’s new. I didn’t teach her that.

  I called Mom last week and told her I was going to cut my hair short for my role. A perfect cover-up for having short hair—thank you, Rizzo. Mom fought against it—always preferring my hair long—and suggested a wig. I told her the director made me. When in doubt, blame the director. My hair has grown out a bit—my curls are the perfect length for Rizzo. After my parents leave, I’m going to a real barbershop and getting a haircut—a gift to myself for surviving both the musical and my parents’ visit.

  Jamaal and I wait outside the school for the rest of the cast. It’s already dark out—the sun now sets before we get out of rehearsal. Fall is here, and without much notice, it became hoodie and leather-jacket weather. Soon it will be puffy-coat weather.

  “Can you keep-eth a secret?” Jamaal asks. Sometimes sharing a soul with Shakespeare is just adding “eth” to the ends of words.

  “I can try-eth,” I say.

  “I’m crushing on Yazmin hard.”

  My heart sinks. Yazmin ghosted me after the auditions. She’s friendly to my face—which is good because we’re in a show together—but no more texts, tamale lunches, or even eye contact. I’ve accepted that I ruined any chance with her by getting Rizzo, but I haven’t stopped liking her. How do you unlike someone?

  “Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?” I ask, pretending not to know.

  “She says they’ve been fighting. Anyway, I’m only looking for a showmance.”

  “Maybe Tess?” I offer.

  “Her and Justin have something going.”

  “Oh,” I say, stunned. I’m behind in my gossip. Anna is dropping the ball.

  Jamaal hops off the wall and stands face-to-face with me. “Maybe you could talk to Yaz for me?
See what you can find out?”

  I almost laugh, but hold it in. I’m never having that conversation with her. “Sure,” I say, wanting to be Jamaal’s friend.

  “Thanks, man,” he says, then gives me a hug.

  “Whoa, what’s happening here?” Elijah yells, emerging from the school with the group behind him.

  “We’re hugging it out,” Jamaal says. Elijah joins and the others do, too.

  There’s an unexplainable bonding that happens within a cast. We get so close during the show, like going through a war together. It’s weird and hard to explain, but when the last performance is over, I miss the cast as much as I miss the show. The bond is so real. There are inside jokes, games, and drama unique to each show. And there’s one thing that can end the bond: a showmance.

  Showmances are a real thing. The whirlwind of the rehearsal and shows brings people together. Sometimes really closely. Showmances are micro-relationships that typically don’t last longer than the final bow. Or after the closing party. I’ve never had a showmance, or even a showcrush. I’ve seen them not cause trouble, and I have seen them end the cast bond.

  We walk in a tight—and loud—pack down Amsterdam Avenue toward Old John’s. Elijah is telling me about something, but I’m too busy thinking about what Jamaal asked me to do. I’ve packed up my feelings about Yaz and put them away, but this just brought them back.

  As we pass by a bodega, Justin Sudds jumps out from behind the outdoor refrigerator. “GOT YOU,” he yells while hitting Kelsey with a water gun.

  “Dammit,” she yells, playfully frustrated. Our cast is embroiled in a heated game of Assassins. During the lunch break during a long Saturday rehearsal, we walked to the dollar store and got brightly colored water guns. Everyone drew names for targets, and the only rule is you have to hit your target off school grounds. That means preparation, planning, and execution. People have gone to great lengths to hit their target. Waiting for hours outside apartments or gyms.