Act Cool

by Tobly McSmith

  “Says who?”

  “Says me.”

  Mr. Daniels frowns. “I thought this would make you happy.”

  “I don’t know how I feel about it.”

  “That’s fair. And I do worry about you skipping steps in your actor’s journey. There’s so much for you to learn about your art and the business. Please don’t take this harshly, but I’m not convinced you are ready.”

  Skip steps? Not ready? He doesn’t know me, or what I’ve been through. “I think I’m ready,” I say defiantly.

  “Very well,” he says. “Pressure is an interesting thing. Some actors can handle it, others cannot. The ability to act is only half the battle of being an actor. A great deal of your time will be spent in auditions, callbacks, rehearsals. And the strong, the ones who not only handle pressure but shine brighter because of it, those are the ones who make it.”

  “Mr. Daniels?” I say as he gets to his feet. “Why did you tell me they were coming?”

  “You didn’t want to know?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” I admit. Part of me thinks I would’ve been better not knowing. I have enough to deal with knowing my parents are in the audience. “Ignorance is bliss, right?”

  “Is it really bliss, Mr. Greene? I wouldn’t know.”

  I fast-walk back the dressing room—I’m behind schedule. I haven’t even started my preshow rituals. As soon as I enter the dressing room, Elijah jumps in front of me. “What was that about?”

  I know Elijah well enough to know he won’t let up—I need to tell him something. “They fired the Nickelodeon star from Conversion,” I blurt out, cutting to the chase to buy myself some time.

  “HOLY SHIT,” he says, way too loud. Everyone stops talking and looks over. Elijah smiles, and they return to their business. In whispered tones, he asks, “And they want to hire you? Are you going to be in a Joshua Downs play and make everyone insanely jealous?”

  I whisper even softer, “They’re sending people to come see the show.”

  “Who?” he asks.

  “People.”

  “August.”

  “The producer and casting director.”

  “Holy shit,” he says again, almost yelling.

  “I don’t want the part,” I say, while trying to edge past Elijah to my changing station.

  “You have lost your mind.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to only play trans characters. There are too few of them to build a career. Name a trans character on Broadway.”

  “Hedwig,” he says proudly.

  “So, one?”

  “Angel in Rent.”

  “Okay, two.”

  He thinks, gives up. “You. You could be on Broadway. Dude, do you understand what this means?”

  I don’t have time to understand what that means right now. “You can’t tell anyone.”

  He frowns. “Jamaal?”

  “No.”

  “Anna?”

  “No way. I’m serious. I have to go. I’m behind,” I say, not waiting for a response. I sit down at my station and look at myself in the mirror. No makeup on yet. I start readying my foundation. I hate wearing makeup, but it’s acting.

  As I settle into my routine, I think about pressure. I’m feeling it now. Getting a chance to be in a workshop that could go to Broadway would be big-time. But my parents would never let it happen. The minute they found out, I wouldn’t be playing a trans boy in conversion therapy, I’d be a trans boy in conversion therapy.

  Jamaal slides his chair over. “Hey, August,” he says, checking himself out in my mirror. “You ready for this after-party?”

  “Can’t wait,” I say. I didn’t tell the cast I wasn’t going to the party. I’ll just make up an excuse on the group text tomorrow. My phone dings. A text from my aunt. It’s a picture of my parents in front of the school. They are here.

  “All right, gang, for the last time,” Meena’s voice booms from the intercom. “Five minutes to places!”

  “Thanks, five,” we all yell, then cheer and holler. Guys bang on the counters. The energy is up, up, up. Closing night is always magical. No one is nervous about their lines or entrances; we’re all ready to enjoy our last time. The last show is like a bunch of little painful deaths. When each scene or song ends, you know it’s the last time. Twenty sad little goodbyes.

  We take our places in the wings, ready to hit the stage. Lots of smiles, hand-holding, and hugging. Everyone is celebrating like it’s over, but to me, this is the only performance that matters. Seating is first come, first served, so I have no idea where my parents are, but all that matters is that Mom is out there. The most important audience of all.

  The lights go dark, our cue to take the stage in first position. My heart is beating hard. The crowd is going nuts—double the energy of the other nights. Lots of whistles, people screaming their friends’ names, and an airhorn goes off.

  I find my chair on stage left, shut my eyes, and take a deep breath.

  The music starts, the lights get bright, and the show begins.

  8:59 P.M.

  The dressing room is empty. Everyone is outside getting love from their friends and family. I can hear the crew breaking down the sets as quick as they can. The show is done, Grease is over, and now I need to give the performance of my life. I can barely zip my backpack—filled with things from my changing station and my next costume.

  I take the stairs up to the gender-neutral bathroom to change. Less of a chance someone will walk in here and question my outfit. I briefly considered changing outside in between cars, but it’s too cold and I don’t want to explain myself to the cops. I need to be quick—Aunt Lil is escorting my parents to the restaurant, but I don’t want to leave them alone too long. I put on a blouse with tiny yellow flowers and a long blue-jean skirt—the exact outfit I left Pennsylvania wearing. I borrowed my aunt’s long trench coat to hide my costume as much as possible.

  Before leaving the restroom, I stop at the full-length mirror, open my coat, and look at my body. The old me—here for an encore performance. I reach into my pocket—almost forgot the last touch—and pull out a pink barrette. I put it on and frown at myself in the mirror.

  I am my mother’s daughter. I love my parents and theater and Jesus—in that order. Insecure, uncomfortable, unsure, and confused. I pretend to be a girl because my parents have given me no choice. They have imprisoned me in this identity because they can’t accept my reality.

  I feel a panic attack coming on. I remind myself that I have escaped. I just need to play this role for a couple of hours. Not days, months, or years. Just appetizer, dinner, and dessert. I take a deep breath and exit the bathroom.

  I fast-walk down Amsterdam Avenue to Olympic Flame Diner, about five blocks from the school. I needed a nearby restaurant that nobody from SPA would be at. Elijah told me the Olympic Flame is the hangout for Juilliard. The odds of anyone coming here at this time of night are low.

  Before going inside, I check my phone. Forty new followers and texts from Elijah and Juliet wishing me luck. It makes things easier knowing that they are thinking about me. I wish I could be at the after-party celebrating with the cast. I wish I could be anywhere other than here.

  I walk inside and spot Mom across the diner. I wave and walk past the hostess, careful to carry myself like a girl. I missed my mom’s smile. Big as ever. Her arms open and I walk directly into them. There’s nothing better than Mom’s hug. So comforting and warm, like home. The smell of her floral perfume makes me miss her more. She rubs my back as she hugs me, and I’m sure we are making a scene.

  She lets go of me, but keeps her hands on my shoulders and looks at me. Or my hair, rather. It’s the perfect length for Rizzo. Masculine when styled, feminine when wrapped up with a bow. Or with a dumb pink barrette. Her eyes tear up. “I’m so happy to see you,” she says.

  “Me too,” I say, tearing up, too.

  “Can I get a hug?” Randy says, putting his arm around me. He’s a bigger guy—football playe
r in high school, fried food eater the rest of his life. “You’re a real star now,” he says.

  As my parents take their seats across the table, I sit down next to Aunt Lil and try to gauge her mood. “Having fun?”

  She leans over and whispers, “I picked the wrong time to stop drinking.”

  I give her a half hug. “We can do this.”

  “You look . . .” She searches for the right words. “Like shit.”

  I laugh, loud.

  “What’s so funny?” Mom asks while putting her napkin in her lap. Her hair is the same—curly locks to her shoulders. She wore one of her fancy dresses—blue with white trim made of felt material they stopped making dresses with decades ago. Mom doesn’t spend money on clothes.

  “You know Aunt Lil,” I say. “She’s always got something funny to say.”

  Mom nods. “Lil, you should have invited Davina.”

  I look at my aunt, stunned. Did she tell them about her partner?

  “Oh yeah,” Aunt Lil says, fidgeting with her silverware. “I mentioned Davina earlier, you know, my art dealer who comes over for dinner occasionally.”

  I nod, agreeing to the story. I need to settle into the scene. I need to call on my improv skills and stay focused. “It’s so good to see you,” I say to my parents. “I miss you.”

  Mom reaches across and holds my hand. “Miss you more, sweetie.”

  Randy takes a drink from his beer bottle. Like Mom, he dressed up in his Sunday finest. Mustard-yellow button-up shirt with his brown suit. “What an impressive school,” Randy says, foam from his beer hanging on his mustache. He wipes it away. “That theater must have had a thousand people.”

  “Can you believe it?” I ask.

  Mom smiles. “We knew we’d see you in big theaters.”

  “You’ve got talent,” Randy says, beaming.

  “I can tell you have improved. It’s clear,” Mom adds.

  “Oh, definitely,” he says.

  “We’re proud of you,” Mom says.

  It’s raining compliments, and I let the words wash over me. Their admiring looks fill me with love that I’ve missed more than I realized. I rearrange my silverware, not knowing how to respond. “Thanks,” I say. “Means so much for you to see the school. For you to know that I’m doing okay.”

  “Okay?” Aunt Lil questions. “Kid, you’re thriving.”

  “But, Audrey, can you explain something?” Mom says, picking her purse up from the floor and digging through it. She pulls out the Playbill and hands it to me. “Look what they put your name as.” She points at my bio. “A. Greene?”

  I had anticipated this question and made sure my bio was ambiguous and empty of pronouns. But there was no way to hide my name. I went with “A. Greene” but knew that would raise questions. “That was my mistake,” I say. “I thought the cast was putting an initial as their first name. Turns out, they didn’t.”

  “It’s your name. Such an important detail,” Mom says.

  “Make a call, honey,” Randy says. That’s his famous line. Whenever something was happening at my school or church, Randy suggested she call someone to complain.

  “That’s not needed,” I say. “The show is over.”

  While the waiter refills our water glasses, I scan the room for anyone from school. There’s an older couple. Some families. And a group of kids, but they don’t look familiar. I lucked out.

  “I can’t believe you live in this city,” Mom says. “I tell everyone at church about it.”

  “Oh yeah,” Randy says, biting into a pickle. Where did he get pickles? “Bragging all the time about her daughter in the big city.”

  Each time my parents misgender or deadname me, my aunt shifts in her chair, uncomfortable. I look at her and smile—hoping she knows I’m fine.

  “Any boyfriends?” Mom asks. A usual question for her.

  “No time for anything like that,” I say.

  “How about you, Lil? Got any boyfriends you want us to meet?”

  “No time for anything like that,” she repeats.

  Mom shakes her head. “Both of you, too focused on art and acting.” She smiles at Randy. He somehow has another pickle. “You need to make room in your heart for love, too.”

  I want to change the subject. I wrote out and memorized a list of conversation-starters for these moments. “Hey, Mom, how’s church?”

  “Oh, the same. Keeping me busy. Don’t want to toot my horn, but I’ve been elected leader of the Moms’ Bible Study.”

  “Congrats,” I say.

  Mom gets shy. “It’s just thirty or so moms. I’m happy to be in service.”

  New York is a religious place—so many different religions and places of worship. But no one talks about it at school. At least not like they did back home. And as far as I know, I haven’t met another Evangelical Christian.

  “I should remember this,” Mom says. “What church do you two go to here?”

  “Uh,” I say, looking at Aunt Lil.

  “Uh,” she says back to me.

  “Oh!” I nearly shout, happy to come up with an acceptable answer. “We watch an online service!”

  “That’s wonderful,” Mom says, smiling, her eyes wide and bright blue. I’ve never seen her this happy. I want to live in this moment forever.

  “Guess what,” Randy says. “We’re thinking about staying in New York another day.”

  Mom claps excitedly. “We want to see more of your city. And you. Would you like that, honey?”

  “I would,” I say, mostly telling the truth. But I have no other girl outfits. I’ll need to improvise. Maybe go to a thrift store in the morning.

  Mom looks at Aunt Lil. “Would that be all right with you?”

  “Of course,” she says with a really big (and really fake) smile.

  “August?” I hear from behind me. I shut my eyes and pray someone is yelling about their favorite summer month. “August!” I hear again.

  I watch Mom’s eyes moving between whoever just ruined my life and me. I turn around and see Sandra Dee herself, Kelsey Whitton, and her parents. “Hey,” I say, then stand up and hug her while my mind goes into overdrive figuring out how to get out of this situation.

  “What the hell are you wearing?” Kelsey asks loudly.

  “Are these your parents?” I ask, attempting to avoid the question.

  “Yes, they are.” She presents them proudly. “Dad makes us come to this diner even though the baklava tastes like wet paper bags.” She looks at me and shakes her head. “Is that a barrette in your hair? August. What’s up?”

  I turn and present my parents to them. “This is my family,” I say, hoping Kelsey can figure out to keep her mouth shut.

  “Nice to meet you,” she says to my family.

  “You were Rizzo,” I hear from behind Kelsey.

  I look at her mom. “Yes,” I confirm.

  “You were fantastic, sweetie.”

  “Thanks,” I say, wishing I had an eject button from this moment.

  Kelsey’s mom walks over to my mom. “You must be so proud.”

  Kelsey follows her mom. “August has only been at SPA for two months. He’s a star!”

  I sit back down. No one at my table is responding. Finally, Aunt Lil says, “We are so proud of our star. Now if you will excuse us, we are going to get back to dinner.”

  “Of course,” Kelsey’s mom says, then heads back to the front of the diner.

  Kelsey looks at me again. Puts her hand on my shoulder. “We are going to talk about that outfit,” she says, then walks off.

  I hear every little sound of the restaurant. Knives scraping on plates. An old man laughing. A chair moving. No one at the table is talking. Mom’s face looks distressed. Randy is sitting back in his chair, arms crossed, face red.

  “August?” Mom asks, her voice shaky.

  “We asked one thing of you,” Randy says. “To not come up here and pretend to be a boy.”

  I feel my aunt’s hand squeeze my knee. It’s time to come c
lean. I sit up straight, tighten my muscles to handle the emotional blowback, and say, “My name is August.”

  “Your name is Audrey,” Mom says, a little too loud.

  “And I’m transgender,” I say, pushing back tears.

  Randy shifts in his chair. “We let you come here, and we asked one thing.”

  Mom points at Aunt Lil. “You lied to me, too. You are responsible for this behavior. She’s confused and you’re allowing her to act that way.”

  “Mom, Randy, whether you believe it or not, I’m transgender,” I say, my voice steady and low.

  Mom waves me off. “I’m not listening. Pastor Tim told you this was a sickness.”

  Sickness. The word makes my skin crawl. My stomach upset.

  “Tammie,” Aunt Lil says. “Your child is talented. Smart. Kind and loving. And a boy. A transgender boy who needs your support. Look how much he’s grown.”

  “Stop it. She’s a girl,” Mom says, not hearing anything.

  “No, HE isn’t,” Aunt Lil shoots back. She hesitates. Thinking about something, she says, “And I’m a lesbian.”

  We all look at Aunt Lil, shocked. At the perfectly wrong time, our food is delivered by our waiter, who’s trying to balance every plate on one tray. We all sit in awkward silence as the plates are put in front of us. Aunt Lil takes a big drink of water, probably wishing it were wine. I watch Mom’s face, wound tight, as she tries to process everything. My heart sinks when I realize my life in New York is over. As the last plate is set down, the waiter asks, “Are we good?”

  We are definitely not good.

  “Yes,” says Aunt Lil, the only one able to form words. Once the waiter is gone, she continues, “I’m gay, and I’ve always been. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose you. You’re my sister. My family. And Davina isn’t my art dealer, she’s my girlfriend. Well, she was. Long story.”

  Mom wipes tears away. “I can’t be here. I need to leave. Randy?”

  Aunt Lil leans forward, frantic. “I realize this isn’t the best way to tell you these things, but you’re going to lose both of us if you can’t accept who we are.”

  “That’s enough from you,” Randy says, helping Mom up. Hate boils in his eyes. It’s scary to see this side of him.