“What’s going on?” I ask, my heart in my throat.
“Joshua told me to tell you,” he starts, but hesitates.
“Just say it,” I say, bracing myself for impact.
“Joshua said your time would be best spent connecting with your character.”
I step back. “He doesn’t want me at tech rehearsal?”
Brady nods, unable to say it. I feel my knees go weak. “Look,” he says, trying to level with me. “You’re in, what? Six scenes. You know the blocking, you know the lines, you don’t need to be here. Joshua gets extra Joshua. This is probably for the best.”
Brady has a good heart. And he’s right; I don’t need to be here. Although feeling like I’m missing out will be unbearable. What will everyone say about me? This was my only chance to bond with the cast, and now that’s gone. “So I just go home?” I ask, hoping Brady has some advice on how to spend my day.
“It’s Saturday, and we have tomorrow off. I suggest you get ripped and have some fun.”
“You’ve worked with Joshua before?”
“A couple times. The producers like me, I suppose.”
“Does he always do this to actors? What he’s doing to me?”
Brady raises his eyebrows. “Pushing you to be a better actor?” he asks in Joshua’s dismissive Cali accent. “He’s eccentric.” Brady air quotes the word eccentric. “He usually sets his sights on an actor and does variations of this mind game. But it’s always different. Always surprising.”
That brings me weird relief. I’m not alone in this torture, and others have survived. “Does it help the actors?”
Brady grins. “Have you read the reviews for his shows?”
I shake my head. My mouth tastes sour.
“One more thing,” Brady says, hesitating again.
“Just say it,” I say, all out of fucks to give.
“He said that if you can’t deliver the monologue at Monday’s rehearsal, then the understudy goes on opening night.”
My mouth drops open. “Is he serious?”
“Afraid so, and I’ve seen him do that before.”
“But the understudy is cisgender,” I say. “Wasn’t the point of hiring me to have a transgender person play the role?” I ask, trying to make my case.
“I don’t think he cares.” Brady checks his phone. “I need to get back. See you Monday?”
“Maybe,” I say. Brady laughs—thinking it’s a joke. He takes off toward the theater and I walk outside. This is one of those moments I’ll remember forever—the bricks are red, the sky is blue, and I’ve never felt like such a failure in all my life. I need to clear my head. I walk in the direction of the subway, but I can’t go home. If I do, Aunt Lil will know I’m a failure.
I walk past the subway, too anxious to get on, and head toward Central Park. It’s a beautiful ten-block walk, giving me plenty of time to think. I want to call someone, but don’t want anyone to know. This is too embarrassing. Monday will not go well. There’s zero chance that I’ll perform the monologue to Joshua Downs’s liking no matter what I do. Set up to fail. Doomed. I shouldn’t have gone out for this part. When the understudy goes on Tuesday, everyone will find out. I’ll be the joke of the school. The trans boy who couldn’t even play the trans boy.
Once at the park, I walk down the cement path and hold my breath while passing the line of horse-drawn carriages. The smell of horse poop is overwhelming and reminds me of the cattle farms near West Grove. When I get to the street inside the park, I watch the joggers and bicyclists. The lawn is almost empty—too chilly for picnics in the park. I head to the duck pond, and pass by the climbing wall and chess tables.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous August Greene,” I hear from one of the tables. Mr. Daniels is sitting on a lawn chair with a battered chessboard. There’s an older Black man wearing sunglasses playing against him.
I forgot Mr. Daniels’s favorite weekend activity is chess in the park. “The one and only,” I say, mustering up enough energy to be human. Or act like one.
“One moment, son.” He studies the board. Moves a piece. “Checkmate, Willy. I got you this time.”
Willy claps twice, swears several times, then pulls out ten dollars from his pocket. Before he hands it to Mr. Daniels, he says, “I’m coming back in ten minutes to win this back.”
“You can certainly try,” Mr. Daniels says, slipping the bill into his coat pocket. He motions for me to sit in the lawn chair across from him. “Do you know how to play chess?”
There was a chessboard in the church’s rec room, but we always went for Operation or Connect 4. “Not a clue,” I admit.
“That’s a shame. It’s a great game to teach strategy. Teaches you to think ahead.” I watch as he resets the pieces on the board. “Shouldn’t you be at tech rehearsal?”
“I was told to leave,” I say, with my head down.
“Oh dear,” he says, looking concerned.
“You were right,” I say.
“I usually am,” he says, smiling.
“I skipped steps. I’m not good enough to be in this show.” Tears fight their way out of my eyes and wash away the smile on Mr. Daniels’s face. “I’m not a good actor. I only got the role in Conversion because I’m transgender. And now I’m going to get fired.”
Mr. Daniels hands me a tissue from his pocket. “I’ve heard that Joshua Downs can be, excuse my language, an asshole.”
I nod while blowing my nose.
“And his methods can be extreme.”
“I have this monologue, and no matter how many times we ran it, I couldn’t deliver what he wanted.”
“What does he want?”
“For me to connect with the character.”
“Ajax is a trans boy who gets sent to conversion therapy by his parents, correct?”
“Yes,” I say, allowing him to make the next move.
“And August is also a trans boy whose parents were going to send him to conversion therapy?”
“You knew about that?”
Mr. Daniels nods, thinking. “And Ajax ends his life after the monologue?”
I nod. “I’ve had thoughts about that as well.”
“Your aunt told me.”
“Did she tell you my shoe size, too?” I ask, ashamed he knew.
“The role of Ajax is filled with trauma. Much like the life of August. Maybe you can’t find Ajax’s truth because you haven’t faced your own?”
“I don’t use my own emotions when I act.”
Mr. Daniels lets out a laugh. “Ah yes, the August method.”
“It’s not a method,” I say, disgusted at myself for naming it.
He moves a chess piece. “When you were at your old school,” he says, searching for the words to not misgender me. “When you were a . . .”
“Before I transitioned,” I say.
“Yes, before you transitioned, you played the role of a girl every day. I could imagine it would be easier to play that role if you disconnected from your feelings. Otherwise, it might be too much?”
“Something like that,” I say, uncomfortable at how easily Mr. Daniels can read me.
“What you were doing wasn’t acting—it was surviving. You had no choice but to play that character. But you don’t play that role anymore. It’s time to come from a place of truth.”
“I don’t know how to connect with Ajax,” I admit.
“Mr. Greene, you can swear to me until your face is blue that you don’t connect with characters or use your emotions, but you can’t fool me. I saw you connect. I saw you use your emotions. And whether you knew it was happening or not, that’s what made you a good actor.”
“Then why can’t I use my emotions for Ajax?”
“Because you haven’t faced them. That’s what I’ve been pushing you toward this whole time. You need to face your truth; then you will find Ajax.”
“Checkmate,” I say.
Mr. Daniels frowns. “I do regret not pushing you to get help. I suppose I though
t if you kept focused on acting, you’d get better.”
“I don’t need help,” I say, frustrated. “I’ve got this.”
Willy starts slowly pacing around the table, wanting his chance to win back his ten dollars.
“August, do you know how the producers of Conversion found you? Did they tell you?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“It was me.”
“You?” I ask. “But you were worried about me skipping steps.”
“That was my warning to you.”
“Was it only because I’m transgender?”
“That certainly helped your case. But I knew you were up for it. I still think you are.”
“Did Anna convince you to let me into SPA?”
My question gets a loud laugh from him. “I love my daughter, but she doesn’t have that much sway with me. Believe it or not, I think you’re quite talented.”
I feel more tears coming, but I push them down.
“You have to believe in yourself, son.”
“I don’t know how,” I admit. Any confidence I had is gone.
“Face your truth. Even if it’s scary. When you believe in yourself and your talent, no one can take that away from you. But no one can give it to you either. No compliment, no role, no review. That is your journey.”
“My journey is into that chair to win my money back,” Willy says.
I stand up to leave. I need to face my truth. And my truth is in West Grove, Pennsylvania, probably reading the Bible right now. I need to confront them about sending me to conversion therapy. I need to know if they will ever accept me as their son.
I say goodbye to Mr. Daniels and head out of the park. An hour later, I’m in Penn Station watching a bus pull up. In four hours, the bus will drop me in a nearby town, and I’ll taxi to West Grove. I’ll be at my parents’ door by five. That’s about the time Mom would start making dinner. Randy will be watching sports in his recliner.
I get on the bus and take a window seat in the front. The bus is empty, maybe ten people. I pull out my phone. I should call Aunt Lil and tell her what I’m doing. But I know she won’t be happy. She thinks I’m at rehearsal until ten. If I can catch a bus back early enough, I won’t be too late. I can tell her the cast went out for dinner after. I hate lying, but she wouldn’t think this was a good plan.
I want to talk to someone, though. I put in my earbud and scroll through my phone, finally arriving at Juliet. There are two rings before a hesitant: “August?”
“Hi, Juliet, got any good chocolate chip cookie recipes?”
She laughs. “Of course, but I’m craving a snickerdoodle.”
My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten much today, only cereal this morning.
In the softest voice, to not disturb the other people on the bus, I tell her about Joshua Downs and the monologue, and how I’m going to face my truth. It feels like I’m telling her a wild dream I had, not my morning. When I get to the end, I ask, “What do you think?”
She takes a deep breath. “I don’t think this is the best idea, August.”
My heart sinks. Maybe I was expecting her to be proud of me for confronting my parents. For my brave journey toward the truth. “Why?” I ask.
“What if they make you stay?”
I look out at the New Jersey landscape—old factories and trees. “I’ll run away again,” I say. And I will.
“I would have gone with you. That’s in the job description of fairy trans-sister.”
“I appreciate that,” I say, and I really do. “But I’ll text you updates.”
“Please do. And August, no matter what your parents say, remember there’re a lot of people who love you for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
I put on some music and run through all the possibilities of what will happen when I show up at my parents’ doorstep. I imagine how surprised their faces will be when they open the door. They might not let me in—that’s a possibility. I’ll just stand outside and yell. Or they could let me in the house, and not let me back out. Randy is a big guy—he could easily overpower me. But like I told Juliet, I’ll run away.
Somewhere around the border of Pennsylvania, I fall asleep.
5:06 P.M.
On the taxi ride to my parents’ house, I look at the town that used to be my whole world. We pass my parents’ church, my old school, and small stores and fast-food restaurants. Everything looks old, run-down, and small. New York has changed the way I look at this town. No tall buildings. No Times Square. No possibilities.
The streets of my neighborhood are lined with cookie-cutter houses, all slight variations of each other. Nothing has changed about my street—American flags and green grass and so much space. Too much space. The car drops me off in front of my parents’ two-story blue-siding house. August never lived here. My dreams were so small here. But now my dreams are so big, so bright, so reachable that I will do anything for them.
I’m more nervous than I get right before a show.
I knock on the door and hear feet shuffling around the door. The light in the peephole disappears, then silence. They haven’t seen me presenting as a guy. I wonder what they’ll think of my jeans, hoodie, and leather jacket to go with my short hair.
“I know you’re there,” I say loudly.
The lock clicks and the door opens. I’m so nervous, I might faint. Mom is standing there, and Randy is behind her. They are less than welcoming.
“Come in,” Mom says. Randy keeps his distance, looking at me, saying nothing.
“I’m sorry to show up without letting you know, but I have some things I need to say.”
“A call would have been nice,” Randy says.
“Do you need anything?” Mom asks, always a caretaker.
“Water and the bathroom? I’ll meet you in the dining room?”
“Sure thing, Audrey,” Mom says, making my skin crawl at my deadname.
Once in the bathroom, I catch my reflection in the mirror. This house hasn’t changed one bit, and nearly every bit about me has changed. I splash water on my face and think about who I need to be for this scene. Should I be Tough Guy? Angry Guy? Any role but their daughter.
A bowl of stew and a glass of water wait for me in my usual place at the dining room table. Mom’s across from me with an open Bible in front of her, bright highlighted passages and scribbles in the margins. She studies that thing like there’s a quiz to get into heaven. Randy sits at the head of the table with his beer can.
I finish off the water in one long drink. When Mom goes to refill my cup, I start eating the stew. My hunger supersedes my anger or fear. Randy watches me but says nothing. The stew warms my stomach and reminds me of an average night in this house. The three of us at the table, eating, talking, and occasionally laughing. They loved to hear me talk about theater. I listened politely as they talked about church. I loved when my parents loved me. I want them to love me again.
Mom returns with my water and sits down. “Thanks,” I say, then wipe my mouth with my hoodie sleeve. The bowl is nearly empty. They study me—not used to my new look. I can see the wheels spinning in their heads. I clear my throat. “Why did you leave New York without saying goodbye?”
“I was so mad at you,” Mom says. “And your aunt.”
“For telling you the truth?” I ask.
“What truth? You are both misguided. This is serious. We have spent hours with Pastor Tim talking about what to do.”
My anger rises. I try to stay cool. “What does Pastor Tim say about me being transgender?”
Mom looks at Randy, who seems distant. “He thinks it’s a lie,” she says.
“A lie?” I repeat.
“Confusion,” Randy corrects her.
I shake my head. “There’s no confusion.”
“Feelings aren’t real,” Mom says. “Reality is created by God. Just because you feel like a boy, the reality is that you’re a girl. Biologically, you are a girl.”
“So my feelings aren’
t real. My gender dysphoria isn’t real? Every minute I hated being in dresses and skirts not real? The nights I cried myself to sleep feeling wrong aren’t real?”
Randy raises his hand. “This beer can is a beer can. It can’t decide it’s a coffee cup. It can’t make up its own reality.”
“You’re comparing my life to a beer can?”
He shakes his head. “I can’t get the senior citizen discount because I identify as an eighty-year-old man. Your mom can’t decide she’s a dragon.”
I sit back in my chair. Stunned.
Randy continues, “What would happen to society if we let people decide how they identify? People would be birds. They would marry animals. It would be moral chaos.”
“That’s dramatic,” I say.
“You’re sick, and you need spiritual help to get better.”
Mom puts her hand on my shoulder. “Pastor Tim says a life built upon imagination is false and destructive.”
“Destructive,” Randy says, wagging his finger. “That’s why there’re so many suicides.”
“That’s why you think transgender people die by suicide?” I ask.
“When they go against God, yes,” Randy says, pleased with himself.
Every part of me wants to scream. I think of Ajax. Being trans didn’t push him, his family did. “You know what causes suicides? Parents like you. You’re the reason. If you loved me, and accepted me, then maybe I wouldn’t have thought about it, too,” I say, shocked that I said it out loud.
“She’s sicker than we thought,” Randy says.
I stand up. “No, I’m fine. I’m better than I’ve ever been.”
“Don’t leave,” Mom says, getting to her feet.
I put on my backpack. I almost forgot to ask the question. “Were you going to send me to Brand New Day?” I ask. They look at each other, surprised. “I saw a letter.”
“What if we were?” Randy asks.
My stomach turns. “Those places are abusive and dangerous. Going there would have really hurt me.”
“You need to be fixed,” he says.
“You think I’m broken?” I look at Mom. “I just need to hear you say it. Were you going to send me?”
She sits back down and fold her hands, like she’s about to pray. Five seconds of silence pass before she says, “Yes.”
Act Cool Page 23
