“We still can,” Randy says to Mom, getting on his feet. He moves toward the door.
“You can’t stop me from leaving,” I say.
“Wanna bet?” he says, stepping toward me.
“Stop!” Mom screams. We freeze in place. “Let her leave,” she says quietly. Randy sits back down. I look at my parents, so sad, so willing to lose me rather than question their religion.
Before I walk out, I turn around. I should say something. There’s so much I want to say, but would they hear it? Mom’s not looking, but Randy has his eyes on me. I shake my head and walk out of my parents’ house for the last time.
I stomp down the driveway. I’m feeling no sadness, only anger. My parents were going to send me away to be fixed. They think I need brainwashing because they are brainwashed. I disgust them, but they disgust me. I can’t believe them, and they don’t believe me.
I walk along the sidewalk and punch the air. Anger burns inside me, and I need to let it out. I kick the curb. The pain in my foot feels good. My parents think I’m broken. Randy and his dumb this beer can bullshit. I push a trash can down.
If they only knew how it felt. How much I’ve struggled. Why won’t they try to see it from my side? Why would I put myself through all of this? I walk by a brick mailbox and punch it, the dry rock tearing the skin of my knuckle. I punch again with the other fist. Both knuckles are red, and the painful sting feels good.
My reality is that I was born in the wrong body. Their reality is an old book full of rules, and if you follow the rules then you go to heaven. How real is that? More real than me? I kick a car tire and my toe gets stuck in the hubcap, sending me to the ground. Perfect.
I pull myself up and take a deep breath. I need to calm down. I continue heading east and stop trying to fight the street. I walk my familiar route to the Wawa gas station, about a mile from my parents’ house, thinking about my parents. They think I’m sick. They think I’m wrong. But when I lived in their reality, I felt wrong.
I should call my aunt, but I don’t want to talk. I can’t bring myself to tell her that my parents don’t want me in their life. They will never be proud of me again. They will never hug me again. I turn the corner and see the gas station in the distance.
I sit at the picnic table near the dumpster. I don’t know what to do next. I can’t go home ever again—I’m done with my parents. And I can’t go back to school because Joshua Downs will fire me, and I’ll become the joke of SPA. I have nowhere to go. I have nothing left.
I pull out the soda I’d just bought from the Wawa before coming outside and sitting down. I stood in the medicine aisle for a few minutes staring at the bottles of Advil, my thoughts as dark as when I lived in West Grove. I guess they didn’t go away. I didn’t buy the pills, but I still could.
The sun lowers, and the streetlights come on. I don’t have energy—my arms and legs are too heavy to move. My phone keeps dinging in my backpack, but I can’t bring myself to look. I feel too empty. Maybe I can take a nap on this bench. I’ve seen others do it. I pull up my hoodie and lay my head on my backpack.
A couple of minutes later, I hear, “August?”
I look up and see my friend. Is this a dream? “Hugo?”
“Yeah, buddy, so good to see you,” he says. I stand up and we hug. I can’t believe my best friend from my old school is here.
“Seriously, August, you look really freaking cool.”
“You do too,” I say. He’s wearing a Pokémon shirt and cargo pants.
“I know,” he says.
“What are you doing here?”
“I knew where to find you,” he says, sitting down across from me.
“You were looking for me?”
“Your friend Juliet DM’ed me. She thought you could use a friend. I was going to drive by your house, but I thought I’d check the Wawa first.” He takes my soda and drinks. He always did that.
“Is it weird to see me like this?”
“Like yourself?” he asks, smiling.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was transgender.”
“I’m sure you had your reasons,” he says.
“I didn’t want to lose you as a friend. That was my reason.”
“I would have never done that, man. Never.”
I’m amazed at how seamlessly he’s using my name and pronouns. “My parents did. I’ve lost my parents,” I say.
“That’s why you came back here?”
“I needed to confront them and find out the truth.”
“And did you?” he asks.
“My truth is my parents were going to send me to conversion therapy. They think I’m sick and broken.”
He shakes his head. “I disagree.”
We always used to argue; it was fun. “Then what is my truth?” I ask.
“Your truth is that you have unaccepting parents. And that really sucks.”
I sit back. He’s right. It does suck. I thought I could be good enough and they would accept me. Succeed enough and they would love me. I played the role of their daughter; I played the role of Rizzo—I put on so many acts for them. I didn’t want to play any of those roles. But I did it for them.
“Hey, August, congrats on the Conversion thing. I read the articles you posted. So incredible. You’re famous!”
“You found me online?” I ask.
He shrugs, proud of himself. “It wasn’t that tough. You liked one of my photos a while back and I did some digging.”
“I did?” I don’t remember that. Maybe I wanted him to find me. “But why didn’t you reach out?”
He shrugs. “You looked so happy. New fancy school. All those New York parties. I figured you didn’t need West Grove, and you didn’t need me.”
I think of my posts. So bright and cheery. Not really the most accurate representation of my life. Especially between my parents and Conversion. “I have been putting on acts for everyone,” I admit. “It’s not real.”
“It isn’t?” he asks, like it never occurred to him. “Well, your friends all look cool. Like, really cool.”
I think about my friends. And Maggie. I never showed them my true self, always acting. They showed me their real selves, even when they were messy, and I loved them more. “I’ve made some good friends, but none as good as you.”
“We go way back. I knew you before you were famous,” he says proudly. “Tell me about some of your fancy New York friends.”
“Well, my friend Meena—she reminds me of you—likes weird stuff without apology. And there’s Anna—she’s always got the gossip, and the biggest heart. Elijah, he’s the nicest guy who was in a commercial for Gushers.”
“Wait, you mean Gushers guy?”
“Yes, he’s so cool,” I say, feeling the darkness lifting. “And Juliet, who called you—she’s my fairy trans-sister.”
“That’s what I love about you, August,” he says. “You’re so good at loving people, finding interesting things about them, and accepting them for who they are. My parents are always trying to change me. And my girlfriend, too. But you never did that. You just accepted me for me, always.”
“Opposite of my parents, too,” I joke. Then I think of Aunt Lil and her pineapples. Always welcoming, even when her family wouldn’t welcome her truth. Sometimes the best things about us come from our broken places.
“Wait, girlfriend?” I ask.
He blushes. “Peggy Mitchell?”
“You did it! You got a girlfriend! I’m happy for you, Hugo. And I miss you.”
“You too, man,” he says. “Need a ride to the bus station?”
11:58 P.M.
After a long bus ride and a Lyft, I walk through my aunt’s front door, exhausted and relieved to be back.
“Welcome home,” Aunt Lil yells from the kitchen. “You have a guest.”
Juliet and Aunt Lil are sitting at the kitchen table with empty teacups.
“Hi,” I say, stunned.
“August,” Juliet says. “You didn’t tell me your aunt was
Lillian Brooks.”
“You know my aunt?”
“Of course. She’s kind of famous.”
“Oh, stop,” Aunt Lil says, getting up and collecting the dishes. “August, you have a very sweet friend here.”
I smile at Juliet. “I agree.”
“Well, she’s invited over anytime.” Aunt Lil hugs me and it feels like home. “I’ll be in my studio if you need me.”
“You’re my forever favorite aunt,” I say. Aunt Lil heads upstairs, and I sit down with Juliet. “Thank you for calling Hugo. That saved me.”
“I was worried about you. Your parents aren’t the most affirming people in your life.”
I nod, struggling to find the words, too upset to cry. “They will never accept me,” I say. Juliet shakes her head, like she knew that already. “They think I’m broken.”
“You aren’t. You know that, right?”
“Things got dark before Hugo showed up. I was thinking of hurting myself.”
“I’ve thought about it, too,” she says. “In the hard times, when my life felt out of control, I thought at least I could have control over that.” A tear goes down her cheek.
“That’s how it felt,” I say.
“I understand, August, I do. But that would leave the world empty of your light. And you have such a bright light. You have so much ahead of you—it’s so obvious. We need you here.”
I bury my face in my hands. “I went looking for my truth, and my truth is so sad. Nothing like what I show online or walking down the hall.”
She pets my head. “Your parents aren’t going to accept you, and now you must accept that. But it doesn’t define you. That’s not who you are.”
“I don’t know who I am,” I say, tired of the Infamous and the Famous August Greene.
“I can imagine,” she says. “Your life has been moving so fast. No time to process anything and work through the grief of your parents.”
“How do you have it figured out?” I ask.
“Oh, I don’t, August. Does anyone? My story is different from yours. When I transitioned, my parents were supportive, and my friends were, too. Everyone was so happy for me. But all their support and love didn’t make me feel less alone. Then I became too self-conscious to act. I retreated to quiet art rooms where I felt safe. But I was isolating, and I knew it.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“I went online. And met a guy. He said he was a freshman at NYU. He wanted to mentor me, and I believed him, which is weird because I don’t believe anyone. Maybe I wanted to believe him. I went to his place one night and didn’t tell anyone. He lived in a tiny apartment around Union Square. He showed me his art and poured red wine. Red wine, I thought, how adult. We sat down and looked at my portfolio and talked until the wine kicked in. Then we started kissing.”
She pauses, and I take her hand. I don’t know where this is going, but it doesn’t sound good. “I told him I was trans, and he kind of lost it. He was mad.” She squeezes my hand. “He didn’t hurt me, I got out fine. But it felt like I lost a part of myself in that apartment.”
“I’m glad you’re okay.”
“I kind of retreated more into my shell. My friends”—she pauses—“our friends are pretty caught up in their own stuff. They didn’t notice that I was a ghost of myself. Then you came to school, and you needed help. And I wanted to help you on your journey. You gave me a reason to be less invisible.”
“I did?” I ask.
“You helped me, and your aunt told me how you helped her come out to her sister. Your truth isn’t your parents, or onstage, or online. Your truth is in your heart. You’re a good guy, August. You care about people and dream big. You don’t have to pretend to be someone else for people to accept you.”
I put my head down, ashamed of all the roles I have been playing.
“August,” she says, her eyes finding mine. “You have been through a lot. You need to process those feelings. You need to work through your traumas, not just stuff them away and act like everything is great. I want you to heal. Will you think about getting help?”
The way Juliet looks at me, with big eyes, wanting me to be better. “I’ll think about it,” I say.
“And if you ever have those dark feelings, will you promise to call me?”
I nod. “I promise.”
Before Juliet leaves, I call Aunt Lil downstairs.
“What? I’m in my groove.”
“Aunt Lil, I’m going to ask you a question and you have to say yes.”
“I’m not doing that,” she jokes.
“Juliet is a talented artist who needs a mentor. Someone she can trust. Will you be her mentor?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I can mentor,” she stammers.
“Can you just say yes? For me?” I beg Aunt Lil. “Juliet saved my life.”
“Yes, of course. Juliet, come over next week for tea and snacks. Are you vegan?”
“Obviously,” Juliet says.
“There you go,” I say, smiling the biggest I have all night.
Juliet gives me a hug. “See, August, you have a big heart—lead with that. No act needed.”
I nod. She’s right.
Twenty-Three
Sunday, October 27
11:50 A.M.
Knocking wakes me. Aunt Lil opens the door and smiles. “Hey, kiddo, just wanted to check up on you.”
“I don’t feel great,” I admit.
“I brought you a bran and quinoa muffin,” she says.
“That’s supposed to help?” I kid.
She sets the plate down beside me and sits down on the bed. “Want to talk?”
“I feel . . .” I pause. “I feel like I don’t have a family.”
“Well, now I feel like crap,” she says.
“I feel lost without my parents. Maybe I was only performing for them. Maybe I should quit acting.”
“Oh, August,” she says. “If I painted to make other people happy, I’d be doing watercolors of ponds and ducks. We create for ourselves.”
I shake my head. Rub my eyes. “I acted to not be myself.”
“Well, it’s time to flip the script.” Her eyes light up. “Look at that pun.”
“I don’t know who I am.”
“You’re August Freaking Greene.”
“And I don’t know who that is. Not really. I’ve played characters for my mom, for my friends, teachers, everyone.”
“Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Why don’t you journal about it? That’s what people suggest to me, and I never do it. But maybe you could try. Who is August?”
I nod. “Like a character study?”
“Sure, I don’t know, but sounds good.”
“I could try,” I say. I don’t have plans for today. Well, ignoring my tower of homework and running my monologue before tomorrow’s make-or-break rehearsal.
Aunt Lil stands up. “I’m headed to brunch with D. We’ll be back in a couple hours. Will you be all right?”
I poke at the muffin—it doesn’t look good. “I’ll probably starve, but I’ll be fine.”
“Call me if you need me, or if you think about going to Pennsylvania.”
“Don’t worry about me.”
“That’s my job,” she says.
I grab my notebook from my desk—reachable from my bed, thanks to the close quarters of New York living—and open to a blank page. I’ve never done a character study.
I stare at the page until I hear the front door shut. The place is all mine now. I close my notebook and bring it downstairs. I can think better once I’ve eaten. While rummaging in the kitchen for anything edible, I open the cabinet over the refrigerator—the one with the medicine—in hopes of finding a stash of Halloween candy. But now it’s empty. All the medicine removed. I shut the door like I just got caught. Panic washes over me. Did Aunt Lil hide the pills because of me? Does she not trust me now?
I pace around the apartment, feeling embarrassed. Exposed. Like some poor suicidal kid who ev
eryone needs to be careful around. I feel sick and ashamed that my aunt thinks I’m a risk to myself. I hate that I scared her, and Juliet. Maybe I wanted my parents to realize how much their cruel words and beliefs hurt me. And just maybe, they would hurt as much as me.
But it only would have hurt the people who really care about me. Trying to end my life wouldn’t teach my parents anything, only confirm their backward beliefs. I get mad at myself. Mad that I love my parents so much. Mad that I can’t unlove them. I grab an apple and sit down at the kitchen table.
I start with “AUGUST GREENE: A Character Study” and go from there. I write for an hour and eat three gluten-free toaster waffles with almond butter and honey. It almost tastes like real food. Once I write the last sentence, I head upstairs and pass out.
5:35 P.M.
Another knock wakes me up. The sun is setting. I’ve been asleep for hours. Guess I needed it. “Come on downstairs,” Aunt Lil shouts from the other side of the door. I put on some fresh clothes, grab my notebook, and head down.
Aunt Lil and Davina are seated at the dining room table.
“There’s the sleepyhead,” Davina says.
“Come sit,” Aunt Lil says. And I do.
Davina starts fanning herself. “It’s getting hot in here, being so close to this star.”
“I can turn on the air conditioner,” I joke.
“Can I speak forwardly?” she asks.
I look away, ashamed. “Yeah.”
“I had religious and unaccepting parents, too. As soon as I had enough money, I moved from Georgia to New York. Now, you would think meeting other queer people and feeling safe to be out would make me instantly happy, healthy, and more comfortable, right?”
“Sure,” I say.
“I wish it was that easy,” Davina says. “I still had all these ideas in my head that being gay was wrong. And meeting people like me only made me feel worse. I couldn’t get past all my old thoughts.”
“What did you do?” I ask.
“Worked on it. It took having honest conversations with people who supported me, and therapy, and time. Eventually, I became who I really am.” She pauses and thinks. “You, my boy, are a gift to this world, and you’re experiencing a lot at once. From beginning your transition to your new school and everything else.”
Act Cool Page 24
