I step into my limelight.

This is my first time performing the song in front of everyone. Our acting classes and after-school rehearsals focused on dancing and group scenes. I had an hour session with our musical theater teacher, Mr. Gonzales, working the song. And I’ve rehearsed it about a million times in front of my mirror.

The music begins and I straighten my back, stick out my chest, and hold my prop—a notebook—close to my chest binder. I’m Rizzo. Dealing with big issues. Always feeling different from others. I start singing—There are worse things I could do—and channel the hopelessness of Rizzo. I put everything into the performance, pretending the theater is full. I imagine my mom in the audience and I’m singing to her. As the song ends, I step back into my limelight and hit the last note perfectly.

The actors clap loudly and yell my name. A tear finds its way out of my eye. I wipe it away, hoping no one saw. I’m overwhelmed by the song—it reveals Rizzo’s heart and leaves me unsettled—but the tear came from standing in this light after so much darkness.

Mr. Daniels clears his throat over the mic. My heart pauses in fear of his notes. “Very nice, August.” My heart starts again. “We need to work on a few things, but very nice.”

“Thank you, August,” Meena says. “That’s lunch. One hour. Don’t be late.”

1:50 P.M.

After lunch, I took a walk to get some fresh air. Well, as fresh as you can get in New York. I’m almost back in the building when I nearly collide with Juliet.

“Hey,” I say, feeling disoriented to see her at school on a Sunday.

“Hi there, August. Oh, right, this is the dreaded tech week. How’s it going?”

“Meena has only lost her shit once.”

“Only once?” she jokes. “Well, you still have another twenty hours, right?”

“Thirty hours? A lifetime?”

“I’m sure you’re having fun,” she says, switching her purse from one shoulder to the other. “Any showmances?”

“Tess and Justin.”

“Too predictable,” she says.

“Hey, Juliet,” I say, getting shy. “You said I could ask you about transgender stuff?”

“Absolutely,” she says, smiling.

“Do you ever think, I mean, when you think about . . .” I trail off and stall out. Talking about my body isn’t natural to me. The words are more eloquent in my head. “I’m missing a part, and I wish I had that part, and I worry I won’t feel complete without it,” I say.

She puts a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, August, you sweet thing.”

“Do you feel that way?”

She nods. “I do feel that way. Well, different than you, but the same. But not every trans person does. It varies from person to person.”