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.