I hear her exhale. She’s probably standing in the kitchen, leaning on the counter. Or organizing something—that’s what she does when she’s nervous. “Randy is going to drive up there tomorrow morning and get you. We need to have a long talk.”

Bad sign. Very bad sign.

“Wait. Mom, please, just hear me out,” I say.

“I’m listening,” Mom says, waiting for me to speak.

I clear my throat, raise my voice to the girl level. For my mom, I will play the part of her daughter. “If I go to the School of Performing Arts, I’ll have a real shot at being a successful actress. This is everything you want for me. I’m sorry I ran away, but my audition was today, and I knew if I told you—”

“I wouldn’t have let you go. You’re correct about that.”

“And I need this, Mom.”

She’s quiet. Thinking? Talking to my stepdad?

“All your talk about changing to a boy. I need to know that’s not going to happen there. You’re a girl. I know how liberal that city is. Randy isn’t happy.”

Oh, Randy. Stepdad of the year. He barely talks to me. Barely even looks at me. I want to scream, but I’m not throwing away my shot.

“If I let you stay, I need you to promise me one thing.”

“Anything, Mom.”

“Promise that you won’t change into a boy. Can you do that?”

My big dream won’t be stopped by this little problem. I will do anything for my dream.

“I promise, Mom.”

Two

Two

Tuesday, September 10

11:17 A.M.

As of this morning, I’m officially a student at the School of Performing Arts. Hard to believe that I was in Pennsylvania three days ago. Harder to believe I’m here now. If getting on that bus to New York was the scariest thing I’ve ever done, walking into SPA on my first day of school was a close second.

My locker opens after two attempts at the combination. I survived my morning classes. Assuming I survive lunch, my acting classes are in the afternoon. My day started extra early in the office of the guidance counselor—and his glorious sideburns—sorting out my schedule. Mr. Esteban rolled up his sleeves and made me a schedule for my junior year at SPA. It wasn’t easy for him—lots of squeezing me into full classes, overriding systems, and playing a mean game of “Schedule Tetris,” as he called it. Mr. Esteban took extra care to make sure my deadname—my legal name—wasn’t listed on any attendance sheets or forms. He smiled like he was proud of me. What world have I stepped into?