Mom signed the transfer papers yesterday. I hate lying to my parents—it’s not what I want to do. I missed Mom this morning. She has a cute first-day-of-school tradition of pancakes and packed lunches. A handwritten note in my sandwich bag. But Aunt Lil made a tofu scramble and ordered a Lyft so I didn’t have to deal with the subway on my first day. That’s a good tradition, too.

Before closing my locker door, I catch my reflection in the mirror glued inside. Talk about a fresh start. New hair, new clothes, new name, new school, new everything. And now I’m a student at that school. I can’t believe I’m here. It’s all happening so fast, but it helps to pretend I’m a character in a play—this play just happens to be my life.

The final bell rings as I head toward the stairs—the cafeteria is on the seventh floor. This school is big. All-caps BIG. Mr. Esteban said there are nearly a thousand students—triple the size of my old school and ten times louder. This school is loud. All-caps LOUD. In between classes, the hallways are filled with people talking, singing, dancing, making videos, and an occasional instrument will play out. The first-day excitement is palpable.

From the outside, SPA looks more like a business than a school—it’s a cement building with windows lining the seven stories. The inside feels a regular high school—with white-brick walls and faded yellow lockers—but also a museum with glass cases displaying art projects, sculptures at nearly every corner, and paintings on the walls. The school feels both historic and in need of a remodel.

My calves are burning when I get to the seventh floor. This school has only two elevators—everyone takes the stairs. My legs are going to be jacked by the end of this year. Every ounce of me wants to go hide in an empty classroom instead of facing the lunchroom—but Anna texted and asked to have lunch together.

A poster over a water fountain catches my eye. It reads: “Join the LGBTQIA+ Club! Everyone welcome!” This school is so open and accepting. You can be yourself. No need to hide who you are here. This poster would not fly at West Grove. There’s no LGBTQIA+ Club there, but even if there were, they wouldn’t advertise. West Grove is the opposite of out.

“Augustus!” Anna yells from down the hall. I smile and wave—relieved that I don’t have to look for her in the cafeteria. “My god, you exist!”

“I do exist,” I confirm, happy to finally be seen. Anna’s first-day outfit is well planned—black skirt, Ramones shirt, black Converse. I’m wearing jeans and a black shirt, both purchased at thrift stores near Aunt Lil’s apartment.

“Welcome to SPA, August,” she says, then hugs me. “Or should I say the infamous August Greene?”