She’s referring to the Insta handle I created yesterday. “I go by both,” I brag.

“Am I still your only follower?”

“You are,” I brag again.

“We’re about to change all of that.” She laces her arm through mine. “Are you ready to enter the lunchroom Thunderdome?”

I can tell our friendship is exciting to her. I’m something different, and she likes something different. “I’m ready,” I say, actually not ready at all.

“Walk cool,” she says, then pushes the double doors open, revealing a big room with high ceilings and circular tables. Posters on the walls promote arts events, not the next sports game like my old school. Everyone at the tables looks cool. Already famous. Heads turn and watch us walk by. I straighten my posture and push my shoulders back—playing confident—and try not to look at anyone. Anna tells me things about the people we pass. “That kid was on an episode of Law and Order” and “That girl’s sister was last season’s Bachelorette.”

I can feel eyes on me. They must wonder who I am—and to be honest, I don’t really know who I am either. August has no history, only future. He’s an underdeveloped character. I don’t want to be the New Guy—that character isn’t cool. I want to be like everyone in this cafeteria. This is the role I need to learn, and any good character development starts with research. So that’s what I’m doing—researching my role as a student at SPA.

We arrive at a table with four people in the middle of the lunchroom, near the trash cans. Anna puts her arm around my shoulder—I’m more of a prop than a person. “Everyone, this is August Greene from Pennsylvania. He’s here to conquer the world. I told you about his audition in the group chat—he’s genius level.” She sits down, and I take the seat next to her—happy to be her prop if she keeps calling me genius. “Don’t be shy; introduce yourselves to August.”

The girl across from me smiles warmly. She’s wearing bright clothing, and her hair is in pigtails. “I’m Meena. Pronouns are she and her. Tech theater major.”

“You stage manage?” I ask.

Her face lights up. “I’m lead SM for the fall musical this year.”

“That’s the most important job of the show,” I say. “Without the crew, the actors would never make it to the stage, have lights shining on our faces, sound, or a set. We’d pretty much be helpless.”

“I like him,” Meena says to Anna. “He can stay.”

“Jack,” the person beside Anna announces, then strikes a pose. “They, them pronouns. Dance major. Tell me I’m important, too,” Jack jokes.

“You’re so important,” I confirm. Jack looks like Alvin Ailey and carries themself like a dancer with excellent posture.