I look out the window in my bedroom. It’s great to see the street, but not so great to hear it. Day and night, there are car honks, trash trucks, and people disagreeing loudly. Late one night, I even heard a couple agreeing very loudly. The only sounds from my window in Pennsylvania were dogs barking and trains passing. On wild nights, a raccoon would knock over the trash cans.

My bedroom is tiny—I think it’s meant to be an office. Aunt Lil turned the master bedroom on the second floor into an art studio, her bedroom is on the ground floor, and my room has enough space for a twin bed, a small desk, and a dresser. My aunt used to rent this room to artists, until someone left jars of pee under the bed. I jokingly promised her I would always empty my pee jars.

I stare at the pineapple lamp on my desk, trying to summon energy to do homework. I feel drained from the week, and that show—it should be called Happiness Is for Other People but Not Trans People. I think about writing a letter to the playwright about my experience but decide to waste time on my phone instead. Don’t want to brag, but I now have fifty followers on Instagram. Awfully close to internet famous.

Anna texted a few times this weekend. Her friend wrote a play (of course she has a playwright friend), and she wanted me to be her date. I declined the invitation and told her I was hanging with my aunt. I needed time to think. I don’t understand why she didn’t tell me her dad was Mr. Daniels. Why is it a big deal? There must be more to the story. I want to talk to her about it, but I’m unsure how to bring it up.

I open Aunt Lil’s old laptop. I have one assignment left—the paper about my super-objective for Mr. Daniels. Won’t everybody say they want to be a famous actor? And how will he grade this paper? I want to act, not write papers about acting.

Aunt Lil knocks, then enters. “Hey, August, that better not be homework.”

“No way,” I say, happy to shut the computer.

Aunt Lil starts making my bed, which is pointless ’cause I’m going to sleep soon. I’ve noticed she gets fidgety when she needs to say something. “I spoke to your mom today. She says you haven’t called?”

“Oh, I guess I got busy,” I say.

“She misses you,” Aunt Lil whispers.

“And I miss her, too.” I miss her in the mornings while getting ready for school, when I need help, and when Aunt Lil cooks all vegetables. I miss her hugs.

“She asked if we could face chat her tonight. Can we do that now?”