I stop. The room is silent. Extra silent in comparison to me. I steady my voice. “BEFORE GOD I SWEAR THIS CREED: MY RIFLE AND MYSELF ARE THE DEFENDERS OF MY COUNTRY. . . .”

When I’m done, I drop the rifle and lower my head.

There’s one clap, then more. It lasts a few seconds. There have only been a couple of monologues receiving applause. And now, mine is one of them. I look up, smile, and walk back to my seat feeling like I won.

“Well done, August,” Mr. Daniels says.

The last four people go. All good performances. No claps. My mind races at what it all means. As soon as the bell rings, Anna is at my desk. “Holy shit, August. What the hell was that? It was awesome. The whole army thing. So smart. Such great commentary on transgender people not being able to serve in the military. Seriously, dude, you gave me chills.”

My jaw drops. “That wasn’t the point of my monologue. Is that what everyone thinks?” I ask, losing my cool.

“Don’t know. Got to jet.”

I remain seated as the room empties out. Even Mr. Daniels has vacated. Did my acting earn the applause? Or was it my unintentional political statement? My shoulders drop. There’s no way to know. Before taking off, I check my phone. My heart stops. Yazmin followed me back. And sent me a message.

NotYourYaz: Hey august, that monologue was dope. Wanna go to a party on Saturday night?

5:54 P.M.

By the time I get home, I have twenty new followers, pushing me over a hundred. I guess my monologue got people talking. I can hear music coming from Aunt Lil’s art studio. “Hello?” I say.

“We’re in my studio,” she yells from upstairs. “Come up.”

“Promise we’re decent,” Davina calls out. They laugh. I drop my bag and head upstairs. Aunt Lil’s art studio is huge, with all the trappings: cups filled with brushes, cloth tarp on the ground with colorful splatters, a bookcase filled with art books, and canvases everywhere—some mid-paint, some finished, and others wrapped up in brown paper leaning against the wall.

My aunt’s painting has a style. She uses bright colors surrounded in darkness. There’s a large one on the wall with a woman wearing a fancy dress, smoking a cigarette, and holding a drink. Behind her is a scary man, probably the devil. Same with a painting on the floor of a queen, wearing lots of diamonds but standing in a burnt field. I’m unsettled by her paintings. And surprised not to see a single pineapple. “Don’t you dare tell your mom,” Aunt Lil says, handing me a glass of champagne. “But tonight, we’re celebrating.”

I’ve never had champagne. Only beer. And alcohol at parties, but I’ve never been drunk. “What are we celebrating?”