She tilts her head. “You wear school supplies?”

“No,” I say with a laugh, imagining taping binders full of paper to myself and heading out into the world. “It’s a chest compression binder. To keep my chest flat and looking manly.” I flex to prove my point. “It’s like a really tight shirt. My binder is from Point of Pride, a nonprofit organization that donates binders to those who can’t afford them, or like me, whose mom would never allow them to buy one. And most of the binders are donated from trans guys after their top surgery.”

“That’s magnificent,” she says. “I’ll donate to them tonight.”

“That’s great,” I say. “But this binder never fit exactly right, and now I wear it ten hours a day. And I’m having trouble breathing. I hate to ask this—you do so much for me—but could I borrow money to buy some good ones?”

“Oh, honey, I love you,” Aunt Lil says. “I hate thinking about your organs getting smooshed together. I wish you didn’t have to wear those, but I understand. I’ll donate to you any day.” She searches around her desk and hands me a credit card. “Buy a couple binders. Good ones. And anything else you need.”

“Thank you,” I say, fighting back tears.

“Do you know why I love pineapples so much?”

I haven’t thought about it. “Because they are tart and sweet?”

“Just like me,” she says, laughing. “No—a long time ago, a sea captain would spear one into his yard to let his friends know they were welcome in his house. Pineapples became a symbol for hospitality. I want everyone to feel welcome in my house. Especially my family. You’re my family, and I’m taking care of you now. But when you’re a famous actor, I expect a house in the Hamptons. Deal?”

I curl my toes together in my shoes—that’s my trick to fight off tears. I have no idea why my aunt is so loving and giving. No idea why I’m so lucky. “Deal,” I say, and give her a big hug.

“I love you, August. You’re going to do great things. I believe in you.”

“Sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve to be here,” I admit.

“You, my boy,” she says, then boops my nose, “deserve it more than anyone else.”

I nod, wishing I could believe her. An offensive smell, sour and rotten, hits my nose and derails our moment. “Did you just fart?” I ask.

Her nose wiggles as she smells. “That’s dinner. We’re having seitan.”

“Satan?” I say back

“Seitan is wheat gluten that tastes like steak.”

“Is it pronounced ‘Satan’ because that’s who created it as punishment for our sins?”

Aunt Lil shrugs. “Ketchup helps.”

Seven

Seven

Saturday, September 21

7:46 P.M.