Good question. My deal is complicated, and I don’t know how much I should tell the assistant of the man who has my future in his hands. I need to play this cool. For Anna, I’ll be the Chill Guy. Unfazed, unworried, aloof. I sit back, spread my legs. “My deal is that I moved here. Living with my aunt.”

She tilts her head. “You just moved?”

“Yeah,” I say, so very chill-like. “But I’ve been here tons. Most weekends,” I lie.

She gives me a look of major doubt. “How many Broadway shows have you seen?” she asks.

“Lost count,” I answer. Translation: I lost count of the bootleg recordings I’ve watched on my old scratched-up laptop.

“Vague,” she announces. “I’ve seen twelve. Where do you live?”

My aunt told me the neighborhood last night, but I can’t remember. “Somewhere in Brooklyn off the orange subway line,” I say.

“Orange subway line?” she repeats.

One thing is clear: Chill Guy isn’t working. I don’t know enough to act like I don’t care. Time to flip the script. For Anna, I’m Bright-Eyed New Guy. Naive to my new world and easy to excite.

“Actually,” I admit, “it’s my first day in New York.”

“I knew it.” Anna throws her hands up. “A real-life New York virgin!”

My face reddens up. “Go easy on me.”

“No promises,” she says, then pulls out sunglasses from her purse. The glasses are oversized—cartoonishly big—but stylish. I see my reflection in the lenses, almost unrecognizable from two days ago. Goodbye, flowery shirt and long skirt; hello, white tee and jeans. I run my hand through my short hair, still not used to it. Aunt Lil gave me a haircut last night. We printed out a picture of Shawn Mendes for inspiration and she did her best. The sides of my head are super short with a nice patch of curly hair on the top. Nothing like Shawn, but a lot more like me.

My phone starts vibrating in my lap. Anna peeks at the screen. “Answer it,” she says.

“It’s probably a robocall.”

“Dude, I can see it’s your mom. Maybe she wants to, I don’t know, hear how your audition went?”

Or maybe she wants to know where the hell I am. She’s worried, and she loves me, but she doesn’t approve of me being transgender. I send the call to voicemail. “I’ll tell her about it later,” I say, losing my cool a little.

“Someone’s hangry,” Anna says, then pulls a tinfoil ball from her purse. “Do you know what a bagel is, newbie?”

“Of course I know what a bagel is,” I say, but lean into my newbie status: “And of course I’ve never had one.”

She laughs and unwraps the bagel. “That’s cream cheese.”