I walk down a paved sidewalk covered in fallen yellow and brown leaves and think about the audition. And Yaz. Kenickie would be the perfect role for me, and Yaz would be my Rizzo. Maybe I should go for it. I could think of something to tell my parents, but they might not believe me. To stay here, to pursue my dream, I need to be the daughter my parents expect me to be. But Yaz really got in my head.

I’m looking forward to a quiet night. I need time to decide what to do; I need time to prepare for my audition. When I walk in the door, I expect to see Aunt Lil, and maybe Davina, making dinner and drinking wine. Instead, there’s a handful of people crowded around the kitchen table. Some standing, some seated, and everyone with a drink in their hand.

“August! Is that you?” my aunt calls out when she hears the door. “Everyone, my nephew is here!” She navigates around the bodies and chairs—wineglass in hand—and puts her arm around me. Her cheeks are flushed from the wine. “This is August!”

Several variations of “Hello, August” come my way from the group. They smile at me with pinkish teeth, slightly stained from the red wine.

“What’s going on here?” I ask.

“It’s my turn to host the Park Slope feminist book club. I told you about this last week!”

How could I have forgotten? I would have stayed out longer. “What’s the book?”

Davina holds it up. “Bad Feminist by Roxane Gay!”

“Have you read it, August?” someone asks.

“No,” I admit.

“Neither did I,” a woman wearing a leather vest says. “Come hang out anyway.”

I drop my bag and enter the feminist book club. I sit in the chair by the leather-vested funny lady. “I’m Ginger,” she says, her voice deep and scratchy.

“Watch out for Ginger,” Aunt Lil warns.

“Who, me? I’m harmless!” Ginger says with her hands up. “Your auntie here, she’s a real damp cloth, right?”

“She runs a tight ship,” I joke.

“And how is life at the School of Performing Arts?”

“Stressful. But amazing. You know so much about me,” I say, giving my aunt a playful look. “And I know nothing about you.”

“What!” Ginger yells. “Lil doesn’t talk about us endlessly?”

I shake my head. “Not even once.”

“Oh my god.” Ginger fakes disgust. “What about Davina?”

“She talks about you even less.”

The table laughs. It feels good. Ginger says, “Well, sir, I own a bar in Brooklyn. You should come by.” She looks at Lil. “When you’re of age, of course. And this is my best half, Celeste.”

“Hi, August,” Celeste says. “I’m an artist like your aunt, but not as good.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Aunt Lil says.

“How about,” Celeste tries again, “not as celebrated.”

Aunt Lil considers it. “That’s fair.”