After ten minutes of slowly inching ahead in line, we’re close enough to the doors to feel the air conditioners. My pocket vibrates again. I pull my phone out and send Mom’s call to voicemail, hoping Anna didn’t see.

“Out with it, August: Why won’t you pick up your mom’s calls?”

“I’ll talk to her later,” I say.

“Don’t be mad, but Mr. Daniels said they aren’t cool with you being transgender.”

My face burns hot. I didn’t think Aunt Lil would tell him. “Yeah,” I say, deciding how much to disclose. I need to keep the Wide-Eyed New Guy thing going and not veer into Trans Teen Runaway. “They are religious,” I offer.

“Oh,” she says.

“The evangelical kind.”

“Got it.”

My plan was to never tell my parents that I’m transgender. Maybe I’d send a letter when I was eighteen and out of their house, but not before. The problem with that plan was, once I knew I was trans, the urge to transition got louder every day. I couldn’t wait years. I needed to tell my parents. I needed them to know. And I needed to say it out loud.

It was a week before my fourteenth birthday. Dinner table. My mom asked what I wanted for my birthday and I said, “Actually . . . I want to transition. I was born in the wrong body. I’m a boy. God made a mistake.” My mom said, “God never makes mistakes.” My stepdad stayed quiet. For my birthday, I got a new dress—and was told not to talk about that boy stuff again. God made me a girl for a reason. End of conversation.

“You ready?” Anna asks, handing me my first Broadway ticket. We pass through the metal detectors into the lobby. The air conditioner is on high, chilling the sweat on the back of my shirt and sending a shiver up my spine. An usher scans my ticket. Someone puts a Playbill program in my hand as Anna holds the other, leading the way.

I can feel her watching my face. She wants to see my reaction to walking into my first Broadway theater. I need to overact, but that’s easy—this place is magical. I look around, mouth open. Endless rows of red seats. Red curtain three stories tall. Balcony with more red seats. The ceiling, far away, with swirls of fancy blue-and-white etchings mimicking clouds. Two of the biggest chandeliers I’ve ever seen. When I look at Anna, she snaps another picture. “Baby’s first Broadway,” she says.