“Oh yes we will, thank you,” he says, then kisses my forehead. It feels good to help a friend. We go inside an old church that’s now an Off-Broadway theater. I guess church-to-theater is a real thing in New York. The lobby is cramped with men and a couple of bachelorette parties wearing plastic penises all over their bodies. While Elijah runs to the bathroom, I pick up the tickets at the will-call window.

The grumpy old man behind the window looks at me. “You over eighteen?” he asks.

“I’m nineteen,” I lie with a smile.

“Sure thing,” he says, then winks. He hands me the tickets and tries to hold on too long. I back away and dash off looking for Elijah, trying to not spill drinks out of people’s hands. This is not your typical Broadway crowd. They are younger, livelier, and wearing more plastic penises.

I find Elijah by the makeshift bar trying to make eyes with a group of guys nearby. “August, man, this is exactly what I needed,” he says, then returns his attention to smiling at the guys. Having the cool senior as a friend is thrilling—it never gets old. I take a selfie of us under the Naked Boys Singing sign and post it. I hope Elijah shares it.

“Doors are now open,” someone announces, and the mob starts funneling into the theater. I look around. It’s a small and beat-up theater, probably fits a hundred people. We find our seats—the only seats I could afford—in the last row. The upholstery is ripped, with stuffing coming out. The fabric on the armrests is barely holding on. When we sit, our butts sink down to the floor.

Elijah smiles at me and says, “Ah, the charm of Off-Broadway.”

“This is very far from Broadway,” I say, pretending like I’ve seen more than one Broadway show.

“You know it’s called Off-Broadway because of seating capacity?” Elijah asks. “Any theater under five hundred seats is Off-Broadway, and anything above is Broadway.”

“I knew that,” I say, even though I didn’t, in fact, know that.

“You did?” he questions.

When it comes to theater, I feel behind, but too embarrassed to admit it. “Yes.” I confirm my lie.

He tilts his head. “Are you doing that thing where you act in real life right now?”

He’s referring our conversation last night. “No,” I say.

“You sure?” he asks, flipping through his Playbill—which is two pages long.

I get frustrated that he doesn’t believe me. I don’t know how to respond.

“August,” he says, “what’s wrong with being the new guy at school? People appreciate fresh eyes. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

I don’t like fresh eyes. The newbie isn’t cool. I’m not interested in that role. “I don’t want to be known as that.”

“But you are like that. You are literally the new guy,” he says.