“A boy can dream,” Elijah says, and we head outside to wait at the stage door—which for this Off-Broadway theater/soup kitchen is just the exit. Elijah stretches his back as we wait near a fire hydrant that’s been spray-painted gold. He stops. Looks at me. “You’re being weird. What’s up?”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“August, if we are going to be friends, you need to open up. I’ll wear you down. You won’t have a choice. So start talking.” He pinches my cheek to show his commitment.

I’m too embarrassed to tell him about my gender dysphoria. “I’m exhausted,” I say. Maybe it’s the rehearsals, or school, or maybe it’s carrying around my secrets. I just want to tell someone. So I take a deep breath and tell Elijah about my parents, the letter from the conversion therapy place, running away, and lying to my parents about transitioning. And I explain why I’m Rizzo. Why—despite the pressure from Tess and Yazmin—I had to audition for a girl part to not raise flags with my parents. And when I tell him all of this—which feels like one long monologue—I tell my friend most of my secrets.

After I finish talking, a funny thing happens. I feel lighter—like a weight has come off my shoulders, even if only temporarily, and I can stand up straight. I can tell by the way Elijah listened that he cares about me. That it’s hard to hear. This is what I was worried about—my friends pitying me. “Don’t feel sorry for me,” I say.

“Sorry?” Elijah asks, taken back. “Dude, that broke my heart. I feel sad for you.”

“And that’s why I haven’t told people at SPA. I don’t want them to feel bad for me.”

“I don’t feel bad for you; I respect you more now. You ran away from home and came to New York. You’re basically my hero. But what happens if your parents find out you transitioned?”

“I don’t know. I have a plan, and if it works, they won’t find out.”

“Care to share?”

“They are coming in Friday for the last show, where they will watch their daughter play Rizzo. After the show, my aunt will escort them to a restaurant near the school, where I’ll join them.”

He shrugs. “That’s not too bad.”

“But,” I continue, “when I meet them for dinner, I have to wear the clothes they know me in. A flowery shirt and skirt.”

“No.”

“I need to be their daughter.”

“Oh, August, that’s tough.”

“I’m more nervous for that performance than Grease. If I get it wrong, if they find out I’ve transitioned, they will bring me home. Or to conversion therapy.”

He puts his hand on my shoulder. “If you need help, I’m here for you.”