Comedy Girl

  Disoriented, I wiped my eyes. The credits were rolling. “Great film,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah, the credits get four stars!”

  For years I’d fantasized about seeing a movie with Gavin and now that it had actually happened, I was a struggling narcoleptic.

  He was annoyed and walked ahead. I caught up to him as he threw the popcorn in the lobby trash.

  “I only have three more shows. Then I’m free to be your love slave forever!”

  Even though I still wanted to be a stand-up comic, I knew there wasn’t another Gavin Baldwin in the whole wide world and I didn’t want to lose him.

  The next night Ben slacked off in the ID department.

  “How’d you get in?” I scolded Jazzy, who was comfortably sitting at a stage-side table with Ricky.

  “Eddie’s brother likes blondes,” she said with a smirk. “You’ll be fabulous,” Jazzy said, patting my arm.

  “But I completely bombed last night.”

  “Get out! Ben told me you rocked the house like Tina Turner!”

  “Only at the end, and only by accident. Did Gavin sneak in too?” I asked, eyeballing the crowd.

  “He doesn’t have to. He’s eighteen.”

  “I know, but he’s still illegal here. They have his mug shot out front.”

  “Speaking of mug shots, I saw your photo in the lobby with the other comedians. You look so glam!”

  “Jazzy, please sit in the back, way in the back—like maybe in the alley.”

  I retreated to my usual table, frustrated and nervous. Hopefully the stage lights would blind me from seeing Jazzy and Ricky. But to be safe, I decided I’d only deliver my material to the middle section of the audience. In the meantime I bit my nails and twirled my hair until my name was called.

  “And here’s Trixie Shapiro!” Ben announced offstage.

  I ran up the aisle and stepped onstage. I grabbed the microphone and gazed above the crowd, not making eye contact.

  “My boyfriend and I slept together at the movie theater,” I began. Male audience members hooped and hollered. “Yep…Pauly Shore starred in another picture!”

  The audience laughed.

  “Anybody here on a date?” I continued.

  “I am!” Jazzy said, waving her hand wildly.

  Jazzy? She wasn’t supposed to respond. How could I improvise with someone I already knew? Normally I would ask, “Where are you from?” But I already knew the answer. I clutched the microphone with all my might. My hands started to perspire. “Where did the two of you meet?” I imagined myself asking. “At Eddie’s party!” Jazzy would say. “You know that, Trixie!”

  I twisted my hair, gazing blankly at my best friend. What could I say? I was losing my material again, just like at Talent Night. But this time I’d get an F for “Fired!”

  “How long have you been dating?” I imagined asking. “Duh, Trixie, we’re best friends!” Jazzy would answer in front of the whole audience. “Best friends” would echo over and over, making me feel like I was a traveling medicine man whose Fountain of Youth elixir is revealed to be lemonade. I shifted back and forth, obsessively fingering my hair and staring hypnotically at Jazzy. What could I say?

  “Yes,” she repeated. “I’m on a date!”

  “He’s very handsome; does he have a brother?” I finally asked, frozen.

  “No, but I can be available after I drop her off!” Ricky shouted back. The audience laughed and Jazzy slugged him in the arm.

  I had to make a decision. Freeze, or take back control. This was my job—a fifteen-minute one—and I had to be a professional. I couldn’t choke again. It was my stage and my audience, and I needed to shun my best friend to keep her from torpedoing my act.

  I quickly turned my attention away from her.

  “Are you on a date?” I asked an older couple, seated on the opposite side of the stage.

  “No, we’re married,” the woman answered.

  “Wow, a date that you have to pay for—for the rest of your life!”

  The couple and the audience laughed. I delivered the next set of my material to the right side of the stage and then I turned to the left side, only I focused above the heads of the audience. I went back into my routine and ignored Jazzy and Ricky for the rest of the show. I completely concentrated on making a connection with the whole audience, and forgetting the individual patter. After a while, I forgot they were there—until the show was over.

  “You’re a star!” Jazzy proclaimed, squeezing my hand with all her might.

  “You weren’t supposed to talk—I almost lost everything.”

  “Relax! You were great. And that Tucker guy was filthy! I loved it.”

  “I know, that’s why I can’t let Sarge here. She thinks Chaplin’s bleeps comics’ language like they do on Comedy Central.”

  “You totally stoked,” Ricky said, squeezing me tight.

  “You got a laugh yourself,” I replied. “You should try Open Mike—”

  “No way. Being a smart-ass is one thing, but getting up in front of all those people is quite another.”

  Audience members congratulated me while the waitresses emptied ashtrays and the guests arriving for the second show streamed in.

  “You’re so totally Comedy Central,” Jazzy said, nudging me.

  Suddenly my dark-haired hipster walked into the room, along with Sam Chapman.

  “Tell him I didn’t invite you!” I whispered to Jazzy.

  “Well, Trix,” Jazzy improvised. “Here’s the two dollars Sarge asked me to drop off for you in case of emergency. Lucky we were in the neighborhood.” Jazzy left mouthing the words, “You were awesome.”

  “I’m turning white,” I whispered to Gavin. “Jazzy spoke to me during my set and I was this close to blanking out,” I said, inching my thumb and finger together.

  “Do I know you?” Gavin asked dramatically.

  “Gavin, I’m freaking out,” I confessed. “I’m panicking. Would you mind coming tomorrow?”

  “Do you know this girl?” Gavin asked Sam.

  “Never seen her before in my life,” Sam replied.

  “I just need more time. Please, I’ll leave you tickets for tomorrow,” I begged.

  “Come here often?” Gavin asked.

  “After this show, I guarantee I’ll never be back.”

  “I’ve heard it’s hard for some comics to perform in front of their friends. Are you a comic, or a waitress?”

  “VIPs get to sit in the front, plebeians in the kitchen next to the emergency exit. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have to find a substitute for tonight’s show.”

  “Hey, sugar,” Gavin called as I started to leave. “Can I get some curly fries and your number?”

  “As a matter of fact you can. Because after this show I’m going to be dumped by my boyfriend!”

  I frantically left for the bathroom.

  I stood in front of the mirror, terrified. I didn’t want to perform. What if every punch line was delivered into dead air? What if my song didn’t save me this time?

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve performed before, many times now,” I told myself, “and I’ve performed in front of Janson, Ben, and now Jazzy and Ricky. I can do this! I’ve got to. For me and for Gavin.”

  I hurried out, feeling braver now. Several audience members were straggling into the theater. But Gavin was standing in the hallway with Sam. He wasn’t smiling.

  “Hey listen,” he said, distracted, his hands in his pockets. “Me and Sam are going to head over to his house for poker.”

  “I’ll leave you tickets for tomorrow? It’s my last show.”

  “Thanks, but that’s okay. I’m busy.”

  “Well…,” I began, feeling a knot in my stomach. “I can come by before the show?”

  “I’ve got things—”

  “After the show?”

  “Listen, I gotta run.”

  My heart sank. He was leaving. Really leaving! Was he leaving for good? The thought was pure torture. I wa
s getting what I had wished for, but not in the way I had wished.

  “No, don’t go. I’ll be okay, really,” I begged. “Just sit in the back.”

  “’Bye,” he said, opening the front door.

  “Gavin!” I called, running over to him.

  But he pulled away without a kiss, without a hug. Without a word.

  My heart stopped.

  “Gavin, please don’t go! Please don’t go! Not like this!” I yelled into the parking lot. “Please don’t leave like this!”

  “Trixie, you’re on!” Ben called.

  “You can’t keep letting hecklers in here,” I scolded, wiping a tear from my welling eyes. “They ruin the show.”

  I awoke the next morning thinking, as always, of Gavin. But today my heart felt different. It felt empty.

  I immediately picked up the phone.

  “No, he’s not here,” his father said.

  “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “He said he’d be gone all day.”

  “All day?” But it was only eleven o’clock. I couldn’t wait all day! “Can you tell him Trixie called?”

  “Yes, Trixie.”

  I paged Gavin, left a note on his e-mail and a message on his voice mail.

  I jumped every time the phone rang and growled when it was for Sarge.

  Jazzy stopped by later, after a day at the mall with her mom. “What are you still doing in your pajamas?” she wondered, finding me sluffed out on the couch.

  “He hates me!” I wailed, explaining in frantic detail the previous night’s events. “I’ve called him seven times, but his father keeps saying he’s out getting his oil changed. He’s probably with Stinkface.”

  “Maybe he’s really getting his oil changed.”

  “He left the show, Jazz! I’ve never had anyone walk out during a show, much less before the show.”

  “I’m sure it’s not—”

  “What do I do?” I pleaded. “He’s never looked at me like that. I hurt him to his core. I’ve totally blown it.” I sank my head into a pillow.

  “You’re not throwing in the towel without a fight,” Jazzy said, grabbing the pillow. “Am I talking to the same girl I met in the school bushes?”

  “What do you do when you and Ricky fight?”

  “I dress up in my red dress and heels. Then suddenly he’s begging to make up.”

  “Yeah, but what can I do? All I own is a pair of tap shoes.” I pulled a white afghan over my head in despair. “I surrender.”

  “We’ll fix you up!” Jazzy said, and dragged me upstairs.

  “Remember I have a show tonight,” I said, sitting helplessly on the bed. “I don’t have time for a makeover.”

  Jazzy scrambled through my dresser drawers and closet. “What’s this?” she asked, pulling out a black dress in the shape of a tent.

  “My aunt Sylvia bought it for me.”

  “Well, Aunt Sylvia, your niece goes to high school, not a senior center. Close your eyes, Trix—this may get ugly.”

  Jazzy grabbed a pair of scissors from my desk and cut off the collar and sleeves, then tucked under the frayed ends and secured them with Scotch tape. She then placed black tights and high-heeled funky boots underneath the dress. “Now it looks killer!”

  I stared at the spontaneous haute couture creation in her hands.

  “Make sure to spray your hair,” Jazzy dictated as I slid into the outfit. “When does Sarge get home?”

  “Midnight.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to make up or make out, however you want to put it,” she said, zipping me up.

  I examined myself in the mirror.

  “I look like a slut,” I said, turning from side to side. I stared at my reflection, which had been transformed from teeny bopper to sex kitten.

  “I promise Gavin will be begging for an encore,” said Jazzy.

  What am I doing? I thought, as I drove my mom’s car through the twinkling snow after Chaplin’s Sunday show—a fresh two hundred dollars in my purse and another week’s work penciled in on my calendar. I had one hour until my mom’s plane returned. I was determined to get Gavin back, and have some fun in the process.

  “Whoa!” Gavin said, opening his bedroom door.

  I was in my hot dress, a scarf dangling seductively from my neck.

  “I have an invitation,” I said in a breathy whisper.

  “But your show is over.”

  “No, not to the show!”

  “To dinner at Maggiano’s?”

  “To dessert!”

  “We’ll have dessert here,” he said, closing his door and pulling me onto his bed.

  Since our relationship consisted of hanging out at school and going to parties, I hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing the inside of Gavin’s house. But I knew the outside of 2400 Gettys Lane by heart, after spending two years begging Jazzy to drive out of our way so I could gaze at his magical dwelling. Now I was the uninvited guest, and the host might possibly hate my guts.

  I walked up the long driveway and rang the Baldwins’ bell, bundled in my puffy down coat. I looked like I was going to retrieve my dogsled rather than my angry boyfriend.

  Would Gavin shut the door on me? Would he tell me to go away? Would he still pretend he didn’t know me? I heard the sound of a barking dog—how appropriate.

  The rustic red door opened. It wasn’t Gavin—it was Mr. Baldwin. A handsome specimen in brown-leather house shoes. Jazzy’s plan hadn’t mentioned parents. I wanted to turn around and go home and call the whole seduction off.

  “I must have the wrong house,” I said apologetically.

  “Don’t I know you?” Mr. Baldwin asked, confused.

  “We’ve never met, but I’ve spoken to you on the phone.”

  “Ahh…yes. A friend of Gavin’s?”

  “I’m Trixie.”

  “Of course. Trixie, c’mon in.”

  “I feel terrible arriving so late.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re all still up. Gavin! You have company!”

  I was freezing, my tiny head and skinny legs poking out of my purple down coat. I didn’t look like a sex kitten, I looked like the Blueberry Girl from Willy Wonka.

  I patted their neurotic jumping Yorkshire terrier with my purple-mittened hand as Gavin raced down the stairs.

  “Oh…hi,” he said with reservation.

  Suddenly a jet-black-haired Martha Stewart entered the room.

  “Hi,” Mrs. Baldwin said.

  “Mom and Dad, this is Trixie,” he said. “Trixie, this is my mom and dad.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin.”

  “So you’re Trixie,” Mrs. Baldwin said. “Glad to put a face to the voice. Can I take your coat?”

  “No!” I blurted out. “I mean, no thanks!”

  I had dreamed about meeting Mr. and Mrs. Baldwin ever since that first smile from Gavin over two years ago. Eating cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving dinner, chatting at a backyard barbecue, taking pictures of us on prom night. But not around for a seduction! “I can’t stay long. I’m sorry I arrived so late.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll leave you be,” his mom said.

  I felt something itching my leg. The taped hem was starting to unravel and was poking me in the thigh. My nouveau-Cosmo dress was quickly resembling something out of the Flintstones. I sat on the Baldwins’ leather couch with my coat zipped up to my chin.

  All I could do was pray that the puffy coat cushioned the fall when Gavin finally dumped me for good.

  Gavin was wearing a worn Radiohead T-shirt and black boxers, and was barefoot. He was gorgeous. He sat on the ottoman staring at the fireplace while I fiddled with the zipper on my coat—neither of us saying a word.

  “Aren’t you hot?” he asked finally.

  “I’m still cold from outside.”

  “Want something warm to drink?”

  “I really should go,” I said, rising.

  “Have a seat. I’ll get you some hot chocolate.”


  I guess he felt better dumping me over cocoa and marshmallows.

  When he went into the kitchen, I unzipped my coat and checked the damage. I quickly tucked the unraveling tape back into the dress. I zipped up when I heard Gavin’s footsteps.

  “Thanks.” I sipped the hot chocolate. Steam rose from the cup, making my face even more flushed than it already was. We sat in silence again. I was crumbling inside.

  “It’s a good thing you left last night,” I began. “The show sucked!”

  Gavin fingered his watch.

  “But I bet you had a great poker game.”

  “I lost twenty bucks.”

  “How ’bout that oil change?” I hinted.

  “The oil was the least of it. I needed a new muffler.”

  “You really got your oil changed? Jazzy and I use that as our excuse with Sarge. So I just thought…”

  Gavin wrinkled his forehead.

  “I just needed practice. I want to put on a great show for you, and at this point I’m just trying to stand up there without forgetting my material, trying not to shake too much and to make the audience laugh. If you’re there, then I have to worry about pleasing you too.”

  “But I already saw you on Open Mike and you killed!”

  “But I didn’t know you were there—or I would have froze.”

  How could I tell him that I still counted his smiles, that he made my knees weak and my hormones soar? I didn’t want to sound crazy.

  “It would be like performing for the king,” I finally admitted.

  “You mean Elvis?”

  “I was thinking of a king of a country!” I said.

  “I’m not a king,” he exclaimed, laughing.

  “But to me you are. Don’t you get it?”

  “No—”

  “I’ve been crushed out on you for two years!”

  “Two years?” he asked, suddenly flattered.

  “Duh! Wasn’t it written all over my geeky face?”

  “You’re not a geek! But two years?”

  “I never knew I’d be sitting here—in Gavin Baldwin’s house. Or that I’d ever be performing at Chaplin’s. I just need a little time, that’s all. Everything has happened so fast.”

  “Yeah…I guess we’ve really only been going out for a couple of weeks. It just seems like we’ve been together longer.”