Comedy Girl

Eddie was sitting at a back table with a guy in jeans and a flashy rayon shirt.

  “Trixie, this is my brother, Ben.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, sitting in the chair next to Eddie. I didn’t take my eyes off the comedian.

  “I hope he’s not driving you around the city all night instead of taking you to a movie,” Ben said.

  “Hey, anyone can see a movie. Want a slice of pizza, baby?”

  “No thanks, it has cheese,” I said, looking at the stage.

  “This guy’s good. I’ve seen him before. He’s from Kentucky.”

  I was glued to the comedian, who appeared more comfortable onstage than I was when I woke up in the morning in my own bed. The audience laughed at a joke about a cow that he’d invited to the prom.

  “I guess this beats sitting in the front seat of the truck!” Eddie whispered.

  “You never told me your brother worked here,” I whispered.

  “He’s the assistant manager. I give him free pizzas and he gives me free laughs.”

  Eddie’s pager beeped. “Gotta get back to work,” he said, squinting at the number. But then he saw the disappointment in my face—as if I was a toddler and playtime was over.

  “That’s the life when you date a pizza driver. Always on call,” Ben philosophized.

  Eddie got up. “You can stay here.”

  “I can?”

  “This is funnier than someone’s driveway.”

  I was surprised at his nonchalant attitude.

  “Ben can give you a lift home.”

  “Actually, I can walk home,” I offered.

  “I think I can handle the door-to-door thing,” Ben joked.

  “Cool,” Eddie said without a hint of jealousy. “See you later, Trixster.” He stepped over and gave me a saucy kiss.

  I loved Eddie at that moment. Not as a boyfriend, but as a friend. Loved him for exactly who he was, because any other guy would have insisted that I stick to his side and prevented me from hanging out alone in a dark club, would not have trusted his single brother to drive me home.

  “I’ve got one last joke before I head outa here,” the comedian said as he stubbed out his cigarette in his empty glass.

  Sadly my dream was ending too soon. In a few minutes the club would be empty, couples giggling and retelling the jokes as they walked to their cars. I would have to go home as well and face an interrogation and possible court-martial for breaking curfew. But that was a small price to pay for a few moments in Oz.

  On the way home that night Ben told me he could get me into Chaplin’s for free whenever he was working the door. When he pulled into my driveway, I turned to him and said, as if I was making a vow, “I’m going to work there someday.”

  He offered to get me a job waiting tables. “No,” I declared. “I mean onstage.”

  That summer I took Ben up on his offer and went to Chaplin’s every chance I got. Sarge agreed to let me walk the two blocks to the club myself. But my dad always picked me up, waiting in the lobby, eating peanuts from the bar and reading Sports Illustrated. I felt like a preschooler as he chauffeured me home in our white Camry.

  I didn’t see much of Eddie anymore except when he came to the club with pizza. We remained good friends, and sometimes he remembered to bring me a small veggie without cheese.

  MY WORST NIGHTMARE

  “Trix, you’ve gotta decide on Talent Night now!” Jazzy urged as she passed me the sign-up sheet in Drama class.

  Despite my dream of performing at Chaplin’s, the thought of actually being alone onstage at Talent Night was my worst nightmare. It was one thing to stand in front of a mirror in my comfortable bedroom, or to sit at a darkened table at Chaplin’s, but it was quite another thing to perform alone on an enormous stage in front of hundreds of staring faces.

  “I finally came up with a fab idea,” Jazzy said. “I’m going to whistle the theme song from the Andy Griffith Show!”

  “I don’t think anyone’s ever done that at Mason High,” I said flatly. I looked down at my copy of King Lear.

  “You mean it’s been done at other schools? Do you know how long it took me to think of that?” And seeing the King Lear, she wrote down, “Shakespearean monologue.”

  “I’m not looking for anyone to sing all of Les Mis,” Mr. Janson declared, leaning on his desk, “but you have to do more than state your name. No less than three minutes and no more than five. We may discover the next Streisand or Brando. All I ask is that you remember me when you accept your Oscar.”

  What if I sang “Happy Birthday” off-key? What if my Shakespearean soliloquy sounded as dead as the old bard himself, and I humiliated myself in front of all the teachers, parents, jocks, snobs, coolheads? And Gavin! The terror sent my heart leaping up out of my chest, out through my throat, and pounding down the hallway.

  “I should have picked Sociology instead of Drama,” I mumbled, staring at the sign-up sheet. “Maybe Janson will accept a written essay!” I pressed the pen against my lips. “On the other hand…,” and I scribbled on the line beside my name.

  “I knew you’d come around. Let me see!”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner!”

  Jazlyn’s mouth hung open. “‘A reading from the diary of Jazlyn Peters.’ You traitor! You’re still trying to get me back for the time I called you Shrimp!” She paused, confused. “But you’ve never seen my diary!”

  “I have too!”

  “You sneak! I’ll rehide it.”

  “I’ll refind it!”

  “I’ll destroy it!”

  “I’ll speak from memory,” I threatened.

  Jazlyn quickly snatched back the sign-up sheet, crossed out my entry, and passed it across to Carl, a computer nerd.

  “I knew you’d see it my way,” I said.

  “What’s all that commotion?” Mr. Janson asked. “If you’re truly having a difficult time thinking of something to perform, Ms. Shapiro, I have a million ideas begging to be shown to adoring eyes.”

  I hid behind King Lear propped open in front of me and doodled a picture of Mr. Janson in a Dorothy costume, complete with red ruby slippers. “Remember, people, this is a performance class, and if you don’t have the passion to perform, you can take an F and be an usher.”

  An usher? I imagined tearing Gavin and Stinkface’s tickets, leading them to their seats, dusting off their chairs like a servant.

  “Ms. Peters, I see you’ve written ‘Shakespearean monologue,’” Mr. Janson said, glancing at the sign-up sheet. “I must say, Jazzy, I’m quite impressed. Which one of the Bard’s old standards will you be bringing to life?”

  Jazzy proudly sat up. “Romeo and Juliet. I’ll be doing Juliet’s balcony speech to a cardboard cutout of Leonardo DiCaprio!”

  The class snickered and rolled their eyes. Mr. Janson looked off dreamily into the distance and, with a wicked smile, exclaimed, “Brilliant!” He looked back at the list. “Let’s see, we have Mr. Reidel singing ‘Tonight’ from West Side Story and Mr. Davis reading Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Raven.’”

  I knew I must make a decision now—take home a talent show program with my name on it, or an usher’s badge with my name on it. “As for you, Ms. Shapiro, I’m very impressed!”

  I was puzzled. Impressed with what? I hadn’t written anything but the Jazlyn diary joke. And Jazzy had crossed it out—or had she written something over it?

  “Class—Trixie Shapiro will be performing stand-up comedy!”

  I died. Stand-up comedy! Terror shot through my veins. Of course comedy was my dream, but performing for Snoopy and Curious George is a lot different from performing for real classmates. Stuffed animals sit obediently with frozen smiles; classmates throw spitballs.

  I turned to my former best friend, who was hiding behind King Lear. The whole class viewed me with shock and disbelief. They couldn’t believe the quiet girl in the last row would have the guts to do stand-up. It would be a feat more daring than belly button piercing, bungee jumping, or bring
ing a number three pencil on the day of an exam.

  “I can’t believe you signed me up for stand-up!” I shouted as we walked to Jazzy’s car after school. “I’m totally freaking out! My ulcer is acting up, and I don’t even have an ulcer.”

  “You’ll be fabulous,” Jazzy said nonchalantly. “You can put your hair in pigtails and put on those funny purple house shoes with the fuzzy pom-poms. You won’t have to say a word.”

  “Stand-up isn’t like Shakespeare. What if they don’t laugh? I’ll be the first person to perform stand-up tragedy.”

  “Look, Trix, you’ve always told me you want to be a comedian.”

  “Duh! But I’m still in high school, Jazz. This isn’t as simple as taking drama class and performing scenes from A Streetcar Named Desire. First of all, I’ll be writing my own jokes. And I won’t have actors to react to. Performing comedy is really hard when no one is laughing.”

  “You may hate my guts now, but when you’re on the Douglas Douglas Show, you’ll thank me! Then you’ll forget me. But I’m willing to sacrifice our friendship for your dream.”

  I winced. “I don’t think you see the magnitude of this. This isn’t like lip-synching ‘Fernando’ at a slumber party. This is like standing naked in front of the whole entire school. Including Gavin!”

  “Yes, and you’ll make him realize there’s more to life than plastic boobs and plastic personalities. And besides, did you notice how the class reacted? They envy you! Those losers could never even dream of being so courageous. You’ll finally show them what ‘bush girls’ are all about.”

  “That we’re more than losers?”

  “We aren’t losers! It’s just that everyone else is so three years ago—they haven’t caught up to us to know how hip and truly rockin’ we are!”

  “I’m glad one of us has high self-esteem.”

  “Tell that to my therapist!”

  Just then Ricky caught up with us and gave Jazzy a slow kiss.

  “I guess that also helps,” I said, looking away.

  “I heard that our cute little Trixie is going to do stand-up,” Ricky said, pulling away from Jazzy and turning to me. “That’s fab…that takes guts! Not like professing your love to a cardboard movie star,” he added.

  Jazzy gave him a dirty look in return.

  COMEDY AND TRAGEDY

  “I love you,” Jazzy said, kissing Leonardo DiCaprio on the mouth. “Isn’t he gorgeous?” she then asked me. The poster of the actor, freshly glued to thick cardboard, was leaning against Jazzy’s dresser. “Why don’t you borrow him? He might cheer you up.”

  “I need a cardboard Jelly Bean. Then I could hide behind it to recite my stupid jokes. No one would dare throw textbooks at Jelly.”

  “No one’s going to throw anything at you but money! And underwear—Gavin Baldwin’s Joe Boxers. O Leonardo, Leonardo, wherefore art thou Leonardo?” Jazzy proclaimed, balancing on her wicker chair. “Deny thy father and refuse thy fame!”

  “Fame? That’s not the way it goes.”

  “It’s a whole metaphor thing, don’t you see?” she declared wildly.

  “Shakespeare is having a cow right now!” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Your turn!” Jazzy exclaimed, jumping off the chair.

  “No way.”

  “If you can’t perform in front of your best friend, how can you perform in front of the whole school?”

  “Exactly!”

  “We crack each other up all the time! You’re always goofing around. You should be used to this.”

  “But it’s not the same. I’ll be up there alone.”

  “We’ll all be up there alone.”

  “You have Leo.” I put my hand to my forehead. “My head feels warm. Do you think I have a fever?”

  “I’m hot too. It’s Leo’s scorching image. I’ll put him in the closet.”

  “No, I really think I’m sick.”

  “Just take a deep breath and read from your comedy notebook. I promise I won’t laugh,” Jazzy said, and laughed out loud. “Did you get that, Trix? That was a joke! Hey, I should be the one doing the comedy!”

  “Yeah, you should.”

  “No one said this stuff is easy,” she said, suddenly serious. “Could Sam Chapman do stand-up? He tells jokes in class, but he does it just to get out of trouble, not to entertain. He’d freeze onstage. No one would laugh. We’ll get you drunk!”

  “I’ll need more than liquor!”

  “I’ll see what I can do, but right now try it one time for me.”

  I looked at my notebook and then at my watch. “Rancid! It’s six fifteen. Sarge will kill me. I told her I’d be home to set the table.”

  “But I need to practice!”

  “Jazz, I’ll be grounded.”

  “There’s your excuse. You can tell Janson you can’t perform ’cause you’re grounded!”

  I looked at my best friend. And slowly a wicked grin overcame me.

  The next night I fiddled with my straw as I sat alone at my usual table, hidden by the dim lights and thick smoke that hung over the audience at Chaplin’s.

  But as I watched the opener dying, I thought: I can do that. I can stand onstage and not be funny! But standing up in front of Gavin and the whole school and not being funny was another thing. I looked at my watch. 9:45. 10:05. 10:30.

  Dad was in Houston on business, so I told Sarge I’d get a ride with Ben, knowing he would be one of the last to leave.

  “Man, I’m sorry, it’s so late,” Ben said, cutting off the club lights. “I hope Sergeant doesn’t have a fit!”

  “I hope she does,” I said with a wink.

  But my plan had a fatal flaw. Sarge’s punishment wasn’t grounding me from Talent Night after all—her punishment was chaperoning me to Janson’s Rehearsal Night!

  I insisted Sarge sit quietly in the back of the auditorium. I ignored her and sat as far away from her as I could, slunk down in the front row next to Jazzy.

  Mr. Janson talked to the accompanist who sat at his piano stage left while seventeen drama students giggled, gossiped, and chatted on cell phones, breaking up the nervous tension.

  “Settle down,” Janson finally commanded, taking center stage. “Since we only have one rehearsal, and this is the first time Roger is here to learn the musical accompaniment, we’ll run all musical numbers in order first.”

  “Awh man!” one student whined. “I’m not even warmed up!”

  “This sucks,” I complained to Jazzy. “We’ll have to wait hours before we get our turn over with!”

  I was right. If Rehearsal Night was any indication of Talent Night, audience members would be fleeing toward the exits—it was a disorganized, off-key mess. Ten students were performing musical numbers, and more than half of them had to run through their songs at least three times.

  “When will you be going on?” Sarge abruptly interrogated me, nudging my arm while Harold Quimby warbled through “Music of the Night.”

  “Shh, Ma! Didn’t you hear Mr. Janson? He’s running musical numbers first.”

  “I wanted to go to the ladies’ room and I don’t want to miss your routine.”

  “Unless you’re going back home to use the toilet, you won’t miss a thing! It’ll be more than an hour.”

  “Do you kids have vending machines here?” she asked, removing my backpack from the seat next to me and stuffing herself into the chair. “I need a nosh.”

  “Down the hall,” I said, pointing, but not making eye contact. “And around the corner, out the steps, and down the block.”

  “Do you want something?” she asked, ignoring my comment. “You must be starved.”

  “Ma! Everyone’s looking!”

  “Jazzy, would you like a treat?” she asked, leaning over me.

  “No thanks, Mrs. Shapiro. My stomach is in knots!”

  “Shhh!” I sternly whispered. “Molly is singing. You’re embarrassing me.”

  “That’s what mothers are for!” she retorted, and walked up the aisle.

&
nbsp; “This is torture,” I whispered to Jazzy.

  We chatted, slept, and doodled as the hours dragged on. I painted my nails blue and Jazzy re-applied eye shadow.

  “Okay, guys!” Janson said anxiously after the epic musical numbers were over. “We’re running out of time. We’ll do tops and bottoms. That means we’ll run the show in order, but only for lighting cues. Be ready on deck backstage. When lights go up, hit your mark, say your first line, then jump to your closing line, applause-applause from the audience, lights out, and make your way offstage!”

  “Is he kidding?” I said, as we quickly stashed our accessories.

  “But Mr. Janson,” Jazzy called, her hand raised wildly. “Some of us haven’t performed yet!”

  “I know, I’m sorry, but that’s all we’ll have time for tonight. It’s almost eleven o’clock.”

  We anxiously waited backstage for our turn. Jazzy dragged Leo backstage, tired and frustrated. “It’s a blessing,” I tried to reassure her. “Now we only have to perform once!”

  “I didn’t think of it that way,” she said, relieved. “Now go! It’s your turn.”

  I hit my mark.

  I’d never stood on Mason’s stage. It felt huge and engulfing. I could barely make out the empty seats with the blinding lights. I finally held a real microphone in my hand.

  “Say your line!” Mr. Janson called.

  “Oh yeah…” My voice echoed throughout the auditorium. “I loathe high school,” I began. “I’m unbearably shy—afraid to speak up in—”

  “Cut!” he admonished me.

  I stopped mid–punch line. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Yes, you’re supposed to jump to your last line, Trixie! We have six other performers to get through. We’ll have to take out a school levy for the electricity we’ve been running tonight!”

  That was my rehearsal.

  “Thank you very much,” I said, reluctantly jumping to the end of my routine, replacing the microphone in its stand. I bowed.

  “Lights out! Applause, applause,” Janson called to the light board operator.

  The stage went pitch-black. I struggled slowly in the darkness, afraid I might trip over the mike cord or fall off the stage.