Comedy Girl

  “I’ll never look back on Talent Night with pride.”

  “Then look at your report card with pride.”

  The dark clouds that were hovering over my world started to drift away. I almost felt the sun peeking through.

  “Thanks for coming over. I think my stomachache will go away now.”

  “Fabulous! But I do have just one request before I go.”

  “You changed your mind about that HoHo?”

  “It’s another assignment. But this one’s just for you, strictly elective.”

  “Oh no,” I cried, panic setting in, imagining another Talent Night just for me.

  “I signed you up for Open Mike at Chaplin’s.”

  I began to feel flu symptoms coming on again.

  “Each amateur gets five minutes. These people have never been up on a stage before in their lives. You’re farther along. You can use the material you were planning for Talent Night. You can even read your jokes from cards. There’s no pressure. It’ll be fun.”

  “But, I can’t do this, don’t you understand?”

  “You can’t not do this. I’ll see you tomorrow night at Chaplin’s. I’ll sit in the back so I won’t make you nervous,” he said, letting himself out.

  “Oh no,” I sighed, feeling my forehead. “I think now I really do have a fever!”

  OPEN MIKE

  I crept into Chaplin’s for the hundredth time, but tonight my stomach turned as I walked the hallway of fame—instead of being an audience member sitting safely behind an appetizer list and a haze of smoke, I would be a performer, alone onstage, delivering jokes, with a spotlight shining straight down on me.

  “I’m here for Open Mike,” I whispered to a chain-smoking woman checking off names on a sign-in sheet.

  “Hi, I’m Joyce. Who are you, sweetie?”

  “Trixie Shapiro.”

  “Shapiro…You’ll be number seven. Do you know the rules?”

  “You have rules?”

  “No swearing, especially the F word. No more than five minutes onstage. Jimmy, the guy testing the mike, will shine a flashlight at four minutes so you can wrap it up. Gary,” she added, waving to a guy in a red-flannel shirt, “is the emcee. Any questions?”

  “Does he know CPR?”

  “You’ll be fine!”

  “No F word and no more than five minutes,” I repeated.

  “And there’s another rule. Have fun!”

  Have fun? I only hoped it would be more fun than sitting in the dentist’s chair.

  I hung by myself at a darkened table while other would-be comics checked in. Where was Janson? I decided it was best for me not to look around for him. Anyone or anything could be a distraction to me. Hopefully he wouldn’t show. He did say this was an elective. Maybe he elected to grade papers.

  “Trixie,” a deep voice called from behind me.

  Startled, I quickly turned around. It was Ben. “I saw your name on the list,” he said. “Cool!”

  “You can’t watch!” I demanded.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “You’ll make me nervous. More nervous than I already am.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not fine! Please!” I begged.

  “Okay, girl, I’ll slip in the back when I hear your name called. Want a drink?”

  “How about a Coke and rum without the Coke?”

  “How about a Coke and ice without the ice?”

  “Who’s the comedian?” I said. I sat down alone at my usual table in the back and began to pray.

  The amateur comedians weren’t nearly as funny, polished, or confident as the touring professionals I’d been watching at Chaplin’s. They clutched the mike like a beer bottle, bringing it to their mouths then letting it dangle, slurring the punch lines—if there were any. Several participants told inside jokes to their friends in the audience, who laughed like crazy.

  The Coke went right through me, so I made a bathroom run as comic number four left the stage.

  I looked in the mirror and forced a smile. I had all my lines written on a tiny piece of paper hidden in my bra—just in case I blanked out. I fluffed my hair and said my first line. “Just have fun,” I then reminded myself. “Fun—now that’s the F word!”

  I had one more chance to go to the bathroom, I thought, and headed back to the stall. My mind must have wandered and before I knew it, I had flushed down a whole roll of paper.

  The toilet began to overflow! Great. I had just ruined Oz’s plumbing.

  Suddenly the ladies’ room door opened. “You’re on!” Ben scolded.

  “But I—,” I began.

  “No time.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me out into the theater as Gary said, “We have only one female in the show tonight, and she’s really funny, so let’s welcome her to Chaplin’s—Trixie Shapiro!”

  How does he know if I’m funny or not? I haven’t performed yet!

  I stumbled onto the tiny stage, shook Gary’s hand, and grabbed the microphone. But it was stuck, and after I struggled for what seemed like an eternity, Gary ran back onstage and pried it out for me.

  He took a bow as the audience applauded.

  “Does that count for part of my five minutes?” The audience laughed. My first laugh. Wow.

  “There’s a rule at Open Mike that you’re not allowed to talk for more than five minutes. I’d sure like to bring my mother here!” The audience laughed even louder. “I bet my dad would like to bring her too!”

  The laughter crescendoed. This was unbelievable—they were really laughing!

  “My mom is a major control freak. She walks into a furniture store—and rearranges the furniture!”

  Chaplin’s stage didn’t swallow me, like Mason High’s stage had on Talent Night. There was barely enough room for the microphone stand. The audience sat almost on top of one another, and staring back at me were not teenagers but real ladies and gentlemen. Well, not all gentlemen.

  “You look like you’re twelve years old!” a middle-aged quarterback shouted when the laughter subsided.

  “Are you talking to me or your date?” I shouted back.

  The audience roared, filling me with a rush of adrenaline. “I know I look young,” I said, smiling at the heckler. “But I’m actually a senior. I loathe high school! I’m afraid to speak up in class. I’m not the class clown. I’m the class mime.” And I pantomimed being locked in a box.

  The rest flowed naturally, like a comic waterfall. I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world. I had a taste of being the Trixie Shapiro I had dreamed of.

  Suddenly I saw a flashing light, signaling my five minutes were up. “They’re waving a flashlight at me. Like at the movie theater when the usher catches you bringing in food from outside. I guess this is my sign to turn over the Doritos.”

  I thanked the audience for coming and lingered a moment onstage, riding the wave of applause.

  “She’s really terrific!” Gary remarked to them as I left the stage. “What a funny girl!”

  “You were great!” Joyce said, approaching my table. “We have an amateur contest next week, but unfortunately we’re all booked up. It would have been great exposure for you!”

  Strangers patted me—me—on the shoulder!

  “You were funny!” a young couple said.

  “Girl, you were fab!” Ben exclaimed. “I wish Eddie could have seen you. He’d have treated you to a free pizza!”

  I was buzzing from the sudden attention. People noticing me? Talking to me? Complimenting me?

  Suddenly Mr. Janson approached. I had forgotten all about him, and for a moment wondered why he was here.

  “You were brilliant! Just brilliant,” he exclaimed, hugging me.

  “I passed?”

  “Just remember me when you’re on Comedy Central!” he exclaimed.

  Gary closed the show after the final unbearable amateur, and the lights came up. I gathered my purse and jacket.

  “You cracked me up!” the heckler said, shaking my hand.
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  “Thanks for coming!” I beamed.

  Several of the other amateurs came over to me and we exchanged compliments. Finally a very unfunny doctor shook my hand.

  “You were great,” he said and shook my hand. His wife beamed and agreed. “You were delightful.”

  What could I say to him? I’m glad you have something to fall back on? Instead, I said, “Great job!” as I noticed a hipster picking up a leather jacket from a table in the back. A knockout was leaving his side and walking toward the doctor. No, it couldn’t be. Stinkface?

  The familiar blonde stormed around me and said, “See ya, Uncle Stevie,” following the doctor and his wife out toward the lobby. I turned around. Now I could make out Gavin’s face.

  How could I have not noticed them before? They must have arrived when I was flooding the bathroom. I hoped Gavin wouldn’t storm around me, so I could get smile number eight to cap off my most magical evening. But he didn’t pass me; instead he walked right toward me.

  “I thought you were awesome!” he said with smile number eight.

  Despite years of my infatuation and seven prior smiles, Gavin Baldwin had never actually spoken to me.

  Now I had stage fright. I couldn’t even say thanks. I barely returned the smile.

  “I didn’t know you were so talented!”

  “Yeah, I guess I can do more than walk and chew gum at the same time,” I blurted out as if I were still onstage.

  “Gavin, are you going to take me home? Or am I going to have to walk?” Stinkface called over impatiently.

  “She’s chewing gum,” he whispered, “so I guess I shouldn’t let her walk. She’s not that talented,” he said with a wink, and was gone.

  I was at a gala charity ball shimmering in a silver glitter dress, slow dancing with a tuxedoed Jerry Seinfeld when Eddie Murphy tapped his shoulder to cut in—

  I heard a pounding at my door.

  Jazzy barged into my room and blinded me by turning on the lights.

  “Jazzy! How’d you get in here?”

  “I had to hide inside a wooden horse!”

  “But I was just about to dance with Eddie Murphy. Let me go back to sleep!”

  “You can’t! You have school and I have to talk to you.”

  “Aren’t I mad at you?” I asked, pulling the covers over my head.

  “I’m sorry about signing you up for stand-up at Talent Night,” she apologized, pulling the covers down.

  “You mean Fright Night! It was totally scary—I was totally scary!”

  “You weren’t scary—I was!” she said, plopping on the edge of my bed. “Leonardo came unglued and fell down on me. So there I was in front of the whole school with Leonardo DiCaprio lying on top of me!”

  “Sounds like a dream come true!”

  “Not when your mom is in the third row. I could hear everyone snickering. I’ve never been so totally embarrassed in my life.”

  “Aunt Sylvia thought it was funny.”

  “I’m the one who shouldn’t have come back to school, Trix. Ricky thought my monologue was rancid! He kept saying at the party, ‘Where’s Trixie? She was hysterical!’ He thought you planned your routine that way!”

  “No way!”

  “I talked to my therapist all week. She was the only one who’d listen to me—and I have to pay her!” She pulled at her beaded necklace. “Anyway, I don’t care about that stupid night. I just want us to be best friends again.”

  “But I care about that night. I’ll never forget it.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry! I thought I was doing you a favor—like Sid pushing you out from behind the couch. But I’ll never put you in harm’s way again.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise! I promise!”

  “Well…okay.”

  “So we’re bush girls again?”

  “Really, Jazz…How can I go to school without you? Who will I eat lunch with? Who will I pass notes to?” I asked.

  “Oh goody!” Jazzy screamed, squeezing me tightly. “I have a little present for you,” she then said, opening her purse and handing me a bottle of nail polish.

  “True Blue!” I said, reading the color. “Cool, Jazzy!”

  “Now let’s get to school,” she said, fixing her hair in the mirror.

  I scrounged for some clean school clothes. “I have the most amazing news to tell you in the car!”

  “Is it blockbuster news?”

  “Totally blockbuster! With paparazzi and autographs. It takes place at a comedy club and it stars me and…Gavin Baldwin!”

  “Gavin!”

  “He spoke to me! Finally, after a lifetime!”

  “No way! What did he say?”

  “Let me start from the beginning! He was wearing—”

  “Wait, get dressed. Then you can tell me every juicy detail. I’ll drive extra slow!”

  The bell rang at 10:55, signaling freedom from my prison cell known as Anatomy. I was late getting out of class, cleaning up the glitter that had sprinkled out from one of Jazzy’s notes. I was still reading it in the bustling hallway when someone grabbed me by the arm and the note fell to the floor.

  “Hey, doofus! Look what you made me do!” I exclaimed. The note landed next to a combat boot, which was connected to blue jeans, and then an oversized rust sweater….

  “Gavin!” I exclaimed, breathless.

  Was I dreaming? He was touching my arm! And what a firm hunkster grip he had! But why was he grabbing me?

  Gavin bent down and picked up the note, like the gentleman I’d always dreamed he was.

  I froze like a deer in headlights when he noticed its unmistakable contents spelled out in bold purple glitter:

  T.S.

  x

  G.B.

  Gavin looked at me with skeptical eyes.

  “G…arth…Br…ooks. I love Garth Brooks!” I blurted out, grabbing the note.

  “You don’t look like the country music type.”

  “What type do I look like?” I asked.

  He gazed at me, really stared at me—studied my bob-length orange hair pulled back in two orange flower barrettes, my dark eyes—and then glanced down to the nape of my neck. My skin flushed like I was in a steam room. I shifted in place, fingering my hair. And then he averted his eyes as if trying to find the right words.

  The bell rang.

  “You look like the Varicose Veins type,” he said over the sounds of closing lockers and classroom doors. “I’ve got two tickets to their concert next week. Want to go?”

  Did I want to go? Did I want a million dollars? Did I want my own HBO special?

  “Sounds cool,” I replied, trying to act nonchalant.

  He smiled—number nine—and his blue eyes sparkled like the glitter on my note. “What’s your number?”

  “Of smiles?” I asked.

  “Smiles?”

  “Oh, of course!” I laughed, scribbling my telephone number on his spiral notebook, trying desperately to cover my faux pas.

  “You are a funny girl,” he said as he left.

  Walking through the empty corridors, I floated to class on a Gavin Baldwin–shaped cloud.

  But when I got there, instead of receiving congratulations for winning a date with Gavin Baldwin, I was met by the confused stare on my ignorant teacher’s face.

  “Can I help you?” he asked when I entered the room. “Are you lost?”

  “Lost? I’m in your class!”

  The students laughed.

  “Oh,” he said, squinting at me. “Then you’re late.”

  Mr. Owens warned me if I was tardy again I would receive a detention. I would stay after school every day just to have Gavin touch my arm again. And that afternoon I imagined all about the things he could do to get me suspended.

  “This is like an episode of Fantasy Island!” Jazzy screamed to me in my celebrity-pasted bedroom later that night.

  “I have nothing to wear! Absolutely nothing!” I screamed back, frantically throwing skirts, blouses, sweater
s, and jackets on my bed. “He’ll show up at my door and think he’s at the Salvation Army!”

  “Chill, Trix—we’ll find you a dress,” Jazzy said, weeding through the tossed clothes.

  “But all I have is rags, and I just spent my allowance on Woody Allen DVDs. Do banks give out loans for dream dates?”

  “I still can’t believe you’re going out with him!”

  “I know, but I can’t go if I have to wear this.”

  “Relax,” Jazzy said, ignoring my angst. She held the framed photo of Gavin I had copied from last year’s yearbook. “Gavin won’t care. And just think of this: You’ll be the hit of school. Stinkface is officially losing her title!”

  “I’m not sure about that. I just can’t believe she’s not going.”

  “Maybe because he dumped her…like in Lake Michigan!”

  “I have to tell you…Eddie said he heard Stinkface and Gavin arguing after first bell,” I gossiped.

  “About what?” she asked eagerly.

  “Eddie said Gavin told Stinkface, ‘I can’t take your shouting and your magazine mentality.’”

  “Bravo! Brilliant, Gavin!” she declared, applauding, but then changed her tone. “And when were you going to tell me this?”

  “I was bursting. Truly. But I didn’t want to jinx his single status until I knew it for fact.”

  “I can’t believe you!”

  “It’s just a fluke he asked me at all. It doesn’t mean anything—”

  “It means you are going to the concert. That means everything!”

  I smiled a wild grin.

  Jazzy waved her finger at me. “No more secrets!”

  “Or sign-ups!” I waved back.

  “Agreed. We’ll be totally hipster popular now!” Jazzy said, dancing while I modeled a weathered black dress, a silk scarf around my head.

  “But I still don’t have anything to wear—I look like my grandma in this.”

  “I might have something….”

  “You’re twice as tall as me—I’d have to wear stilts! Oh, why did Sid have to be a boy?”

  We gazed at the hopeless options strewn on my bed.