“Hell yeah! We killed it,” Rashanda says as we leave the stage to robust applause.
“What what!” Mahesh says.
Mr. Martinez is waiting in the wings to give each of us a high five as we pass through the stage door into the hallway.
“Nice work, Winnie,” he says, though I feel like it’s implicitly understood that I beefed it.
“Thanks, Mr. Martinez,” I say. “That was fun.”
“It was, right? Awesome job, Leili!” She’s behind me. It’s obvious from the contrast in tone and word choice that I am one billion percent correct about my beefing it, but I’m actually okay with that. And I’m happy for Leili, who will be able to ride this compliment from her illicit crush for at least the rest of the month.
“You really were great, Leili,” I say once we’re heading to the band room to get our things. “I want to be you when I grow up.”
“That’s stupid,” Leili says as she puts an arm around me. “You’re great.”
“Maybe, but my improv wasn’t. That was so terrible.”
Leili laughs. Because she knows I’m right.
“I tried to not do all my usual bits,” I say, “and I tried to listen, but then…I don’t know. Maybe improv isn’t my thing. Just like stand-up wasn’t my thing.”
“Ugh!” She literally pronounces the word ugh. “Don’t you hear how ridiculous you sound? You’ve tried each of those things exactly once! Your bat mitzvah was one set. Under very weird and specific circumstances! No one’s good after doing something once!”
“Yeah, but—”
“You mean Yes, and?”
“Touché.” Evan, Mahesh, and Tim are up ahead of us, howling as they literally jump off the walls like skateboarders without skateboards. I scan the group for Fletcher, but I don’t see him. “Seriously, though, I just feel like—”
“Winner, I love you, and I’m right about this. There will be lots of bad shows. Because all this stuff takes practice. Steph Curry, remember?”
Is it possible I’ve spent all this time making a huge deal of my bat mitzvah set for no reason? I’m embarrassed as I remember what Mom told Dad after the open mic show. The first set was always going to suck. It just was. And I agreed with her! So how come I haven’t applied that same logic to myself?
“Okay,” I say. “You may be right.”
“I definitely am.”
Only Leili can make declaring herself right seem endearing. “Fine,” I say. “I’m willing to keep sucking it up at improv. But it would be— I mean AND it would be cool if our school had a sketch comedy group. I feel like I could do better if I know what’s happening before it happens.”
“Well, why don’t you start one?” Leili says, like it’s no big deal.
I stare at her, the words sounding impossible and foreign.
“People do that all the time. All you need is a faculty supervisor.”
“Nah,” I say. “I would have no idea how to go about—”
“Didn’t you say Mrs. Costa is, like, begging you to join Speech and Debate? Maybe she’d supervise for you.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t even go to Speech and Debate.”
“So what? If you start a sketch group, I’ll join.”
This is vintage Leili, getting a ball rolling before I’ve even acknowledged the existence of the ball. I see how it’s a good idea, but it’s also overwhelming, and I have no business creating a sketch comedy group.
“Or if you think you can’t handle it, don’t do it,” she says. “It was just a suggestion.”
Can’t handle it? Of course I— Damn Leili. I see what she’s doing.
“Okay, fine,” I say, “maybe I’ll start a sketch comedy group. If you’ll be in it too. Which might be impossible because you’re already in so many—”
“Great! I’ll make it work.”
“Wait, did you just say you’re starting a sketch group?” Rashanda says, poking her head in between us. “I want in.”
“Yeah, me too,” Jess says, appearing to my right.
“And me,” Molly says. “Totally.”
“Maybe it should be an all-female group,” Leili says.
“Is that allowed?” I ask.
“Shit yes,” Rashanda says as we walk into the band room, which is crackling with postshow energy. “And if it’s not, we’ll just intimidate any guys who show up so they won’t want to come back.”
“Wow, okay,” I say. “We’re doing it, then. Our own sketch group.”
“Wait, what?” Evan says from across the room, holding a huge mallet he’d just been using to bang on a bass drum someone left out. “Who’s starting a sketch group?”
“Me,” I say. My voice shakes a little. “It’s gonna be an all-female sketch comedy group.”
“Ha,” Evan says. “Good luck with that.”
“You don’t have to be jealous.”
“I’m not. Why would I want to be in a group that’s not funny?”
Tim and Mahesh laugh.
“Yo,” Rashanda says, getting fired up.
“You have no idea what funny is,” Jess says.
“Hold up,” I tell them, throwing a hand in the air. “I got this.” I stride across the room toward Evan. Mahesh and Tim stop laughing, taking a few steps back. The whole room is suddenly quiet.
Evan stands tall, still holding the mallet, but I know that look in his eyes. He’s feeling insecure.
“You don’t have to be threatened by me,” I say.
Evan scoffs. “I’m not. Especially after that performance today.”
“Yeah, it’s true. I beefed it. Big-time. But I’m still funny. And I know you know that.”
He opens his mouth, but I interrupt before he can say something else stupid. “It doesn’t even matter. There’s room in the world for both of us to be hilarious,” I say. “You seemed to know that when you wanted to date me. And when you wanted to date Jess. But once we got too funny or too cool or too whatever, you forgot, I guess.”
Evan looks confused, maybe on the verge of tears. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“I think maybe you do.” I pick up my backpack and walk out of the room before anyone can say another word.
It is incredibly badass.
I stop about ten steps outside the door because I don’t want Leili to think I was ditching her. The band room is vibrating with energy again, a cacophony of voices as people try to understand what exactly they just witnessed.
“Well, that was interesting,” Leili says a minute later, as she walks out of the room toward me.
“Was I too intense?”
“What?”
“To Evan.”
“Oh. Considering he’s been a total jerk to you, probably not. But I think you made him cry a little.”
“Yeesh,” I say. “I’ll apologize later.”
“I think Tim Stabisch just asked me out,” Leili says.
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah, just now.” Leili’s speaking slowly, like she doesn’t fully believe it happened. “He walked over to me after you left and said he’s sorry Evan was such a dick to you and would I maybe want to go out with him sometime. He said I’m obviously the hotter twin.”
“Holy bajoly! That’s…Are you gonna do it?”
“Uh, absolutely not,” Leili says. “Tim’s a doofus. But it’s nice to be crushed on.” She smiles.
“Toldja you were gravitational.”
In the lobby, there’s a sea of family and friends, of bouquets and balloons. Azadeh bounds into our path.
“Yeah!” she says, wrapping up Leili and me in a hug. “That was so good!”
“Thanks, Oz,” I say.
“You really made all that up on the spot?” Azadeh asks. “That was ridiculous!”
I’m tempted to call out some of my bad scenes—that if those had been written ahead of time, it was some truly terrible writing—but I resist the urge.
“Yup, that’s why it’s called improv,” Leili says with a healthy layer of sarcasm.
“Oh, shut up, Lay,” Azadeh says, getting her in a solo hug and squeezing tight before kissing her on the cheek. “I’m trying to compliment you, sister.”
“Good show,” Roxanne says, appearing from behind Azadeh, followed by Ramin and the Kazemis, who wrap Leili in a hug. “That was dope.”
“Thanks,” I say. I wonder if she’s nervous being around Azadeh’s parents. Probably not. She’s so cool. But I’m trying to remember that everybody’s always dealing with something, usually with a lot of somethings we have no idea about. Even the most together-seeming people are just figuring it out as they go.
I notice my parents off to the side near the trophy case. I’m sure Dad doesn’t want to be positioned with his cane in the center of everyone.
I gallop over to them.
“Yay!” they both shout.
“These are for you,” Dad says, gesturing to a bunch of fruit cut into flower shapes that Mom is holding. “It’s a chocolate banana bouquet.”
I’m moved, and it catches me off guard. “Thanks, Mom and Dad.” I’ve never been moved by fruit before.
“That was a lot of fun,” Mom says.
“It really was,” Dad says.
I know they know I sucked and are being polite parents.
“We were thinking we could go get some ice cream or something,” Mom says.
I feel an arm wrap around me. “Yo yo,” Rashanda says. “These your parents?”
“Yeah,” I say. I see her eyes flick to Dad’s cane, but only for an instant. “Mom and Dad, this is Rashanda.”
“You did an awesome job,” Mom says.
“Yeah, great show,” Dad says.
“Thanks, Friedmans,” Rashanda says. “You have a badass daughter. There’s talk of hitting up IHOP. Want to come with me and Jess? I’m driving.”
A warm feeling floods my insides. I have new friends.
But then I look at Mom and Dad. Of course they’d be fine with me going to IHOP, but the limited nature of opportunities like this one, of getting ice cream with Mom and Dad, of being a complete family, crashes down on me.
“Oh, thanks,” I say. “I’m actually going out with my parents.”
“Honey, you don’t have to—” Mom says.
“Yeah, it’s fine if—” Dad says.
“No, no, I want to,” I say.
“Cool cool.” Rashanda gets it. “In that case, see you at school, Win. Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Friedman.”
“You too,” Dad says.
“Eat some pancakes in my honor,” I say as Rashanda walks away into the crowd.
“Nah,” she shouts without turning around, “I’m really hungry, so I gotta eat ’em in my own honor!”
“I respect that,” I shout.
“Didn’t you wear a jacket tonight?” Mom asks.
I look down and immediately realize that, in my badass haste, I left my new awesome denim jacket lying on a folding chair in the band room.
“D’oh! Lemme run and grab it. I’ll meet you outside.”
I skirt the edges of the already thinning lobby mob and head down the hallway toward the band room. Everyone should be out by now, but I’m remaining cautious in case Evan is for some reason still in there.
My whole body unclenches as I step into the empty room. I’ll obviously have to see Evan again soon, but I’m glad it’s not right now. As I bound up the risers and grab my jacket, I realize the room isn’t as vacant as I thought.
Fletcher is hunched over in a folding chair on the top level, so what looked from the door like a coat is actually a human being. He’s got earbuds in, his elbows balanced on his thighs, super-focused. He has no idea there’s another person in the room.
For a moment, I consider scaring him by shouting “Boo!” but then I think better of it. I’ve moved on to more sophisticated comedic fare. I lean my body in front of his face and wave.
It totally scares the shit out of him anyway, his shoulders jolting up to his ears.
“Hi, sorry!” I say.
“No, no, it’s all good,” he says, pausing whatever’s in his ears. “Just glad you didn’t say ‘Boo.’ ”
Man, my instincts are spot-on. “You’re just hanging out back here?”
“Yeah. I mean, my mom and stepdad are waiting out in the lobby, but crowds trip me out. Thought I’d give it a minute.”
“What are you listening to?”
Fletcher gets a little sheepish. “Actually? Tonight’s show.”
“Seriously?”
“Figured if I could listen back and hear what worked and what didn’t, it might make me better. Nerd alert.”
He’s misreading the look on my face because I don’t think he’s a nerd at all. I’m kicking myself because the idea of doing that didn’t even occur to me.
“What? No! Lots of big comics do that. I feel like an idiot that I didn’t think to.”
“Oh well, I can send you this file if you want.”
I stare at Fletcher, at his sincere eyes, his strong chin, his kind offer to give me a recording of the show, and I desperately want to kiss him.
“Or not,” he says, trying to read my likely inscrutable expression. I don’t know how to get a kiss going. Do I just lean in? Should I ask first? I think he likes me, but maybe he’s just a nice guy, and if I kiss him, he’ll have to gently extricate himself and explain he’s never liked me like that. That would be worse than the worst. But my spot-on instincts are saying I should kiss Fletcher Handy!
So I should probably ask. Consent works both ways.
“You all right?” Fletcher asks. “It’s really not a big deal for me to send it to—”
“Can I…” I can’t do it. “Ask you something?”
“Sure.” Fletcher’s eyebrows rise slightly in this adorable way, and I don’t know what to say next. Suddenly everything he’s doing, every slight gesture, every half-formed utterance, is adorable.
“Um…do you think they’re going to make Breakin’ 3?”
Dammit, Winnie!
Fletcher’s eyebrows drop back down, a small smirk on his face. “Uh, I’d say that’s highly unlikely.”
“Yeah.”
“Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hopefully google it from time to time.”
We laugh, and then the room is silent again. I stare at a lonely tuba on its side under the whiteboard. I think I missed my moment.
“I would like for you to send me that file,” I say. “That was really nice of you to offer.”
“Oh, cool,” Fletcher says, and his eyes light up in this irresistible way that makes him look like a boy and a man at the same time, and that’s it for me, I’m like a rubber band snapping, the laws of physics dictating there’s nowhere for me to go but forward.
But as I go in for the kiss, Fletcher leans down to push buttons that will transmit the audio recording through the air from his phone to mine, and I end up kissing the top of his head.
“Oh,” Fletcher says, flinching back.
“I tripped, I tripped,” I say, in some kind of shock, even though his hair felt nice on my lips and smelled like honey. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s cool, it’s cool,” Fletcher says, but he seems like he might be in shock too, frozen in place with his phone in the air. My heart is running circles in my chest, shrieking in embarrassment.
“Anyway, thanks for sending that,” I say, racing through my words so I can end this interaction and have my parents whisk me away from all the cringing. Fletcher starts to get up because I’m sure he feels the same. “I really do appreciate it, and next time I’ll—”
Fletcher’s lips are on mine.
We are kissing.
It takes me a full five seconds for my body to stop flipping out and catch up to the reality of what’s happening.
And the reality of what’s happening is really great.
“I told you it’s cool,” Fletcher says as we pull apart.
“I didn’t realize you knew I was, you know, trying to kiss you.”
“Your lips were on my head.”
I smile and look away, my face flaming up. “Yeah. That’s true.”
“I’m glad you did,” Fletcher says, one side of his mouth grinning at me, and I’m about to rubber-band all over again when Mr. Martinez walks into the band room. Fletcher and I separate as if vacuum cleaners on either side of us had turned on.
“Oh, hey, guys,” Mr. Martinez says, the hint of a smile in his voice but otherwise no recognition that he just caught us about to make out. Very kind man. “About to shut this room down, so…”
“No prob,” Fletcher says.
“I just came in to get my jacket,” I say, awkwardly thrusting it into the air.
Mr. Martinez laughs. “Super. And again, great show tonight. Everyone seemed to really love it. Including Principal Bettis. Who didn’t understand that it was improvised until I just told him.”
Fletcher and I laugh as we head to the door.
“Have a good night,” Mr. Martinez says.
“You too,” I say.
Neither of us says much as we walk down the hall back to the lobby. It feels like we might be dreaming.
“So, maybe I’ll, like, text you this weekend,” Fletcher says finally, right before we reemerge into real life. “Or call you.”
“Yeah, that, or maybe my dad and I will come surprise you at Stop & Shop.”
“Oh, cool.”
“I’m kidding, you should definitely call me.”
“Aight, good. I will.”
“Good.”
“Just know that if you get more laughs than me, I’ll have to end this.”
“Too soon,” I say as we round the corner and other people come back into view.