First Paige Monday: The word for the week is porcelain. Porcelain is big in my house. My mom’s a dentist, and my dad’s a plumber. They’re all about the teeth and the toilets. If my sister and I brush and flush, they’re happy. Conversation at dinner is a little problematic though. I can never figure out what opening they’re talking about. The mouth or the toilet. Talk about potty mouth.
Dad’s van hits a pothole when he slows for the school zone. On the sidewalk, students in groups of twos and threes straggle down the block to school. Since Hunter has a doctor’s appointment, Dad’s driving me this morning.
“Good luck with your dry run in drama today.” Dad leans over and pats my knee.
I lick my suddenly dry lips. A knee tap is big-time encouragement coming from Dad. “Thanks.”
He turns into the drop-off zone. I see a couple of Brooke’s friends up ahead, including Twin Two. Oh crap. At least Brooke isn’t there. She’s pretty much avoided me since Saturday morning. Maybe I should call her a major rectal opening more often.
I fling open the passenger door. “This is good.”
“Whoa. Hold up.” He slams on the brakes. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Yeah. If I wrecked my good foot that would be disastrous.” Almost as bad as being driven to school by a parent. “Thanks, Dad.” I grab my bag and jump out before any of Brooke’s friends see me.
I’m halfway to my locker when Carly calls out, “Paige, wait!”
I stop in front of the basketball team’s trophy cabinet and watch her hurry down the hall, her dark hair streaming out behind her and a wide smile on her face.
Her smile fades when she stops in front of me. “What are you wearing?” She stares at the flowing peach top I picked up at the thrift store yesterday after I got my hair cut. I also found a cool vest and scored a pair of nearly new 7 For All Mankind black jeans. “I thought you were wearing something red for this afternoon’s performance.”
Carly believes in color therapy. She thinks red will energize me and draw positive attention. To get her own positive attention, she relies on tight, low-cut sweaters in every color going. Today’s is royal blue. “I changed my mind.”
She frowns. “Not smart. Peach stimulates the appetite.”
“That’s good.” We start to walk. “I’ll leave them hungry for more.”
Nothing can spoil my mood. Yesterday’s haircut turned out okay (my hair looks almost normal for the first time in, like, forever). My routines are feeling solid, and the subscription numbers on my YouTube channel are up. Way up.
“I almost reached nine thousand subscribers this morning,” I tell Carly. It’s low by Jenna Marbles standards, but great considering I’ve only been doing this for nine months.
She grins. “I saw. I’ll bet you’ll hit that magic ten thousand before we leave for Portland at the end of the week. Maybe then you’ll start making some money.”
I stop in front of my locker. My hands are clammy. It takes me a couple of tries to spin my combination. “Maybe.” I don’t know why I’m resisting turning this into a business. Maybe because until now, vlogging has been fun. And chasing money makes it more serious somehow.
She turns to go. “See you at lunch.”
“Don’t count on it. Roskinski wants to see me in the drama room.”
“I’ll be in the caf. Come find me when you’re done.”
But I don’t. By the time Mr. Roskinski finishes explaining how the afternoon will work, there’s only twenty minutes left until the first bell. He disappears to the staff room, and I eat my cheese sandwich sitting on the risers, staring at the stage. I’ll be performing twice in last block to four different classes. Thank goodness Brooke’s class isn’t one of them.
The stage curtains are half open. Mr. Roskinski has turned on a single spotlight. Most of the other lights in the room are off, throwing the stage into sharp relief. I don’t let myself think about Portland, the ITCF or what’s at stake with the contest. Instead, I visualize myself walking out from behind that shabby gold curtain, delivering my lines and hearing the laughter.
That’s all I focus on: the laughter.
When the bell goes, I spend first block in the library, reviewing my notes. I’ve memorized both routines, but in light of what Mr. Roskinski said about having backup material, I’ve also got a few bits I can pull out in case I need them. By the time last block rolls around and I head back to the classroom, I’m stoked. I’m ready.
Or I think I am. But as I stand backstage listening to seventy students coming into the room, I realize I should have brought my antiperspirant to school. I look like I have two peaches blooming under my armpits.
When Mr. Roskinski calls my name, my heart skips a beat. I clutch the wireless mic in my slippery palms and leave the wings. I don’t look at him, though I know he’s standing off to the side, recording every second of my performance.
“Walk much?” I ask as I limp to the front of the stage. I hear a few nervous giggles. But when I add, “Not really,” the laughing starts.
That gives me the confidence I need to start on my bit about my trip to Sephora, which doesn’t get the number of laughs I expect. Different jokes work with different groups—comedy rule number two. And there are way more guys than girls in this group. My panic starts to rise. I glance at Mr. Roskinski, who gestures to his pocket. Our signal for pull out something else.
“I am so over body odor,” I say, segueing into a piece I wrote on a whim last night. “I mean, what was God thinking? Why couldn’t she have designed our sweat to smell like bacon? Or banana cupcakes?” The laughs start again, and though my pacing isn’t great, the laughs keep coming for the rest of the routine. Afterward, as those two classes leave and the next two classes file in, Mr. Roskinski talks to me backstage.
“Don’t be afraid to slow down a little and leave time for the audience to laugh,” he says. “And glance around the group more too.”
That’ll be tough. I’ve been focusing on one or two friendly faces. Since Hunter and Carly and a few of my other friends are in this next group, I figured I’d focus on them.
I also figured I’d be less nervous this time too. Wrong. I’m practically hyperventilating as I wait for Mr. Roskinski to introduce me. Maybe because Hunter and Carly and some of my friends are in this group. When he calls my name, I momentarily blank out. But when he gestures with his hand, I snap back and start to move.
“Walking is great exercise,” I say when I reach the middle of the stage. “Unless you’re me.” A couple of nervous titters. “Maybe that’s why my parents named me Paige and named my sister Brooke.” The laughter starts to build. It’s an easy shot because people in this group know Brooke. They can relate. “I mean, how fast can a page move, you know what I’m saying?” More laughter. “Brooks are like small rivers, so they don’t have that problem. They’re always on the move. Even if they are a little shallow.”
Everybody laughs.
Okay, maybe it’s a low blow, but it’s the only joke I’ll make today about Brooke, and it gives me the confidence I need. Forcing myself to gaze at the entire group, I slow down and let the laughter dictate when to deliver the next line. My Sephora material goes over way better with this crowd, and my rant about self-checkout counters at the supermarket makes them laugh too. I end with my funny bit about sleeping on the job while I was in utero and “being born wrong.” Before I know it, I have four peaches blooming under my armpits, and my second practice run is over.
“That was great!” Carly says when she and Hunter come up to me afterward. A few students are hanging out talking, but the rest have left. Mr. Roskinski is sitting at his desk, writing something. Carly nudges Hunter. “Right?”
“Yeah. You did great.” But his voice is flat, his face weirdly blank. And he just cleared his throat.
I stare at him. “What’s wrong? And don’t tell me nothing, because that would be a lie.”
A hit of color blooms high on his cheeks. “It was a cheap shot, that’s all.”
Irritation prickles the back of my neck. “Oh come on! You know what Brooke’s been saying about me. You heard her on Saturday. What I said about her today was nothing.” Especially compared to what I plan to say about her at the competition.
“I’m not talking about Brooke,” Hunter says. “She’s just being a jealous bag.”
A bag, yes. Jealous? I don’t think so.
“I’m talking about you,” he adds. “The way you made fun of yourself. It was stupid.”
My breath catches. “It wasn’t stupid. The audience laughed. That means it worked.”
“Whatever.” But he won’t meet my gaze. “I thought it was dumb.”
There’s a funny pressure behind my eyes. Dumb? Really? Before I can answer, he turns away. I spot Mr. Roskinski walking toward me.
“You did great,” Carly mouths. She gestures to Hunter’s back. “He’s wrong.”
Carly’s right. It wasn’t dumb. I’m onstage to get laughs. No matter what it takes.