Comedy isn’t just telling a joke. It’s timing, it’s setup, it’s facial expressions, it’s choosing the right topic. Over the next few days I eat, sleep and breathe my routines. I watch the sessions Mr. Roskinski taped so many times I can practically recite them in my sleep. I analyze every word I speak, every pause I make, every beat of laughter I get back. I try out new lines and tweak the existing ones. I visualize a perfect delivery. I try on my stage clothes, pack and repack my suitcase. Wednesday, I email my two video submissions to the contest organizers. Thursday, I do another dry run in drama, only this time I do it after school and Mr. Roskinski is the only one watching, which is weird because he doesn’t laugh once, but I have to pause anyway, as if he is.
“Remember to breathe, to take your time and to let the energy build as you get into your set,” Mr. Roskinski says after I finish. “Now go home and get a good night’s sleep so you’re well rested for tomorrow’s drive to Portland.”
Since I was pretty much born to sleep, I don’t expect to have trouble sleeping Thursday night. And I don’t. I fall asleep soon after I go to bed, and it’s all good until my eyes fly open and I wake up in a cold sweat at 3:37 AM.
I’m competing in the ITCF. And I cannot fail.
It takes me hours to doze back off. And then I sleep through my alarm, which means I’m still in bed when Hunter comes to the door to pick me up. Hunter can’t stick around, but luckily Mom has the day off so she gets my breakfast, helps me pack my toiletries and drives me to school. I spend block one in math pretending I’m concentrating, and block two in the library pretending I’m reviewing my material. In reality, I’m obsessing. All I can think of is how big a deal this is and how scared I am. Finally, at ten to eleven, I put my material away and head for my locker.
Where R U? Carly texts as I check and recheck the bag I checked and rechecked last night and again this morning. I’m terrified I’ve forgotten my antiperspirant. No way do I want to sweat peaches on stage again. Hurry up, she adds.
I glance at my watch. We’re leaving at eleven. I still have five minutes. Relax, I text back. Roskinski’s not on board yet anyway. I see him down the hall, standing outside the office talking to Ms. Vastag.
Hunter saved you a seat. :)
In that case…I zip up my bag, slam my locker shut and head down the hall. As I pass the office, Ms. Vastag looks over and smiles. Whoa. I almost stumble. Last time she smiled, I was in grade eight. “Good luck, Paige.”
Paige? Now she’s calling me Paige?
“We’re all rooting for you.”
It’s the nicest thing Vastag has ever said to me. It’s also the scariest. Because it tells me how much is riding on my win.
Outside, a light drizzle is falling—the misty, barely there kind that does a real number on my hair. I tuck as much of it as I can under my raincoat and hurry down the sidewalk to the yellow bus waiting at the end of the drop-off zone. I’m not even to the back of the bus when the cheering starts. “Larsson, Larsson…”
My face flames. Oh God, kill me now.
When I reach the side of the bus, I see it: a six-foot-long paper banner taped to the side windows. Huge red letters say Comedy star Paige Larsson goes for the win. And ITCF rules!
Comedy star? Seriously? It’s not enough that I’m about to potentially humiliate myself onstage in front of hundreds of strangers, but I have to humiliate myself for three hours on I-5 getting there?
Smiling, the driver takes my bag and stows it with the other luggage. I take a deep breath and step onto the bus. The claps and whistles start. I spot Annalise and Liam. More buddies from drama. Hunter and Carly. Everybody’s smiling. My throat tightens. These guys are my friends. And they’re totally, 100 percent behind me. I’m lucky. I grin. “Gimp coming through.”
“Larsson, Larsson!” The cheers keep coming.
How embarrassing. “Shut up, guys, you’re violating the noise bylaws.” I make my way down the aisle. “They’re already getting calls in the office.” Clearly nobody believes me, because the cheers keep coming. I slide into the empty seat beside Hunter. An open bag of potato chips sits on his knees.
Across the aisle, Carly is grinning like a crazy fool. “Oh my god, Paige, I can’t believe this day has finally come!” She fist-pumps the air.
“Yeah. It’s amazing how Friday comes after Thursday.” I start to pull my jacket off. “I can hardly believe it myself.”
Carly rolls her eyes. Hunter sets aside his chips to help me with my sleeve. There’s a chip crumb on his lower lip. I wonder what it would be like to kiss it away. Or have the guts to tell him how I feel. The thought makes me hot.
“Sleep much?” he teases.
“As much as possible.”
He laughs. “At least you’re relaxed about everything.”
“I’m so relaxed, I can barely keep my eyes open.” I open my mouth to fake a yawn, and a real yawn takes over.
Carly leans over and sticks her phone under my nose. “I told you you’d hit that ten-thousand mark.”
I stare down at the screen. It takes me a second to make sense of what I’m seeing. My YouTube channel has ten thousand subscribers. Before I was shortlisted for the ITCF, I had five thousand. “Wow.” My mouth is suddenly dry. “This whole thing has been totally worth it.” All the practicing, all the stressing.
“Of course it’s been worth it,” Hunter says.
“And it’s only the beginning,” Carly says. “Because you’re going to win, and you’ll go to New York, and you’ll be a star.”
Annalise leans over from the seat ahead of us. “And the drama department will get ten grand out of the deal too!” she says.
My heart lurches. “I know. It’s gonna be great!” As long as I win. If I lose, I let everybody down.
A few minutes later, Mr. Roskinski boards the bus and the driver slides into his seat. After a reminder about proper bus etiquette (no cheering, no standing, no walking around) and an announcement that we’re stopping for lunch in Centralia, which is midway between Seattle and Portland, we head off.
But by the time the bus hits I-5 south, I almost forget about the ITCF. Partly because the stupid springs on the bus seats make thinking impossible and partly because I’m sitting beside Hunter and the lack of springs means we’re constantly bumping shoulders.
And shoulder bumping Hunter as we drive down I-5 is enough to make any girl forget her worries.
Everything’s good until we reach Portland.
“In another minute or so, we’ll be driving by the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall,” Mr. Roskinski says. “It’ll be on the right-hand side of the street.”
I stare out the window. The traffic on Southwest Broadway is heavy. We’re barely creeping along.
“There it is,” someone shouts.
I spot the long green Portland sign attached to the side of the building. It looks like a giant pen. As the bus inches forward, the marquee comes into view: The International Teens in Comedy Festival. Welcome to America’s Newest & Funniest. Sponsored by Acacia Communications.
My stomach erupts. Not into dainty butterflies but into a mess of rabid bats. This is really happening.
“You guys are headliners,” Carly says. “That’s so cool.”
“Hey.” Hunter nudges me. “Isn’t that your dad by the entrance?”
“No way.” I lean forward so I can see around Carly’s shoulder. “It can’t be.”
I blink once, twice, three times. It’s Dad, all right. He’s standing in front of the marquee, one arm around Mom and the other around Grandpa, a big smile on his face.
Oh no. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
And then I spot the person taking the picture, and all hell breaks loose in the bat kingdom of my stomach. It’s Brooke. She’s standing between Twin One and Twin Two.