The shuttle drops me outside the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall at quarter to six. My heart does a jumping-jack routine when I see the crowds on the sidewalk and the marquee blazing with lights. It reminds me of Broadway. Plastering a smile on my face, I join the people lining up to get in. At least tonight all I have to do is listen and blend with the crowd. But tomorrow…
Don’t go there.
Forcing myself to stay in the moment, I study the people around me. Most of them are gazing awkwardly into space, trying to avoid eye contact. I check out their clothes. At least I’ve hit the right note of casual chic in my dressy black pants, midnight-blue chiffon top and jeweled flats.
“Excuse me.” A plump guy with hair the color of maple syrup materializes at my side. He’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a slouchy tweed jacket. A bright-orange name tag hangs from his neck. The same kind I’m wearing. A contestant’s name tag. “Aren’t you Paige Larsson?”
It takes me a second to place him. He’s the teen comic from Spokane who was featured in the newspaper article with me. “You’re Jacob Muller.” The muscles in my shoulders loosen a little. It’s great to see a familiar face. Even if it’s a face I’ve never actually met. “Talk about good timing.”
“I’m all about the timing,” he says solemnly. And we both crack up.
As we make our way to the front door, we compare notes on who we came with (he drove with his parents), where we’re staying (he has an uncle in town) and our worries about tomorrow.
“My straight stand-up category starts at eight thirty,” he says. “You video guys aren’t on until eleven. At least you can sleep in.”
“I doubt I’ll be doing much of that.”
After a woman checks our names off a list, we’re ushered past a white-and-gold Welcome to the 15th Annual Teens in Comedy Festival sign and into the lobby. Crystal chandeliers hang over a shiny checkerboard floor. An elegant staircase sweeps up to a mezzanine crowded with people. My mouth turns dry. That’s a long walk. And I’ve never been great on stairs.
A guy about our age steps forward. He’s wearing thick black glasses and a burgundy blazer with a small silver usher pin on his lapel. “I’m Drew,” he says. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the theater before taking you backstage.”
The theater is as beautiful as the lobby, with its grand balcony and incredible vintage detail. I spot other ushers showing contestants around, but I can’t tell if they’re in my category. They’re too far ahead and the lighting is too muted to make out facial features.
Drew leads us past plush bluish-purple seats, filling us in on the building’s historic past before going into the specifics of where everyone will sit this weekend. “Judges, officials and the media will sit in the front rows.” He stops about twenty rows from the stage beside section A. “You and your friends and family will sit here. You’ll get your seat numbers in a few minutes.”
“My category doesn’t start until eleven, and my welcome package said I don’t need to arrive until ten o’clock,” I tell him. “Do I come into the theater?”
“Nice way to be supportive,” Jacob mutters. But he’s smiling.
“There’ll be ushers at the main entrance when you arrive.” Drew leads us down another aisle to a side door. “Identify yourself to one of them, and they’ll take you backstage.”
We follow him down a hall and past a series of closed doors to an open doorway. “This is the main dressing room,” he says. “Tomorrow you’ll wait here for your name to be called.” Tonight it’s a blur of people, wardrobe racks, makeup stations and random chairs.
An older woman with brilliant red hair asks us for our names. Seconds later she hands us each an envelope. “You’ll find your seat number in there,” Drew says as he steers us out the door and back down the hall. “It’s good for both days—plus there are drink tickets for the mezzanine upstairs. You can head up to the reception after I’m done showing you around.” He grins. “Don’t even bother asking the bartender for booze. You won’t get it. But they have lots of soda.”
When he stops beside a door marked Stage, my heart skips a beat. This is where it’ll all happen. “You’ll always have an escort, so don’t worry about finding your way around. An usher will bring you down here five minutes before you’re due to go on.” He opens the door. Nerves thrumming, I follow him and Jacob into the wings.
The lighting backstage is dim. Cables snake across the floor. Fist-sized clumps of wires curl up the walls. Tracks of lights and booms hang from scaffolding overhead. A few guys wearing crew T-shirts are huddling by a computer station. Drew leads us over to a couple of other ushers standing beside a red velvet curtain. “You’ll wait here until you’re introduced. And I know we’re talking tonight, but obviously tomorrow you’re expected to be quiet.”
I peer over his shoulder. The spotlight is on center stage. Two teens—a guy and a girl—are standing in front of a microphone, looking straight ahead. Oh crap. He doesn’t expect us to walk out there now, does he?
The teens walk back to the wings. I stare at them as they go past. I don’t recognize the girl, but I’m pretty sure the guy is in my category.
“Your turn,” Drew says. “Walk out and get a feel for it.”
It’s my worst nightmare come to life. “I’m good,” I say. “Really. I’ll wait until tomorrow.” I know I’m being stupid. If I can’t walk onstage tonight, when no one is watching, how will I walk out tomorrow, when everyone is? But I’m suddenly überself-conscious of my limp, of how I must look.
“Come on,” Jacob says. His face is the color of milk, and perspiration shines above his top lip. “Don’t make me go out there alone.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I need to get over myself. Jacob is too busy being nervous to care how I look when I walk. “Okay.”
Jacob matches his pace to mine as we walk to center stage. A bead of sweat trickles down my back as I stare into the empty theater. The spotlight is hotter than I expected. The theater lights are on, and even with the spotlight shining into my eyes, I can see every single empty seat.
Tomorrow they’ll be full.
“You good?” Jacob asks.
There are nineteen others in my category. In terms of skill, I figure I’m about midrange. “Not as good as some, but better than others.”
He snickers. “I meant, are you good to go?”
The heat races from my neck into my cheeks. “Yeah, I’m good to go.”
We turn back to the wings. “I hope you break a leg tomorrow,” Jacob says.
I snort. “I hope I don’t. I’m already down one leg. I can’t afford to wreck another one.”
Jacob laughs.
It’s the first laugh I’ve gotten tonight. As we walk offstage, I take it as a sign of good luck.