“Here you go, kiddo,” Dad says as he slows to a stop in front of the theater at ten the next morning. Thank goodness Brooke and the twins aren’t with us. When I met Mom in the hotel lobby a few minutes ago and she told me they were making their own way to the competition, I almost cried with relief.
I’m too nervous to see my sister right now.
My stomach flips as I stare out the window. I see a couple of news vans parked ahead of us: KPTV and KOIN 6. Reporters and camera operators too, standing by the theater entrance. I’m too nervous, period.
I can’t believe TV news is here.
I can’t believe I’m here.
I can’t believe this is really happening.
“I’ll find parking and let Mom and Grandpa walk you in.” Dad glances back and winks at me. “Go get ’em, Paige. Show those guys just how great you are.”
Mom opens the van door and gestures me out. The gray sky looks threatening, but it hasn’t rained yet, and that’s good news for my hair. In spite of all the expensive hair products Carly insisted I buy, and though I spent more than half an hour styling it this morning, I’m worried about frizzing up.
We walk toward the entrance. My heart begins to race. I’m about to face the biggest opportunity—and the biggest challenge—of my life. Making a crowd laugh. But I have to limp out onstage in front of them first.
Frizzing up is the least of my worries.
Grandpa slows in front of a heavily made-up blond holding a microphone. A bored-looking camera operator stands behind her. “This is my granddaughter. Paige Larsson.” Grandpa drops his arm across my shoulders like he thinks I might run away or something. I look at Mom for support, but she’s staring at the reporter and grinning like a fool. “She’s competing in the video-comedy category. You’d better memorize her name. That’s Larsson with two s’s. You’ll be hearing a lot about her in the coming years.”
My cheeks burn. Where’s that mega earthquake when you need it? Right now, I’d give anything for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
The woman gestures to the camera guy, who hoists his machine to his shoulders. She sticks the microphone under my nose. “How does it feel to be competing, Paige Larsson?”
I mumble something about it being a great opportunity and an honor to be shortlisted. I’ve barely finished speaking when someone else comes up, and the woman switches her attention to them.
Mom and Grandpa present their tickets at the entrance. I hold up my name tag for inspection. The petite ticket checker, who’s wearing eyelashes the length of my baby finger, smiles at me. “Go on in. And good luck.”
Inside the door, a middle-aged usher with longish hair and kind brown eyes is waiting to take me backstage.
“Why don’t I walk down with you?” Mom straightens my vest, brushes something from my shoulder. I know there’s nothing there. I spent over an hour primping. My jeans and vest are perfect. My makeup is perfect. If only I could be perfect. “Give you some support.”
“Thanks, Mom, but only contestants are allowed backstage.” I have no clue if that’s true, but I don’t want a mother escort.
“Okay then.” Her blue eyes are full of emotion. “Remember, we love you, and we’re proud of you no matter what happens up on that stage.” She folds me into a hug. I breathe in her special mom smell: minty toothpaste, floral perfume and comfort.
The usher leads me through a metal door that goes backstage. “The first category is just wrapping up,” he says as clapping breaks out in the theater. I hope Jacob makes it. He seems like a nice guy.
I follow the usher down the hall, past the turnoff to the stage and toward the dressing room. When I hear a burst of laughter, my heart starts to thrum. They’ll stare at me as I walk into the room. I hate that.
They’ll stare at you when you walk out onstage too.
Sometimes I wish I had a Delete button for my thoughts.
The usher stops by the open doorway. I freeze, suddenly conscious of my limp. “Here you are.” He smiles before he turns away. “Good luck.”
I stare at the crowd. There has to be at least sixty people in the room. Contestants wearing the flamboyant orange name tags, ushers in their burgundy jackets, a pile of organizers. But everybody is huddled around three TV monitors. Nobody is looking at me. I take a breath, walk in and stand awkwardly at the back of the group.
Jacob comes over. His face is flushed, and his hairline is damp with sweat. “Hey. Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
He’s dressed casually in jeans, a white shirt and blue high-top runners. Aside from a few girls wearing leggings, and one guy wearing khakis, jeans seem to be the outfit of choice. My nervousness eases just a little. My walk may be messed up, but my clothes are perfect.
Jacob steers me over to a monitor. On the screen, I see the four judges sitting in the front row, iPads resting on their knees. Their heads are bent together. Raven Prest is sitting second from the end. My breath stalls. She’s my all-time, hands-down favorite comedian. I can’t believe she’ll watch me perform today. It’s like a dream come true. Except for the walking across the stage part.
“They’re about to announce who made the first cut,” Jacob tells me.
Twenty comedians start out in each category. Half will be eliminated after the first round this morning, and another half will be cut after this afternoon’s round. Only five in each category will go on to tomorrow’s final.
The judges straighten. The room goes quiet. I stare at the screen as one of the judges—British comedian Connor Hillis—looks into the camera and says, “I speak for all four of us when I say this was a difficult decision, and every contestant is to be congratulated for his or her efforts. Based on our criteria, here are the contestants in the straight stand-up comedy category who will compete in this afternoon’s event.”
Ten names flash onto the screen. There’s a moment’s pause and then comes a shout, followed by a burst of clapping. I barely have time to scan half the list before Jacob pulls me into a sweaty hug. “I made it.” His voice trembles with emotion.
The next fifteen minutes are pandemonium as people are congratulated and consoled and the contestants in the first category trickle out of the room. I find a space against the wall and check my texts.
From Carly: Good luck!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
From Hunter: You’re the funniest person I know. Remember that.
From Mr. Roskinski: Let the audience reaction guide you.
The next half hour is a blur of instructions and final details. I listen as the organizers remind us that we’ll be able to watch the event live on the monitor… that we’ll be taken to the stage area ten minutes before our names will be called…that there will be a lunch for all contestants following our category.
Swallowing hard, I eye my competition. I recognize a guy from Idaho, one from Boston and another from Santa Fe. Girls from Tampa and Phoenix and Chicago. I’ve watched them all on YouTube. I’ve been awed by their talent.
Today they look as terrified as I feel. The thought doesn’t offer much comfort.
As the competition in my category begins, I calmly watch the monitor along with everyone else. But by the time the fourth contestant starts into her routine, my panic reaches epic proportions. These guys are good. Very, very good. Their material, their delivery, everything.
I don’t measure up.
You’re here. You’re prepared. You need to give it your best shot.
I turn away from the monitor, lean back in my chair and mentally review my first routine. I changed it up last night when I realized Brooke would be in the audience. I needed to take out some of the stuff about her. So after meeting Carly and Hunter for dinner, I put in some fresh bits, smoothed out the transitions and practised until I was sure I’d memorized the changes. It’s too bad, because Brooke is a great source of material. But as much as she pisses me off, there’s no way I’ll embarrass her in such a public way.
That’s her style, not mine.
“Paige Larsson,” a voice calls out.
My eyes fly open.
An usher with a belly the size of a small suitcase is standing in the doorway. “Paige Larsson,” he repeats, glancing around the room. “You’re up next.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and stand.