Comedy Girl (5 page)

“I need oxygen!” I said to Jazzy.

Jazzy's face was pale as she held on tightly to her cardboard Leo.

I hadn't ever seen Jazzy afraid of anything. I had to be strong for her. “Remember, we're bush people,” I said, grabbing her hand. But our clasped hands were shaking. “We survived thorns and branches. Those people out there are just flowers in comparison.”

“Thanks, Trix,” Jazzy said, and squeezed me with all her might.

“Now I must be alone,” I demanded. “We'll talk after the show.” I needed to tune everyone out so I could run through my material. I wouldn't be able to relax until my performance was over. I sat curled up on a backstage chair, waiting forever for my name to be called, trying to convince myself I was being thrown into a bed of roses and not another thorn bush.

 

I tried to tune out a shrilling rendition of “Memory,” a rap version of “Silent Night,” and finally Jonathan Marks reading from
Othello
—my cue to go on. I watched him from the wings as I shook, paced, bit my nails, and jumped up and down. I didn't listen to a word of his speech. It was as if he was performing on speed.
Jonathan, the center on Mason's basketball team, was delivering the bard's words as if he was speaking against the shot clock. There was a round of applause and suddenly I heard, “For our next act, please welcome to the stage…Trixie Shapiro!”

I couldn't move—my feet were frozen.

“Where is she?” Janson whispered, peeking backstage. “Trixie, you're on!”

Jazzy ran over, waving her arms. “Trixie, it's your turn!”

I stared at her with wide ghostlike eyes. She pushed me onstage like a mother bird pushing her baby out of the nest. I walked forward, my knees wobbly, my hands sweaty. I picked up the mike from its stand and squeezed it like a pacifier.

I stood alone on the huge stage I had so often gazed at during study hall, in front of a sea of dark faces—all staring back at me. And not a Snoopy or Hello Kitty among them. No mirror to check myself in. No laugh track to spur me on.

The spotlight made me squint, but I also felt its warm glow. And with a sudden burst of confidence, I thought: This is the moment. I wasn't going to blow it—rather I was going to blow the audience away. Bring down the house, be the best performer Talent Night had ever seen. Show the snobs what I had dreamed of
for so long—show the world.

When my eyes adjusted to the glare, I noticed a smiling Sergeant in the third row, her program clenched tightly in her hand. I saw Dad and Aunt Sylvia, beaming. And then I saw Sid—grinning at me just as I had imagined. I started to perspire. I looked toward the aisle and saw my Algebra 2 teacher, Mr. Benchley, staring right at me. I could barely make out cheerleaders still dressed from the game scattered around the theater, glaring. I fingered my hair with my free hand. Eddie was in the first row, left section, sitting with some of his friends from American History class. I started to gnaw on my bottom lip. I spotted Sam Chapman in an aisle seat reading his program. And then I saw Gavin. My hands began to shake and I tried to cover my nervous tension with a Cheshire cat grin.

Why was everyone I knew sitting so close to the stage? Why couldn't they have been farther back, blocked by the glare of the spotlight?

I felt like I had been standing up there forever.

Speak, you moron! Do it. Do it now! Get it over with. They'll laugh and you'll be able to get outa here. They can't see your shaking hands.

I took a deep breath.

Nothing. Blank. My brain was empty. The monologue, all the jokes I'd been practicing all my life were
gone. Vanished. Sucked into a dark abyss.

If I could just remember one joke, it would bring the rest back.

I gazed at the balcony, as if my words were written on banners like “Go Mustangs” at a Mason High football game. I wrinkled my forehead, hoping to force my material out. My palms were so sweaty, the mike slipped in my hand. I couldn't believe this was happening. I couldn't remember a thing. I was dying in front of my family and the whole school. I looked at Sergeant.

Anything funny about Sergeant? I rattled my brain.

All of a sudden there wasn't anything funny about the woman whose smile was now turning into a nervous grin.

Dad! But Dad never says anything. I couldn't remember anything he had ever said!

Sid? He was no longer the only one in the family to suffer blackouts. Something about drugs…but what? What! I bit my fingernails. I felt like I was stuck in Jell-O.

If I could remember one joke anyone has ever told me…

Nothing.

My very first joke.

Emptiness.

One from a comedy album.

Blank.

A dirty limerick.

Nada.

Students were fanning themselves with their programs, shifting in their seats. I was really beginning to panic.

Okay, forget comedy!

Recite a nursery rhyme.

Zero.

If I could remember the song about the lamb that follows that girl…Maggie…Millie?

I could hear sounds of boredom in the audience—sighs, yawns, coughing.

Sing the national anthem. How does it go again?

A bumper sticker?

Nothing.

A license plate number.

Nothing.

My name—no, that's the one thing I wanted to forget.

Beads of sweat dripped down my forehead. I noticed students glancing around, heard programs rustling, audience members whispering. Were my five minutes up? I felt I'd been onstage for five years! I stared out into the audience. I melted from the heat of the spotlight. I squeezed the microphone, shaking and slipping in my sweaty hands and finally brought it up to my mouth.

“I have to go and throw up now! I forgot I was supposed to do that
before
I came onstage.”

The crowd paused awkwardly for a second, then roared with laughter as I desperately escaped offstage.

S
id found me hiding in the girls' bathroom after the show. I had hoped to wait until the whole school left, and then slip out unnoticed.

“Do you always use the girls' bathroom?” I asked, peeking out from the stall.

“It's a great place to meet chicks,” he replied.

“I bombed!” I said, stepping out.

“You rocked,” he lied, patting me on the arm.

“You must be having a flashback,” I argued. “Maybe if the rest of the audience had been having hallucinations too, I would have gotten a standing ovation.”

My brother laughed.

“Now why couldn't you have done that when I was up there?” I asked him.

Sid hugged me. Cigarette smoke and incense imbedded in his clothes made my eyes tear.

“Don't be upset,” he comforted me, wiping my leaking eye with his sleeve.

Sid put his arm around me. In his big brother way, he
proudly escorted me to the car as tears continued to well up in my eyes. I didn't have the heart to tell Sid it was just that I needed a gas mask to be around him.

Sergeant and Dad tried to reassure me on the long ride home, while I slumped silently in the backseat. Aunt Sylvia thoughtfully added, “You looked so pretty onstage. So grown-up. You were much better than that girl who recited Shakespeare to the poster. She turned white as a ghost when it fell over on her.”

“That's my best friend you're talking about!” I burst out. And then I remembered who had gotten me into this mess. I hadn't stayed to watch Jazzy's performance, or talked to her after the show. After my fiasco I had locked myself in a bathroom stall until Talent Night was over.

At home I immediately threw my stuffed animals into my closet, the Goody hairbrush into the garbage can, and the laugh track under the bed. I ripped Jelly Bean's poster from my wall.

Exhausted, I stared into my dreadful mirror like a wicked witch wondering who was the least funny of all. It was just a stupid dream. The only headlining I was capable of performing was at a carnival freak show. “Ladies and gentleman, you have just witnessed the Bearded Girl, the Mermaid Girl, and now we have for you live, straight from Amber Hills, the Loser Girl!”

I unscrewed the mirror from the door and put it in the closet with the rest of my dreams.

 

I didn't return to school the next day. Before Talent Night I'd had perfect attendance. Sergeant was beside herself, threatening to call Jazzy's therapist. Dad insisted on driving me to school, but first he had to get me out of bed. I told Sarge I wanted to be homeschooled. I would be sure to get high marks in Laundry 2 and American Vacuuming.

No longer dreaming about comic stardom, I fantasized about being an astronaut and living among aliens who'd never heard of Trixie Shapiro or Talent Night.

I was watching
Sunset Boulevard
one afternoon when the doorbell rang. I wasn't accepting calls or visits from Jazzy. But a man peered back at me from the other side of the peephole.

“Mr. Janson! What are you doing here?”

“Extreme actions call for extreme measures,” he said.

“I was just watching
Sunset Boulevard
for the ninth time,” I said, pausing the movie.

“Gloria Swanson gives the performance of a lifetime.”

“Yeah, she really has it, doesn't she? Some are meant to perform, and some are meant to watch. Want a HoHo?”

“You must be really sick.”

“Yeah. Monday I had the flu, Tuesday a stomachache, Wednesday a headache, Thursday a virus, and today the flu again. I don't blame you for failing me. I'm looking into transferring anyway. I've decided to go to technical school. I've given the matter a lot of thought and I realize high school is passé. All you get out of it is a periodic table and a prom. What can you do with that when you're thirty? I'm looking toward the future.”

“And what would that be, Ms. Shapiro?”

“Refrigerator repair.”

He tried to hold back a smile.

“Everyone has one. And the ice maker always goes on the fritz just before a party. That's when I come in. Only I'll wear a dress with a pink tool belt—not those horrible jeans those men wear that keep falling down when they bend over.”

“It seems you've thought this through.”

“I've liked refrigerators ever since I can remember.”

“Jazzy explained that she signed you up for stand-up. She thought she was doing you a favor.”

“Now audiences all over the world will get a favor—my early retirement!”

“She feels horrible.”

“She can tell it to her therapist. I think she gets a discount if she goes over an hour.”

“What would you say if I said I thought you were funny?”

“I'd say something I'm not supposed to say to a teacher.”

“Three hundred people can't be wrong. Didn't you hear them laugh?”

“It was hard to hear them over the sound of my heels hitting the floor in flight. Besides, they were laughing at me, not with me.”

“You accomplished the assignment. You were supposed to stand onstage alone for several minutes and hold the audience's attention. And since you chose stand-up—or since it was chosen for you—you wanted the audience to laugh. Which they did. I gave you an A.”

“I don't deserve to pass, much less get an A. I didn't deserve that laugh!”

“You improvised a line that got you out of a desperate situation. Everyone is afraid to do what you did. To go onstage, to tell a joke. A lot of popular kids who think they own the world take my class. But they turn into big marshmallows when I ask them to perform in front of their peers. You have the dream and passion inside you, and you have guts. No one can take that away. Talent Night was your first experience, not your only experience. And if you always remember that you passed instead of failed, then you can look back on it with pride.”

“I'll never look back on Talent Night with pride.”

“Then look at your report card with pride.”

The dark clouds that were hovering over my world started to drift away. I almost felt the sun peeking through.

“Thanks for coming over. I think my stomachache will go away now.”

“Fabulous! But I do have just one request before I go.”

“You changed your mind about that HoHo?”

“It's another assignment. But this one's just for you, strictly elective.”

“Oh no,” I cried, panic setting in, imagining another Talent Night just for me.

“I signed you up for Open Mike at Chaplin's.”

I began to feel flu symptoms coming on again.

“Each amateur gets five minutes. These people have never been up on a stage before in their lives. You're farther along. You can use the material you were planning for Talent Night. You can even read your jokes from cards. There's no pressure. It'll be fun.”

“But, I can't do this, don't you understand?”

“You can't
not
do this. I'll see you tomorrow night at Chaplin's. I'll sit in the back so I won't make you nervous,” he said, letting himself out.

“Oh no,” I sighed, feeling my forehead. “I think now I really do have a fever!”

I
crept into Chaplin's for the hundredth time, but tonight my stomach turned as I walked the hallway of fame—instead of being an audience member sitting safely behind an appetizer list and a haze of smoke, I would be a performer, alone onstage, delivering jokes, with a spotlight shining straight down on me.

“I'm here for Open Mike,” I whispered to a chain-smoking woman checking off names on a sign-in sheet.

“Hi, I'm Joyce. Who are you, sweetie?”

“Trixie Shapiro.”

“Shapiro…You'll be number seven. Do you know the rules?”

“You have rules?”

“No swearing, especially the F word. No more than five minutes onstage. Jimmy, the guy testing the mike, will shine a flashlight at four minutes so you can wrap it up. Gary,” she added, waving to a guy in a red-flannel shirt, “is the emcee. Any questions?”

“Does he know CPR?”

“You'll be fine!”

“No F word and no more than five minutes,” I repeated.

“And there's another rule. Have fun!”

Have fun? I only hoped it would be more fun than sitting in the dentist's chair.

I hung by myself at a darkened table while other would-be comics checked in. Where was Janson? I decided it was best for me not to look around for him. Anyone or anything could be a distraction to me. Hopefully he wouldn't show. He did say this was an elective. Maybe he elected to grade papers.

“Trixie,” a deep voice called from behind me.

Startled, I quickly turned around. It was Ben. “I saw your name on the list,” he said. “Cool!”

“You can't watch!” I demanded.

“Are you crazy?”

“You'll make me nervous. More nervous than I already am.”

“You'll be fine.”

“I'm not fine! Please!” I begged.

“Okay, girl, I'll slip in the back when I hear your name called. Want a drink?”

“How about a Coke and rum without the Coke?”

“How about a Coke and ice without the ice?”

“Who's the comedian?” I said. I sat down alone at my usual table in the back and began to pray.

 

The amateur comedians weren't nearly as funny, polished, or confident as the touring professionals I'd been watching at Chaplin's. They clutched the mike like a beer bottle, bringing it to their mouths then letting it dangle, slurring the punch lines—if there were any. Several participants told inside jokes to their friends in the audience, who laughed like crazy.

The Coke went right through me, so I made a bathroom run as comic number four left the stage.

I looked in the mirror and forced a smile. I had all my lines written on a tiny piece of paper hidden in my bra—just in case I blanked out. I fluffed my hair and said my first line. “Just have fun,” I then reminded myself. “Fun—now that's the F word!”

I had one more chance to go to the bathroom, I thought, and headed back to the stall. My mind must have wandered and before I knew it, I had flushed down a whole roll of paper.

The toilet began to overflow! Great. I had just ruined Oz's plumbing.

Suddenly the ladies' room door opened. “You're on!” Ben scolded.

“But I—,” I began.

“No time.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me out into the theater as Gary said, “We have only one female
in the show tonight, and she's really funny, so let's welcome her to Chaplin's—Trixie Shapiro!”

How does he know if I'm funny or not? I haven't performed yet!

I stumbled onto the tiny stage, shook Gary's hand, and grabbed the microphone. But it was stuck, and after I struggled for what seemed like an eternity, Gary ran back onstage and pried it out for me.

He took a bow as the audience applauded.

“Does that count for part of my five minutes?” The audience laughed. My first laugh. Wow.

“There's a rule at Open Mike that you're not allowed to talk for more than five minutes. I'd sure like to bring my mother here!” The audience laughed even louder. “I bet my dad would like to bring her too!”

The laughter crescendoed. This was unbelievable—they were really laughing!

“My mom is a major control freak. She walks into a furniture store—and rearranges the furniture!”

Chaplin's stage didn't swallow me, like Mason High's stage had on Talent Night. There was barely enough room for the microphone stand. The audience sat almost on top of one another, and staring back at me were not teenagers but real ladies and gentlemen. Well, not all gentlemen.

“You look like you're twelve years old!” a middle-aged quarterback shouted when the laughter subsided.

“Are you talking to me or your date?” I shouted back.

The audience roared, filling me with a rush of adrenaline. “I know I look young,” I said, smiling at the heckler. “But I'm actually a senior. I loathe high school! I'm afraid to speak up in class. I'm not the class clown. I'm the class mime.” And I pantomimed being locked in a box.

The rest flowed naturally, like a comic waterfall. I didn't want to be anywhere else in the world. I had a taste of being the Trixie Shapiro I had dreamed of.

Suddenly I saw a flashing light, signaling my five minutes were up. “They're waving a flashlight at me. Like at the movie theater when the usher catches you bringing in food from outside. I guess this is my sign to turn over the Doritos.”

I thanked the audience for coming and lingered a moment onstage, riding the wave of applause.

“She's really terrific!” Gary remarked to them as I left the stage. “What a funny girl!”

“You were great!” Joyce said, approaching my table. “We have an amateur contest next week, but unfortunately we're all booked up. It would have been great exposure for you!”

Strangers patted me—me—on the shoulder!

“You were funny!” a young couple said.

“Girl, you were fab!” Ben exclaimed. “I wish Eddie
could have seen you. He'd have treated you to a free pizza!”

I was buzzing from the sudden attention. People noticing me? Talking to me? Complimenting me?

Suddenly Mr. Janson approached. I had forgotten all about him, and for a moment wondered why he was here.

“You were brilliant! Just brilliant,” he exclaimed, hugging me.

“I passed?”

“Just remember me when you're on Comedy Central!” he exclaimed.

 

Gary closed the show after the final unbearable amateur, and the lights came up. I gathered my purse and jacket.

“You cracked me up!” the heckler said, shaking my hand.

“Thanks for coming!” I beamed.

Several of the other amateurs came over to me and we exchanged compliments. Finally a very unfunny doctor shook my hand.

“You were great,” he said and shook my hand. His wife beamed and agreed. “You were delightful.”

What could I say to him? I'm glad you have something to fall back on? Instead, I said, “Great job!” as I
noticed a hipster picking up a leather jacket from a table in the back. A knockout was leaving his side and walking toward the doctor. No, it couldn't be. Stinkface?

The familiar blonde stormed around me and said, “See ya, Uncle Stevie,” following the doctor and his wife out toward the lobby. I turned around. Now I could make out Gavin's face.

How could I have not noticed them before? They must have arrived when I was flooding the bathroom. I hoped Gavin wouldn't storm around me, so I could get smile number eight to cap off my most magical evening. But he didn't pass me; instead he walked right toward me.

“I thought you were awesome!” he said with smile number eight.

Despite years of my infatuation and seven prior smiles, Gavin Baldwin had never actually spoken to me.

Now I had stage fright. I couldn't even say thanks. I barely returned the smile.

“I didn't know you were so talented!”

“Yeah, I guess I can do more than walk and chew gum at the same time,” I blurted out as if I were still onstage.

“Gavin, are you going to take me home? Or am I going to have to walk?” Stinkface called over impatiently.

“She's chewing gum,” he whispered, “so I guess I
shouldn't let her walk. She's not that talented,” he said with a wink, and was gone.

 

I was at a gala charity ball shimmering in a silver glitter dress, slow dancing with a tuxedoed Jerry Seinfeld when Eddie Murphy tapped his shoulder to cut in—

 

I heard a pounding at my door.

Jazzy barged into my room and blinded me by turning on the lights.

“Jazzy! How'd you get in here?”

“I had to hide inside a wooden horse!”

“But I was just about to dance with Eddie Murphy. Let me go back to sleep!”

“You can't! You have school and I have to talk to you.”

“Aren't I mad at you?” I asked, pulling the covers over my head.

“I'm sorry about signing you up for stand-up at Talent Night,” she apologized, pulling the covers down.

“You mean Fright Night! It was totally scary—I was totally scary!”

“You weren't scary—I was!” she said, plopping on the edge of my bed. “Leonardo came unglued and fell down on me. So there I was in front of the whole school with Leonardo DiCaprio lying on top of me!”

“Sounds like a dream come true!”

“Not when your mom is in the third row. I could hear everyone snickering. I've never been so totally embarrassed in my life.”

“Aunt Sylvia thought it was funny.”

“I'm the one who shouldn't have come back to school, Trix. Ricky thought my monologue was rancid! He kept saying at the party, ‘Where's Trixie? She was hysterical!' He thought you planned your routine that way!”

“No way!”

“I talked to my therapist all week. She was the only one who'd listen to me—and I have to pay her!” She pulled at her beaded necklace. “Anyway, I don't care about that stupid night. I just want us to be best friends again.”

“But I care about that night. I'll never forget it.”

“I know. I'm so sorry! I thought I was doing you a favor—like Sid pushing you out from behind the couch. But I'll never put you in harm's way again.”

“You promise?”

“I promise! I promise!”

“Well…okay.”

“So we're bush girls again?”

“Really, Jazz…How can I go to school without you? Who will I eat lunch with? Who will I pass notes to?” I asked.

“Oh goody!” Jazzy screamed, squeezing me tightly. “I have a little present for you,” she then said, opening her
purse and handing me a bottle of nail polish.

“True Blue!” I said, reading the color. “Cool, Jazzy!”

“Now let's get to school,” she said, fixing her hair in the mirror.

I scrounged for some clean school clothes. “I have the most amazing news to tell you in the car!”

“Is it blockbuster news?”

“Totally blockbuster! With paparazzi and autographs. It takes place at a comedy club and it stars me and…Gavin Baldwin!”

“Gavin!”

“He spoke to me! Finally, after a lifetime!”

“No way! What did he say?”

“Let me start from the beginning! He was wearing—”

“Wait, get dressed. Then you can tell me every juicy detail. I'll drive extra slow!”

 

The bell rang at 10:55, signaling freedom from my prison cell known as Anatomy. I was late getting out of class, cleaning up the glitter that had sprinkled out from one of Jazzy's notes. I was still reading it in the bustling hallway when someone grabbed me by the arm and the note fell to the floor.

“Hey, doofus! Look what you made me do!” I exclaimed. The note landed next to a combat boot, which was connected to blue jeans, and then an
oversized rust sweater….

“Gavin!” I exclaimed, breathless.

Was I dreaming? He was touching my arm! And what a firm hunkster grip he had! But why was he grabbing me?

Gavin bent down and picked up the note, like the gentleman I'd always dreamed he was.

I froze like a deer in headlights when he noticed its unmistakable contents spelled out in bold purple glitter:

 

T.S.

x

G.B.

 

Gavin looked at me with skeptical eyes.

“G…arth…Br…ooks. I love Garth Brooks!” I blurted out, grabbing the note.

“You don't look like the country music type.”

“What type do I look like?” I asked.

He gazed at me, really stared at me—studied my bob-length orange hair pulled back in two orange flower barrettes, my dark eyes—and then glanced down to the nape of my neck. My skin flushed like I was in a steam room. I shifted in place, fingering my hair. And then he averted his eyes as if trying to find the right words.

The bell rang.

“You look like the Varicose Veins type,” he said over the sounds of closing lockers and classroom doors. “I've got two tickets to their concert next week. Want to go?”

Did I want to go? Did I want a million dollars? Did I want my own HBO special?

“Sounds cool,” I replied, trying to act nonchalant.

He smiled—number nine—and his blue eyes sparkled like the glitter on my note. “What's your number?”

“Of smiles?” I asked.

“Smiles?”

“Oh, of course!” I laughed, scribbling my telephone number on his spiral notebook, trying desperately to cover my faux pas.

“You are a funny girl,” he said as he left.

Walking through the empty corridors, I floated to class on a Gavin Baldwin–shaped cloud.

But when I got there, instead of receiving congratulations for winning a date with Gavin Baldwin, I was met by the confused stare on my ignorant teacher's face.

“Can I help you?” he asked when I entered the room. “Are you lost?”

“Lost? I'm in your class!”

The students laughed.