Comedy Girl (4 page)

“I
love you,” Jazzy said, kissing Leonardo DiCaprio on the mouth. “Isn't he gorgeous?” she then asked me. The poster of the actor, freshly glued to thick cardboard, was leaning against Jazzy's dresser. “Why don't you borrow him? He might cheer you up.”

“I need a cardboard Jelly Bean. Then I could hide behind it to recite my stupid jokes. No one would dare throw textbooks at Jelly.”

“No one's going to throw anything at you but money! And underwear—Gavin Baldwin's Joe Boxers. O Leonardo, Leonardo, wherefore art thou Leonardo?” Jazzy proclaimed, balancing on her wicker chair. “Deny thy father and refuse thy fame!”

“Fame? That's not the way it goes.”

“It's a whole metaphor thing, don't you see?” she declared wildly.

“Shakespeare is having a cow right now!” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Your turn!” Jazzy exclaimed, jumping off the chair.

“No way.”

“If you can't perform in front of your best friend, how can you perform in front of the whole school?”

“Exactly!”

“We crack each other up all the time! You're always goofing around. You should be used to this.”

“But it's not the same. I'll be up there alone.”

“We'll all be up there alone.”

“You have Leo.” I put my hand to my forehead. “My head feels warm. Do you think I have a fever?”

“I'm hot too. It's Leo's scorching image. I'll put him in the closet.”

“No, I really think I'm sick.”

“Just take a deep breath and read from your comedy notebook. I promise I won't laugh,” Jazzy said, and laughed out loud. “Did you get that, Trix? That was a joke! Hey, I should be the one doing the comedy!”

“Yeah, you should.”

“No one said this stuff is easy,” she said, suddenly serious. “Could Sam Chapman do stand-up? He tells jokes in class, but he does it just to get out of trouble, not to entertain. He'd freeze onstage. No one would laugh. We'll get you drunk!”

“I'll need more than liquor!”

“I'll see what I can do, but right now try it one time for me.”

I looked at my notebook and then at my watch. “Rancid! It's six fifteen. Sarge will kill me. I told her I'd be home to set the table.”

“But I need to practice!”

“Jazz, I'll be grounded.”

“There's your excuse. You can tell Janson you can't perform 'cause you're grounded!”

I looked at my best friend. And slowly a wicked grin overcame me.

 

The next night I fiddled with my straw as I sat alone at my usual table, hidden by the dim lights and thick smoke that hung over the audience at Chaplin's.

But as I watched the opener dying, I thought: I can do that. I can stand onstage and not be funny! But standing up in front of Gavin and the whole school and not being funny was another thing. I looked at my watch. 9:45. 10:05. 10:30.

Dad was in Houston on business, so I told Sarge I'd get a ride with Ben, knowing he would be one of the last to leave.

“Man, I'm sorry, it's so late,” Ben said, cutting off the club lights. “I hope Sergeant doesn't have a fit!”

“I hope she does,” I said with a wink.

 

But my plan had a fatal flaw. Sarge's punishment wasn't grounding me from Talent Night after all—her
punishment was chaperoning me to Janson's Rehearsal Night!

I insisted Sarge sit quietly in the back of the auditorium. I ignored her and sat as far away from her as I could, slunk down in the front row next to Jazzy.

Mr. Janson talked to the accompanist who sat at his piano stage left while seventeen drama students giggled, gossiped, and chatted on cell phones, breaking up the nervous tension.

“Settle down,” Janson finally commanded, taking center stage. “Since we only have one rehearsal, and this is the first time Roger is here to learn the musical accompaniment, we'll run all musical numbers in order first.”

“Awh man!” one student whined. “I'm not even warmed up!”

“This sucks,” I complained to Jazzy. “We'll have to wait hours before we get our turn over with!”

I was right. If Rehearsal Night was any indication of Talent Night, audience members would be fleeing toward the exits—it was a disorganized, off-key mess. Ten students were performing musical numbers, and more than half of them had to run through their songs at least three times.

“When will you be going on?” Sarge abruptly interrogated me, nudging my arm while Harold Quimby
warbled through “Music of the Night.”

“Shh, Ma! Didn't you hear Mr. Janson? He's running musical numbers first.”

“I wanted to go to the ladies' room and I don't want to miss your routine.”

“Unless you're going back home to use the toilet, you won't miss a thing! It'll be more than an hour.”

“Do you kids have vending machines here?” she asked, removing my backpack from the seat next to me and stuffing herself into the chair. “I need a nosh.”

“Down the hall,” I said, pointing, but not making eye contact. “And around the corner, out the steps, and down the block.”

“Do you want something?” she asked, ignoring my comment. “You must be starved.”

“Ma! Everyone's looking!”

“Jazzy, would you like a treat?” she asked, leaning over me.

“No thanks, Mrs. Shapiro. My stomach is in knots!”

“Shhh!” I sternly whispered. “Molly is singing. You're embarrassing me.”

“That's what mothers are for!” she retorted, and walked up the aisle.

“This is torture,” I whispered to Jazzy.

We chatted, slept, and doodled as the hours dragged on. I painted my nails blue and Jazzy re-applied eye shadow.

“Okay, guys!” Janson said anxiously after the epic musical numbers were over. “We're running out of time. We'll do tops and bottoms. That means we'll run the show in order, but only for lighting cues. Be ready on deck backstage. When lights go up, hit your mark, say your first line, then jump to your closing line, applause-applause from the audience, lights out, and make your way offstage!”

“Is he kidding?” I said, as we quickly stashed our accessories.

“But Mr. Janson,” Jazzy called, her hand raised wildly. “Some of us haven't performed yet!”

“I know, I'm sorry, but that's all we'll have time for tonight. It's almost eleven o'clock.”

We anxiously waited backstage for our turn. Jazzy dragged Leo backstage, tired and frustrated. “It's a blessing,” I tried to reassure her. “Now we only have to perform once!”

“I didn't think of it that way,” she said, relieved. “Now go! It's your turn.”

I hit my mark.

I'd never stood on Mason's stage. It felt huge and engulfing. I could barely make out the empty seats with the blinding lights. I finally held a real microphone in my hand.

“Say your line!” Mr. Janson called.

“Oh yeah…” My voice echoed throughout the auditorium. “I loathe high school,” I began. “I'm unbearably shy—afraid to speak up in—”

“Cut!” he admonished me.

I stopped mid–punch line. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Yes, you're supposed to jump to your last line, Trixie! We have six other performers to get through. We'll have to take out a school levy for the electricity we've been running tonight!”

That was my rehearsal.

“Thank you very much,” I said, reluctantly jumping to the end of my routine, replacing the microphone in its stand. I bowed.

“Lights out! Applause, applause,” Janson called to the light board operator.

The stage went pitch-black. I struggled slowly in the darkness, afraid I might trip over the mike cord or fall off the stage.

The lights came on and I was still fumbling through the red curtain.

“Hold it, Harold!” Mr. Janson called, waving Harold offstage as he began entering from stage right. “Trixie! What are you still doing onstage?”

“My curtain call?” I asked.

The students all laughed from backstage. Some even
applauded. I bowed and quickly ran off.

“Save your jokes for tomorrow please, Ms. Shapiro,” Janson reprimanded me.

Jazzy and I were gathering our backpacks when I heard a familiar voice call from the back of the auditorium.

“Excuse me, Mr. Janson!”

“Uh-oh!” Jazzy said, clutching Leonardo.

“Tell me she doesn't want to sing tomorrow too!”

“No, I think she's pissed!” Jazzy whispered.

I thought the punishment was over, but I guess it had just begun.

Sarge stormed down the auditorium aisle and brazenly approached Mr. Janson, who was putting papers in his duffel bag. Students who were leaving hung back, watching.

“You mean to tell me that I sat through three hours of music rehearsal and ‘lights up, lights down,' and I didn't get to watch my own child run through her performance even one time?”

“Ma!”

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Shapiro. I had no idea we'd run over schedule. This year's show had more musical numbers than last year's.”

“But the dramatic and comedic pieces deserve attention too.”

“You're right, but I feel it's more important the kids get
a good night's rest for the show tomorrow.”

“She forgot to take her Prozac,” I whispered to some of the students that had gathered.

But Sarge ignored my comment. “How is she supposed to get a good grade if she isn't prepared?”

“She's going through menopause,” I whispered. “Mood swings!”

“Listen, Mr. Janson—,” she continued.

“I'll let her and the others have a few minutes onstage before the show. Don't worry, Mrs. Shapiro. I have the utmost confidence that Trixie will be great tomorrow.”

“Really, you think she's talented?”

“Ma! The school is closing!”

“First rate,” Mr. Janson said offhandedly, zipping his duffel bag.

“Did you hear that, Trixie? He said my baby's so good she doesn't need rehearsal,” she said, patting me on the back like I was one of her third-graders.

“I think she deserves an A for her performance!” I whispered to Mr. Janson, as Jazzy and I followed Sarge out.

 

When I got home, I called Sid on his cell phone.

“Trixie? I can't hear you,” he shouted over the sounds of kids partying and loud music. “Hey, dudes—I'm
trying to talk to my sis!”

“Sid?”

“Let me go outside,” he said.

“I'd like your advice,” I began.

“You want to know what kids wear to a Phish concert?”

“No—”

“Where to get a fake ID?”

“Listen—”

“How to cut class?”

“Exactly!”

“You've had perfect attendance since kindergarten.” He laughed. “Let me guess. Talent Night?”

“Sarge told you?”

“Actually I read it in
USA Today
.”

“But I'm freaking out. I can't do it!”

“You'll rock!” he exclaimed. “You're a natural.”

“But this is the first time I'll be performing without you!”

“Well, it's about time.”

“But Sid—”

“Listen. Just imagine I'm onstage with you.”

“Could you be?” I begged.

“No, but I'll be in the audience.”

The audience! The thought of my brother grinning at me in the front row only terrified me further. “Oh, Sid, you can't!”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

“Don't you have a wet T-shirt contest to judge or something?”

“I cleared my schedule for you, Shrimp.”

“But you're allergic to school,” I reminded him. “I bet you don't even know where Mason's auditorium is.”

“Of course I do. I used to sneak a smoke in the prop room. So no fear, girl. This is one class project I'm not going to miss.”

 

Before going to bed, I scrutinized myself in the mirror, the round hairbrush held tightly in one hand, the stuffed animals in their places. I felt a burst of confidence.

“I loathe high school,” I began for the seventeenth time. But then reality hit me as I noticed the drooping eyes reflected in the mirror.

What if I failed in front of the whole school?

I jumped on my bed and crawled under the covers fully clothed, my brush still clutched in my hand. I had nineteen hours to catch the flu.

 

“I'm so totally excited!” Jazzy screamed as she drove me to school the next morning. “The best part will be the party afterward. We'll be the stars—everyone will want to hang with us—especially with you, 'cause you have the best act!”

“You haven't even see it!”

“But all the other acts tanked at rehearsal!”

“I just hope I'm still breathing afterward!”

“We'll get A pluses from Janson and party with Ricky and Gavin.”

“Don't say Gavin! Why did we take this class anyway?”

“We thought it would be fun,” Jazzy answered.

“Boy, were we wrong,” we both said in unison.

 

At 10:55 I passed Gavin in the hallway. But today I kept my eyes on the floor, afraid to make eye contact, afraid to draw attention to myself. So when he stepped toward me for the first time ever, I ignored him like a coward and hurried to class.

 

The closed curtains concealed the arriving crowd—a small one, I hoped. We couldn't hear them for all the noise backstage. Mr. Janson was rushing around trying to create some order out of all our chaos.

I paced in the wings, wearing a silky dark blue dress, black tights, and black high heels. Why didn't I wear high tops and a pair of shorts? I wondered, as I slid on a Talent Night program that was lying on the floor.

“People, get in your places,” Mr. Janson commanded. “Remember the running order, remember to project,
and most importantly, remember me when you're famous!”