the only joke I’ll make today about Brooke, and it gives me the confidence I need. Forcing myself to gaze at the entire group, I slow down and let the laughter dictate when to deliver the next line. My Sephora material goes over way better with this crowd, and my rant about self-checkout counters at the supermarket makes them laugh too. I end with my funny bit about sleeping on the job while I was in utero and “being born wrong.” Before I know it, I have four peaches blooming under my armpits, and my second practice run is over.
“That was great!” Carly says when she and Hunter come up to me afterward. A few students are hanging out talking, but the rest have left. Mr. Roskinski is sitting at his desk, writing something. Carly nudges Hunter. “Right?”
“Yeah. You did great.” But his voice is flat, his face weirdly blank. And he just cleared his throat.
I stare at him. “What’s wrong? And don’t tell me nothing, because that would be a lie.”
A hit of color blooms high on his cheeks. “It was a cheap shot, that’s all.”
Irritation prickles the back of my neck. “Oh come on! You know what Brooke’s been saying about me. You heard her on Saturday. What I said about her today was nothing.” Especially compared to what I plan to say about her at the competition.
“I’m not talking about Brooke,” Hunter says. “She’s just being a jealous bag.”
A bag, yes. Jealous? I don’t think so.
“I’m talking about you,” he adds. “The way you made fun of yourself. It was stupid.”
My breath catches. “It wasn’t stupid. The audience laughed. That means it worked.”
“Whatever.” But he won’t meet my gaze. “I thought it was dumb.”
There’s a funny pressure behind my eyes. Dumb? Really? Before I can answer, he turns away. I spot Mr. Roskinski walking toward me.
“You did great,” Carly mouths. She gestures to Hunter’s back. “He’s wrong.”
Carly’s right. It wasn’t dumb. I’m onstage to get laughs. No matter what it takes.
Nine
C omedy 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
“That was great!” Carly says when she and Hunter come up to me afterward. A few students are hanging out talking, but the rest have left. Mr. Roskinski is sitting at his desk, writing something. Carly nudges Hunter. “Right?”
“Yeah. You did great.” But his voice is flat, his face weirdly blank. And he just cleared his throat.
I stare at him. “What’s wrong? And don’t tell me nothing, because that would be a lie.”
A hit of color blooms high on his cheeks. “It was a cheap shot, that’s all.”
Irritation prickles the back of my neck. “Oh come on! You know what Brooke’s been saying about me. You heard her on Saturday. What I said about her today was nothing.” Especially compared to what I plan to say about her at the competition.
“I’m not talking about Brooke,” Hunter says. “She’s just being a jealous bag.”
A bag, yes. Jealous? I don’t think so.
“I’m talking about you,” he adds. “The way you made fun of yourself. It was stupid.”
My breath catches. “It wasn’t stupid. The audience laughed. That means it worked.”
“Whatever.” But he won’t meet my gaze. “I thought it was dumb.”
There’s a funny pressure behind my eyes. Dumb? Really? Before I can answer, he turns away. I spot Mr. Roskinski walking toward me.
“You did great,” Carly mouths. She gestures to Hunter’s back. “He’s wrong.”
Carly’s right. It wasn’t dumb. I’m onstage to get laughs. No matter what it takes.
Nine
C omedy 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
Similar Books
