driver slides into his seat. After a reminder about proper bus etiquette (no cheering, no standing, no walking around) and an announcement that we’re stopping for lunch in Centralia, which is midway between Seattle and Portland, we head off.
But by the time the bus hits I-5 south, I almost forget about the ITCF . Partly because the stupid springs on the bus seats make thinking impossible and partly because I’m sitting beside Hunter and the lack of springs means we’re constantly bumping shoulders.
And shoulder bumping Hunter as we drive down I-5 is enough to make any girl forget her worries.
Everything’s good until we reach Portland.
“In another minute or so, we’ll be driving by the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall,” Mr. Roskinski says. “It’ll be on the right-hand side of the street.”
I stare out the window. The traffic on Southwest Broadway is heavy. We’re barely creeping along.
“There it is,” someone shouts.
I spot the long green Portland sign attached to the side of the building. It looks like a giant pen. As the bus inches forward, the marquee comes into view: The International Teens in Comedy Festival. Welcome to America’s Newest & Funniest. Sponsored by Acacia Communications.
My stomach erupts. Not into dainty butterflies but into a mess of rabid bats. This is really happening.
“You guys are headliners,” Carly says. “That’s so cool.”
“Hey.” Hunter nudges me. “Isn’t that your dad by the entrance?”
“No way.” I lean forward so I can see around Carly’s shoulder. “It can’t be.”
I blink once, twice, three times. It’s Dad, all right. He’s standing in front of the marquee, one arm around Mom and the other around Grandpa, a big smile on his face.
Oh no. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
And then I spot the person taking the picture, and all hell breaks loose in the bat kingdom of my stomach. It’s Brooke. She’s standing between Twin One and Twin Two.
Ten
“G randpa insisted on it,” Mom says about thirty minutes later when we’re sitting on butter-yellow leather chairs in the hotel lobby. Across from me, Grandpa beams with pride. “He made all the arrangements,” Mom adds. “He booked our rooms at the hotel. He contacted the festival office to make sure we’d have tickets waiting at the box office. He even arranged to borrow Jerry’s nine-seater van so we could all drive down together.”
Grandpa is a make-it-happen kind of guy. Normally I love it. Today, not so much.
The lobby is crowded. People are clustered by the tour desk, the entrance to the bar, the gift shop. There’s a steady stream of bodies coming through the circular front doors and heading for the check-in desk too. Most of them are around my age. Most of them are trailing suitcases. And most of them have that same is this for real? look of panic in their eyes.
My competition.
“We wanted to show up and surprise you!” Grandpa says.
Surprises like this I don’t need. I’d literally just finished checking in—I hadn’t even been to my room yet—and when I turned around from reception, there they were. At least, Mom, Dad, and Grandpa were there. Brooke and the twins were in the gift shop.
“We haven’t been taking your comedy aspirations seriously enough.” Dad rubs his eyes. I can tell the drive from Seattle has exhausted him. Grandpa’s a terrible backseat driver. “We wanted to be here to support you.”
“And I know you’re nervous and you’d rather we didn’t watch, but just don’t think about us being in the audience.” Mom picks up my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Okay?” When I don’t answer, she squeezes my hand a second time and says, “You’ll do great, Paige.”
“Yeah, great.” I drag the word out— griiiiiiiiiit . Maybe they’ll think I’m pretending to be southern and not realize I’m having trouble talking between gritted teeth. I clutch my welcome package and force myself to look happy. They mean well. They do.
I just wish
But by the time the bus hits I-5 south, I almost forget about the ITCF . Partly because the stupid springs on the bus seats make thinking impossible and partly because I’m sitting beside Hunter and the lack of springs means we’re constantly bumping shoulders.
And shoulder bumping Hunter as we drive down I-5 is enough to make any girl forget her worries.
Everything’s good until we reach Portland.
“In another minute or so, we’ll be driving by the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall,” Mr. Roskinski says. “It’ll be on the right-hand side of the street.”
I stare out the window. The traffic on Southwest Broadway is heavy. We’re barely creeping along.
“There it is,” someone shouts.
I spot the long green Portland sign attached to the side of the building. It looks like a giant pen. As the bus inches forward, the marquee comes into view: The International Teens in Comedy Festival. Welcome to America’s Newest & Funniest. Sponsored by Acacia Communications.
My stomach erupts. Not into dainty butterflies but into a mess of rabid bats. This is really happening.
“You guys are headliners,” Carly says. “That’s so cool.”
“Hey.” Hunter nudges me. “Isn’t that your dad by the entrance?”
“No way.” I lean forward so I can see around Carly’s shoulder. “It can’t be.”
I blink once, twice, three times. It’s Dad, all right. He’s standing in front of the marquee, one arm around Mom and the other around Grandpa, a big smile on his face.
Oh no. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
And then I spot the person taking the picture, and all hell breaks loose in the bat kingdom of my stomach. It’s Brooke. She’s standing between Twin One and Twin Two.
Ten
“G randpa insisted on it,” Mom says about thirty minutes later when we’re sitting on butter-yellow leather chairs in the hotel lobby. Across from me, Grandpa beams with pride. “He made all the arrangements,” Mom adds. “He booked our rooms at the hotel. He contacted the festival office to make sure we’d have tickets waiting at the box office. He even arranged to borrow Jerry’s nine-seater van so we could all drive down together.”
Grandpa is a make-it-happen kind of guy. Normally I love it. Today, not so much.
The lobby is crowded. People are clustered by the tour desk, the entrance to the bar, the gift shop. There’s a steady stream of bodies coming through the circular front doors and heading for the check-in desk too. Most of them are around my age. Most of them are trailing suitcases. And most of them have that same is this for real? look of panic in their eyes.
My competition.
“We wanted to show up and surprise you!” Grandpa says.
Surprises like this I don’t need. I’d literally just finished checking in—I hadn’t even been to my room yet—and when I turned around from reception, there they were. At least, Mom, Dad, and Grandpa were there. Brooke and the twins were in the gift shop.
“We haven’t been taking your comedy aspirations seriously enough.” Dad rubs his eyes. I can tell the drive from Seattle has exhausted him. Grandpa’s a terrible backseat driver. “We wanted to be here to support you.”
“And I know you’re nervous and you’d rather we didn’t watch, but just don’t think about us being in the audience.” Mom picks up my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Okay?” When I don’t answer, she squeezes my hand a second time and says, “You’ll do great, Paige.”
“Yeah, great.” I drag the word out— griiiiiiiiiit . Maybe they’ll think I’m pretending to be southern and not realize I’m having trouble talking between gritted teeth. I clutch my welcome package and force myself to look happy. They mean well. They do.
I just wish
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