Comedy Girl Page 4

  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!”

  “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 lik
e 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.

  BROKEN DREAMS

  Sid 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.”