Comedy Girl Page 9

  “You must be fun on a camping trip!” I laughed.

  “I bring bottled dirt! Have a seat,” he said, removing a notebook from the chair. A crisp sheet covered the chair. “Want a pop?”

  “Sure.”

  Cam opened the door.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To the vending machine. This isn’t the Ritz.”

  He returned and tossed a cold Coke at me. Then he pulled out a package of straws he had in his suitcase.

  “Color?” he asked.

  “Yellow—to match your monogrammed towels.”

  He lay on his stomach on the bed and started flipping through cable channels. I sat on a hotel towel that covered the desk chairs. I was alone with an older guy in a hotel room. I reassured myself Cam wouldn’t do anything improper. But had my coming given him the idea that I would?

  “Sit here, it’s more comfortable,” he offered, tapping the bed. “Don’t worry, I bring my own sheets.”

  “I can only stay a minute.”

  “I like a woman in control,” he said, handing me the remote.

  I flipped through the channels at a blinding pace, sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed.

  Cam rested on his pillow next to me. He began stroking my hair.

  “I have to get up for school tomorrow,” I said, standing up.

  “What are they teaching these days? Abstinence one-oh-one?”

  I wasn’t getting what I had come for. I wanted info on the business, but I was learning more about what a man wanted than what an audience wanted.

  “Stay until the commercial,” he said with begging eyes.

  “Well—”

  He handed me a pillow, which I held on my lap as I sat down cross-legged on the bed.

  “I came to ask advice,” I finally said.

  “Don’t bet on the Bears,” Cam replied, switching to ESPN.

  “I’ll write that in my comedy journal.”

  “Go to medical school. Get married. Have three kids and get a dog.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “How about, don’t go to strange men’s hotel rooms.”

  “I didn’t think you were a stranger.”

  “I’m stranger than most. But seriously, why would you want to get into this business? Spend your life living out of a suitcase, arriving at hotels that haven’t received your reservation from the club that booked you, enduring a whole day alone in Spokane without a car just to spend an hour onstage? Expect to be paid five hundred dollars and be paid four? There aren’t any unions to protect you. And room service doesn’t deliver soul mates.”

  This wasn’t the sort of pep talk I’d envisioned.

  “Can you give me some advice about my act, Cam?”

  “You’re getting hired, that’s the most important thing. Your act is different because of your age. There are women in this business, but not a lot. And you’re funny—which doesn’t hurt. Just keep performing.”

  I spotted the neon numbers on Cam’s clock radio. 11:45. “I better go,” I said, getting up.

  “So soon?”

  “I have school. And a prison warden at home with a Jewish accent.”

  “Thanks for stopping by,” he said. He leaned against the door frame and stared down at me. As I looked up I could see the loneliness in his eyes.

  He leaned over, but instead of kissing me on the lips, he kissed me on the cheek and hugged me tightly. I hugged him back like I didn’t want to let go.

  “I’ll see you in Vegas,” he called as I walked hurriedly down the hall.

  “I’ll be the wrinkled lady wearing a straw hat at the nickel slot machine,” I said.

  “That’s not what I meant, little lady.”

  Jazzy and I were discussing the night’s events on the front steps before school while I waited for Gavin to arrive.

  “I told Vic I’d perform again,” I confessed.

  “But Sarge will kill you!”

  “I know…so if he calls, should I give him an excuse?”

  “Then I’ll kill you!”

  “But I made a promise to Sarge. And to Gavin.”

  “Heard you had a late night,” Eddie interrupted as he walked up the steps.

  “Ben is a bigger gossip than the National Enquirer,” I grumbled furiously, leaning against the railing, haggard from my lack of sleep.

  “Does the hip guy know about the funny guy?” he remarked, referring to Gavin and Cam.

  “Sssh!” I said, nudging Eddie in the rib.

  “I guess I should have gone into the hotel business instead of the pizza business,” he said.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” I warned, pinching his arm.

  “Tell anyone what?” Gavin asked, walking up the steps and giving me a squeeze.

  “Eddie’s just jealous he’s not the most hunkster guy in the Midwest.”

  “Just the Midwest?” Gavin asked with a grin.

  “Well, okay, the world!” I exclaimed.

  Eddie rolled his eyes.

  “It’s a drag I didn’t see you perform,” Gavin said. “Especially since it’s over now.”

  Over? But it wasn’t over. How could I tell Gavin? What would he say? Would he beg for Stinkface’s return?

  “Well, you can now,” Eddie blurted out.

  “Shhh!” I whispered.

  Jazzy shook her head and gave Eddie a stern stare.

  “She’s going to become a regular at Chaplin’s!” he went on.

  “No, I’m not going to be a regular,” I said. “Eddie doesn’t know what he’s talking about!”

  “You’re performing again?” Gavin asked. “You didn’t tell me!”

  “Sorry, Trixster! I thought he’d be excited,” Eddie said.

  “Dork,” Jazzy mumbled, pulling Eddie by the arm toward school. “See ya later.”

  “I was trying to tell you, Gavin.”

  “I thought you were finished. I thought Sarge ordered you to focus on college.”

  “She did. But when Vic hired me again, what could I do?”

  “Say no,” he offered.

  “Would you say no if an architectural firm hired you?” I asked.

  “No, but I wouldn’t be working at eleven o’clock on a Friday night.”

  He pulled his hand away from mine. The bell rang. He didn’t kiss or hug me good-bye. He just walked away.

  I had dreamed about Gavin for two long years. And now that we were together, I was shutting him out.

  I caught up with him in the foyer. “Please come,” I begged breathlessly. “Just promise to wear a blindfold and plug your ears!”

  He kissed me and then left for class.

  I watched as he sauntered off, his coolness oozing like steam rising from a sizzling fajita. I was Jell-O, and it wasn’t even showtime.

  Now I was more nervous than ever. I’d given Gavin permission to watch me tell jokes to strangers. True, he’d watched me on Open Mike, but I had been unaware of his presence that night. Now I’d be self-conscious.

  What had I done?

  Chaplin’s microphone was slipping in my perspiring hand. Usually the audience was a sea of people, but tonight it was no bigger than a small puddle. Five audience members sat in silence as my mike shorted out.

  “I loathe high school…,” I began. But my voice didn’t carry. I continued talking, like a ventriloquist’s dummy without a ventriloquist. Then abruptly the mike cut back in as I shouted, “I’m the class mime!”

  No one laughed. Sweat poured down my face. The audience started booing and finally, one by one, walked out, until there was only one person left sitting alone in the back. It was Gavin. He slowly rose, walked down the aisle, shifted his embarrassed eyes toward me, sunk his head low, and then walked out of the club. And my life.

  My alarm blared. I sat up, out of breath, my body sweaty, my heart racing, adrenaline coursing through my veins. I pounded on the snooze bar. I pulled the covers safely over my head, wishing I had a simpler ambition—like becoming a brain surgeon.
/>   “We have a celebrity in the class,” Mr. Janson announced later that day.

  I had quietly shared the news of my professional debut with my dramatic mentor. If everyone hadn’t known before about my upcoming performance at Chaplin’s, they knew now. I slunk down in my chair, exhausted and embarrassed. “Our little star is becoming a galaxy,” he declared.

  I glared at Jazzy. “Make him stop.”

  Nathan Daniels leaned over. “Will you sign this, Trixie?” he whispered, handing me his bus pass. “Someday it may be worth something.”

  “It already is,” Jazzy proclaimed.

  I rolled my eyes and flipped through my comedy notebook, hidden underneath The Tempest.

  “The buzz is Cody Parker has made a killing making fake IDs so kids can get into Chaplin’s,” Jazzy whispered to me.

  “I can’t perform in front of these people.”

  “You’ll have to learn. Ricky and I are coming next Saturday night.”

  “No way! Promise me you won’t.”

  “Gosh, Trix, you don’t have to get so wicked. I’m your best friend. Bush people, remember?”

  “You know I get nervous.”

  “You’ve invited Gavin.”

  “That’s because I don’t want to lose him.”

  “Well, you could lose me too.”

  “I’m just a beginner, Jazz. I’m not ready to perform in front of Chaplin’s crowd and everyone I know. It’s not like I’m Seinfeld who’s been touring around the country for decades and starred in his own hit television show.”

  “Lighten up! No one expects you to be Seinfeld, except you. Besides, I watch the E! channel. They constantly talk about meteoric rises to fame.”

  All the attention was flattering, but I couldn’t help it that I wasn’t ready to sit on my comic comet and soar at such a rapid pace.

  RISING STAR

  I didn’t have time to daydream in History, to fantasize about my beach wedding to Gavin or my debut performance on the Douglas Douglas Show. Not only did I have to scramble to perfect material for another week of gigs, I had the added pressure of the whole school wanting to watch me work out my kinks. I was afraid that everyone would find out that I was a fraud, that I was wasting their time on a crazy kid’s pipe dream.

  Anxiety forced me to focus on the most important task at hand. I scribbled jokes in my comedy notebook, hidden inside my History textbook. I muffled a laugh.

  “Miss Shapiro, you seem to be buried in note taking today. May I ask you what’s so funny about World War Two?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What’s so funny about World War Two?” Mr. Burrows repeated sternly.

  “World War One was such a success, they made a sequel!”

  The class roared with laughter. I had never spoken up in class before, much less not given a straight answer—especially to Mr. Burrows, whose furrowed brow and pointy ears resembled those of Beelzebub himself.

  “That comment will land you in detention. You’ll have all afternoon to think about history as well as your future in my class.”

  I had never received a scolding, or a detention. I sank in my chair, my classmates smiling at me.

  “That was hilarious,” Nathan Daniels whispered.

  A detention slip in my hand, I was no longer the class mime. I had graduated to class clown.

  Detention pushed my whole day back by two hours. I was clearing the dishes from the dinner table when Ben called me to fill in for an emcee who was stuck at the airport. Sarge agreed to let me perform that night since Ben was desperate, but only if I agreed to let her, not my dad, drop me off and pick me up, which was totally humiliating. And the detention only gave her an excuse to add more things to my To Do list. Who has time for studies, comedy, or friends when you’re vacuuming a four-bedroom house?

  While the audience filed into Chaplin’s, I studied my Anatomy textbook instead of reviewing my comedy material.

  “Veins carry the blood away from the heart and arteries carry them to it,” I whispered to Ben.

  “No, it’s the other way around. Remember, the a in artery is for away.”

  “Ugh! I’ll never remember everything!”

  “How do you remember all the acts you have to introduce?”

  “I write them down on a little card and carry them with me onstage. I never use it. But it makes me feel secure. Like tonight,” I said, pulling out a folded index card from underneath my shirt. “This has all my new material.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  “That’s cheating!”

  “It’s only cheating if you look at the card.”

  “Would you do it?”

  “I’d cheat! I’d stick my little notecard under the desk so I could see the answers. But I’m not you. You would stick it in a place where you couldn’t see it!”

  I folded my index card, stuck it in my bra, and went onstage. My cheat sheet gave me so much confidence, I forgot it was even there.

  I entered Anatomy class with my superstitious comfort sheet tucked into my bra. I picked up a number two pencil from Mr. Samuels’ desk and quickly sat down. I glanced at the clock and thought, this is a whole lot easier than stand-up. In stand-up I only get fifteen minutes. In Anatomy, I get fifty-five.

  I breezed through the test with minutes to spare and set the text on Mr. Samuels’ desk. I felt something scratch my stomach.

  “Are you okay, Trixie?” Mr. Samuels asked as I stood in front of the class nervously twitching.

  “I just have an itch.” I walked back to my desk, holding my stomach, when suddenly the notecard fell to the floor. Startled, I glanced at Mr. Samuels and tried to cover the blue card with my foot. I picked up the index card and stuck it into my back pocket.

  “Trixie, can I see that?” he asked sternly.

  “See what?” I asked, my heart racing.

  “That card.”

  “Oh, my mother’s grocery list? You don’t want to see a boring old list. Eggs, bacon, Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey,” I said.

  “I thought I saw a diagram of a heart,” he growled.

  “It’s a map of Whole Foods grocery. It’s amazing how the frozen-food section looks just like the left ventricle.”

  The class snickered. But Mr. Samuels was not amused.

  “But it’s not what you think,” I said, my hands beginning to shake.

  “This really disappoints me, Trixie. You of all students!”

  “I can explain the whole thing.”

  “You will—to me and the principal.”

  The only time I ever had stepped into the principal’s office was when Mrs. Shuster, my tenth-grade Home Ec teacher, asked me to deliver a fresh-baked brownie to her major crush, Principal Reed. Other than that, I only saw the school leader at assemblies.

  I sat outside his office, chewing my nails, as nervous as if I was about to go onstage in front of everyone I knew—without material.

  Jackson Barker, the school bully, emerged with his stone-faced mother.

  “Suspended. Again!” the mother grumbled as they left the waiting room.

  “You may go in now,” the secretary said.

  I cowered in front of the principal’s closed cold door, frozen.

  “You’ll have to open it,” the secretary said.

  “Oh, I thought it was automatic,” I joked. But she didn’t smile.

  I slowly opened the creaky door and stepped inside.

  “I want to see my lawyer,” I demanded, anxiously sitting down in the stiff wooden chair farthest from the principal’s desk.

  “That won’t be necessary; you’re not being arrested.”

  “Am I being expelled? Please don’t expel me!”

  “Let’s see what’s in your file,” he said, opening a manila folder. “Well, the truth is, there isn’t much here. Before last month’s illness, you had perfect attendance.”

  “I was grounded by my mother for staying out too late.”

  “This isn’t confession, Trixie.”

  “I d
idn’t cheat, Principal Reed. I didn’t look at the index card. Ask any of the kids sitting next to me. It wasn’t a cheat sheet, but a comfort sheet—like a baby blanket. A soft pink one, with ventricles.”

  Principal Reed leered at me curiously over his bifocals as I rattled on. “See, I work at Chaplin’s and when I have to memorize my material I make a list and stick it into my bra. Can I say that word in front of you? I never take the card out to look at it,” I continued. “I don’t need to, but it comforts me.”

  I had argued my case with clarity and passion. Now I had to wait to see if I’d convinced the judge. The second hand on the wall clock ticked loudly as the principal fingered my model-thin file.

  “Well, Mr. Samuels did mention it seemed out of character for you. What’s this about Chaplin’s?”

  “I perform stand-up.”

  “At your age?” he asked, surprised.

  “Mr. Janson got me started.”

  “My wife loves stand-up.”

  “I can get you in free. Uh—I don’t mean that as a bribe! Am I going to be expelled?”

  “You have to retake the test in my office tomorrow after school. Without extra padding!”

  “That’s a good one! If you’re interested, Open Mike is Monday.”

  I stood alone, onstage. The young audience had wide eyes but no mouths. How would they be able to laugh? I tried to tell a joke, but my words were muffled and trapped. I put my hand to my mouth and realized my mouth was gone. I only felt a jaw and smooth flesh. I tried to scream, but my voice was a muffled echo in my head. The teenage crowd grew restless and hostile as I tried to spit my words out. Frustrated, they began throwing textbooks at me—History, Anatomy, Algebra 2.

  I tried everything to win their approval. I tap-danced, I mimed walking up a ladder, I juggled Magic 8 Balls. As the balls landed in my hands, the magic pyramid that normally floated to the glass surface of the ball, revealing a fortune in the words Yes, No, or Ask again later, appeared instead with images. One ball revealed Gavin’s face, one Sarge’s, while the third showed Jazzy. I desperately tried to keep them from crashing to the stage.

  “I can’t keep up!” I screamed aloud, to the shock and horror of my English Lit class.