“I don’t want Mummy to go,” he says.
“I know. But she’s only at work, and she’ll be back in the morning. Come on, let’s do your hair and get you out.”
I finally manage to persuade him to let me shampoo his hair by saying the word “shampoo” very slowly, with a big gap between each syllable. It’s truly amazing how much mileage you can get from the word “poo” with a four-year-old. Then I dry him and read a book and he asks for one last joke before sleepytime.
“OK, one more,” I say. “What does a cat like to listen to?”
“I don’t know—what does a cat like to listen to?”
“Meow-sic.”
“Ha! Like ‘meow’ because it’s a cat and music so…”
“Meow-sic,” I say again.
“You funny, Haylah,” he says as his eyes start to droop. “You should be a comedy.”
“Do you mean comedian? Do you think so?” I say, a bit too thrilled and possibly taking the career advice of a four-year-old a little too seriously.
“Yeah, you should…do more funny.”
“Yeah, I mean, I always wanted to, one day, you know. But you’re right, I should just go for it.”
Remind me why I’m putting so much faith in the counsel of someone who thinks cheese is a fruit?
“Yeah,” he slurs with his eyes firmly shut.
“Because how else is Leo going to notice me, right?”
“Right,” he mumbles.
“OK, I’m going to do it. I’ll find a way to make him laugh, to show him I’m funny too. Then he’ll notice me. You’re a genius. Thanks, Noah.”
And I kiss him on the forehead, but he doesn’t know because he’s already asleep.
CHAPTER SIX
I sit at my desk in my room, a fresh page of my notebook in front of me, pen poised over it. Every day since I was about ten, I’ve written down the funny stuff that happened that day or funny stuff that was said or funny stuff I thought of. A bit like a diary, I suppose, but without the serious and boring bits.
I flick through the last few weeks, stopping to read a few of the entries that make me smile.
Tonight Noah referred to cough syrup as “aspirin coffee” and his big toe as the “thumb of the foot.” I think he might be a genius.
It occurs to me today that burps are worse than farts. We all know where farts come from so frankly it’s unsurprising that they smell bad. But burping, that’s from the place we eat, talk, kiss, smile. At least a fart is honest: it knows what it is and where it comes from. There’s an integrity to a fart. But a burp is basically just farting through your face. And there’s something truly gruesome about that.
Noah’s joke today—“What does a wee in the morning? A chicken.”
Kas after a jogger ran past us—“If I ever wear patterned leggings, just shoot me.”
One-liner idea:
Everything’s going wrong at the moment. Even our kettle isn’t working. Oh well, when it rains, it pours.
Just be nice if it worked in nice weather too, y’know?
Noah in playground talking to another mum of a small boy.
Noah: “How old is he?”
Mother: “Three.”
Noah (wistfully): “Ah. I used to be three.”
Surely you have to have lived through at least a decade before you’re allowed to be nostalgic?
I write down Mum’s “peed a lightsaber” story and Noah’s random “Have you ever seen a chimpanzee in the bath” question and then I stare at the page. Normally, what I write down comes pretty easily, but now, after seeing Leo’s act, my mind’s a blank. Nothing in this notebook is anywhere near funny enough to make Leo laugh, to make him notice me. I need to write some new stuff, legit stand-up stuff, something that he’d find funny. And that seems impossible.
Funny, think funny, think…
I need a snack. That’ll help me think.
I go to the kitchen, eat some toast, come back to my desk, sit, hold my pen…think funny, think funny, think…and before I know it I slip back into a Leo-daydream. Only this time we’re at school. I crack a killer joke to my friends in the hallway just as he walks past, and he doubles up with laughter, pushes past Kas and Chloe and takes my hands, tears of laughter still streaming down his face. “That was the funniest thing I’ve ever heard—you’re a comedy genius! We should totally hang out and maybe get married and stuff.” And on “stuff” he winks at me and…
What the hell am I doing? This is bat-crap crazy!
I mean, what’s the actual plan here? I just run up to him in the hallway, tell him a joke that makes him laugh so much he’ll immediately propose? And since when is that even a thing I want anyway? As we’ve already established, I’m not the misty-eyed, sappy girl who wraps a white pillowcase around her head, imagining bridal bliss—that is NOT me!
Plus, it’s unlikely I’ll ever have the courage to look him in the eye, let alone get a sentence out, let ALONE make it funny. At best, all he’s going to see is a random fat girl waddle up to him and mumble something before fainting and falling heavily to the floor.
This is just stupid. Numptiness on an epic scale. What was I thinking?
So I get my math book out of my bag and do my homework instead until my phone rings. It’s Chloe asking to copy my math homework.
“So, how about we do a swap,” she says, almost singing the word “swap.”
“What kind of swa-ap…?” I sing back.
“You give me the answers”—she puts on a strange, steamy voice like a bad drag act and says—“and I’ll give you some information you might like.”
Oh God, it’s going to be something about Leo. This is mortifying.
But I pretend to remain clueless and breezy.
“Sounds interesting—what information? ’Cause if it’s a new skincare routine forget it. I already have an amazing one—Noah comes in every morning and smears random gloop and snot over my face, I scream, and then wipe it off with a sock. Works wonders.”
“No, no, it’s good—it’s about Le-o.” She sings the word “Leo.”
Ugh, I knew it!
“What? Why would I be interested in him?” I bluster, my stomach swooping all over the place. “Leo who? Why would I—what are you talking about? What information? Not that I’m interested, but what? I don’t care—whatever—WHAT?”
She’s laughing now. “Well, obviously you’re not interested at all or anything, so I guess you wouldn’t want to know that his dad runs a music and comedy open-mic night once a month at his pub on East Street! AND that apparently Leo always performs there, so, if you wanted to watch him onstage and drool over him again, he’ll be there next Friday night!”
I try to get my jaw to ascend and rejoin the rest of my face.
“I thank you,” says Chloe. And I can almost hear her bowing. “Now pay me in math, woman.”
“OK, but wait. Firstly, how do you know that?”
Chloe sighs, but I can tell she’s enjoying every moment of this. She loves knowing stuff before everyone else. “You know my sister’s still going out with Jake?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, he plays guitar at this pub sometimes. He had a flier for next Friday night and it says at the bottom, ‘featuring the comedy stylings of London Young Comic of the Year runner-up, Leo Jackson.’”
“Young Comic of the Year? Wow,” I say, even more in awe of Leo.
“Well, runner-up, but yeah, pretty cool, right? Doesn’t it just make you luuurve him even more!” Chloe’s stupid, low husky voice now sounds more like a late-night, cheesy radio DJ.
I roll my eyes. “Shut up. And anyway it’s in a pub—those places where adults drink and schoolkids aren’t made to feel all that welcome?”
I really can’t see how this is going to work. But I SO want it to.
“Look, it’s a family-friendly pub—as long as we go in with an adult and don’t try to order beer or anything, it’s fine! Tell your mum you’re coming to mine for the night and my sister will take u
s.”
Like a puppy when his owner shouts “walkies” I can barely contain my excitement as we make our plans, though I manage to stop myself weeing on the carpet. We’re going to get Kas to come along too and, as long as Mum lets me out for the night, we’re totally going to a pub to see Leo perform!
Obviously I don’t let Chloe know I’m quite so obsessively enthusiastic.
“I mean, yeah, sure—it sounds like a laugh, right?” I say.
“Uh-huh, whatever, Pig,” she says, not buying my nonchalance. “It’s gonna be so much fun! Now pay up. C’mon, question number fifteen…”
I read her my math answers. She ribs me a little more about Leo and tells me she hopes Stevie will be at the pub that night. I don’t tell her that I’m still totally flummoxed by her obsession with a guy who shows little signs of life, let alone personality. Whatever floats your boat, I guess. And Stevie’s nothing if not a floater.
Kas and me have never had actual boyfriends, me because no one’s interested so I’ve never been interested back and Kas because, for all her talk of boys and liking them, she’s actually pretty shy around them and wouldn’t really know what to do if she got one. Like when I really wanted a Suzy’s Salon Hair Crimper for Christmas because all the other girls had one, but when I finally got it I realized it was actually just a stupid bit of tat I was scared to turn on. All it did was make me hungry for crinkle-cut chips.
But Chloe has always had boys from our year running up to her and saying, “My friend likes you!” before running off, and sometimes she’ll agree to “date” one of them, but that normally means holding hands with the guy at lunchtimes and an occasional makeout at a party. The fact is none of us really know what we’re doing with boys, although Kas and Chloe always seem to have their eye on some guy or another and they’re always gossiping about how utterly “dreamy” their unsuspecting prey is. But me, well, it’s probably just another clichéd consequence of having a selfish prick for a dad, but I’ve never really seen the point of boyfriends.
Until now. Until Leo and his comedy came into my world and turned it all upside down. And the thing is there’s no point telling Chloe and Kas about it because I know I haven’t got a chance. I’m not a complete idiot—I don’t think for a moment he’ll ever be my “boyfriend.”
But if I could just make him laugh. If I could just get him to see me, to notice me, because I’m funny, like him…maybe that would be enough. Maybe that would be amazing.
But it’s never gonna happen. Still, to see him do stand-up again, at the pub, would be something. In fact, that would be frickin’ brilliant.
I feel a bit better. I go back to the notebook and actually manage to write down some half-decent jokes, stuff I could say onstage (if I ever had the balls to perform), stuff that maybe Leo might like, might laugh at (if I ever had the balls to talk to him).
And I keep trying to tell myself that it doesn’t matter. That it’s enough to just write this stuff down, just for me.
For my daydreams. For my imaginary comedy life.
Still, I wish I had the balls.
God I want balls.
No wait, that sounds wrong.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The next day at school, Kas and Chloe are all hyper about our pub plans next Friday. They’re already talking about what they’re going to wear and which shoes would look best with Chloe’s new lipstick, but I’m just concentrating on trying not to sound too excited so as not to start up the whole “Pig luurves Leo” thing again.
“You do want to go, don’t you, Pig?” says Kas. “You don’t seem that up for it.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ve just gotta lot of other stuff on at the moment and it’s, well, it’s still a week away. I mean, I’m sure I’ll be excited nearer the time.”
“What stuff?” Chloe scoffs at me with a grin.
“Just…stuff.”
“Like…?”
“Like…hobbies and stuff. I have a very busy life. It’s not all about you guys!”
“Since when do have you have a hobby?” says Kas.
“I have hobbies…erm…sleeping…eating…toileting…”
Kas laughs. “They’re not hobbies!”
“They’re leisure activities that give me pleasure, so I don’t see why not,” I say grandly, hoping to dismantle the conversation with another laugh.
“I think I know the real hobby you’re into,” says Chloe with a grin that could rival the Joker’s for evilness. “Luurving Mr. Leo Jackson.”
Oh, for frick’s sake.
As the two of them giggle, Mrs. Perkins blasts over the class, “Right, who wants to take the roll back?”
I grab the opportunity for an escape route and shoot my hand into the air.
“Ms. Swinton, I’m impressed! You’re not known for your volunteering,” says Mrs. Perkins.
“It’s one of her new hobbies, miss,” sniggers Kas.
“Is it OK that I hate you both a little bit right now?” I whisper to them as I grab my bag and get up.
“Aww, Pig, we’re only messing about. C’mon, you know that,” says Chloe.
“Yeah, whatever, you evil old hags.” But I say it with a smile.
Then, as I walk between the desks to the front of the class, Dylan puts on a loud camp voice and says, “And coming down the catwalk now we have a glorious outfit from the latest collection by Jean-Paul Porkier…”
I grit my teeth, but I go along with the joke. What else can I do? So I strut down the classroom, my chin raised high, shoulders back, lips pouting, swaying my hips with each step and snapping my body then my head back to the room as I reach Mrs. Perkins. The class falls about in fits of giggles.
Mrs. Perkins is less impressed. “Yes, thank you, Haylah, most amusing, but if you mess around like that again in my classroom it’ll be detention, OK?”
“Sorry, miss,” I say, taking the roll from her.
Dylan’s such a cack-nugget.
I head to the school office, the flush leaving my cheeks with each step. Thinking back to the conversation with Chloe and Kas, I know I should just stop denying it and tell them that yes, I have a little thing for Leo, and yes, I know it’s going nowhere. Try to make a joke out of it. But this feels different. This time the joke is very much on me. I know there’s no hope for this crush. And they know it too. So if I own up to it I go from being the funny, strong one in the group to being the pathetic, heartbroken loser.
I drop the roll off at the office and walk toward the history rooms for my first class of the day. But, as I go past the lockers, I hear a familiar voice booming its big warm laugh.
Leo. He’s leaning up against his locker, talking to a bunch of his friends (mostly girls) all hanging on his every word. My heart begins to pound so loudly I start to think everyone can hear it.
Stupid heart.
I could keep walking. I should keep walking. Look at the ground, attract no attention. Instead, with what seems like no instruction from me, my feet walk into the rows of lockers behind where Leo’s is. My locker isn’t here, I have no reason to be here. So I fiddle with someone else’s locker as I listen to Leo.
For the second day in a row, I’ve turned into creepy stalker girl. Maybe that’s my new hobby.
“So your dad doesn’t mind if we all come down the pub next Friday?” says one of the girls.
“Nah, he’s cool with that, as long as you don’t try to buy any drinks—Jax, I’m looking at you!” says Leo. “And no heckling!”
“I’ll only heckle you if you’re not funny, dude,” says Jax as I continue to fiddle with the lock on my pretend locker.
Oh God, I’m an actual nutter.
Then I look around and realize there’s no one down this aisle to see me anyway, so I stop and just lean up against the locker backing on to Leo’s, willing my heart to stop clanging against my chest so loudly.
“Oh, no pressure then!” says Leo. “Actually, I haven’t got anything new written, and if I can’t bang anything out by next Friday I won’t be getting
up at all.”
And now my traitorous heart skips a beat.
What? But he’s got to get up and do his thing! So that I can be there in the audience. Adoring him.
As I flip out at the thought of Leo not performing, his friends give him a hard time, asking, “How difficult can it be to write a few knock-knock jokes!” But what do they know. Bunch of comedic simpletons.
I understand, Leo—I totally get how hard it is to write the funny.
Then they leave, apparently for art class, and as they go Leo puts on a ridiculous high-pitched voice and does an uncanny impression of Mrs. O’Farrell, the art teacher. “Use your inner eye, students. Don’t draw what’s in front of you, draw the spaces between. Don’t draw what you think you can see, draw what you feel in your hearts. UNLEASH the artist within!”
They laugh. I laugh (quietly). He leaves. Then I do something stupid.
I don’t know whether it’s the thought of Leo not performing at the pub, the adrenaline from hiding making me go slightly insane, or the high of being so close to him that makes me do it. But whatever it is, with my blood pumping around my body at lightning speed, I get out a pen and paper from my bag and write down one of the jokes I’d written in my comedy diary last night.
One I could imagine Leo laughing at, but now I can also imagine him telling.
Man, it was hot the other day. So hot. I threw open the freezer, took great handfuls of whatever I could find: frozen peas, Ben & Jerry’s, you name it, and just shoved it all down my shirt. And pants.
Lay face down on the floor just enjoying the cold on my skin.
I mean, I know it’s probably not great for the food or anything, but man, it felt good.
You understand, right? ’Cause the Aldi’s manager sure didn’t.
I sneak around the corner, check no one’s looking, and then post it through the gap at the side of his locker.
And I stride away triumphantly down the hallway.
And with this one truly heroic act she saved humanity from the impending disaster of a Leo-less comedy stage!
Then the full force of my utter dumb-nuttery begins to hit me.
Oh…holy…crapballs.
Pretty Funny for a Girl Page 5
