by Katie Henry
“I don’t think I can do this,” she admits.
“What?” I ask. “Graduate?” I reach out and shift her tassel around to the correct side. “I think you just did.”
She bites her lip so hard it goes white. “No. I don’t know if—you know.”
“I don’t, Mo,” I admit. “I’m not really there yet.”
“Move on.” She shrugs helplessly. “Grow up.”
They’ve always seemed so grown up to me. With apartments, and opinions, effortless abilities to navigate the world. But here is Mo, close to tears, and she doesn’t feel grown up at all. I’ve always imagined it as something that just happens, at the preordained time. You hit eighteen, and the world makes sense. You make it to twenty-one, and there’s no question about who you are in it. Maybe that isn’t true. Maybe Shakespeare was wrong, and people aren’t like plants, growing all for one short moment to blossom in the world.
Maybe we’re perennials, who survive year after year, with moments we bloom and moments we die back. We return to our rootstock, to what’s underground and unseen. When the earth gets cold and hard around us, we go back to that small seed. The core of who we are. And when we’re ready, when we’re stronger and older and better for the time we spent below, we raise ourselves above the ground.
And then we bloom all over again.
“I thought I knew what I wanted, but maybe I don’t,” Mo says, her words spilling out fast and raw. “Maybe I shouldn’t move to New York. I’m not good enough to compete with comics out there—real comics, real people. I’m not ready to be on my own, without you and Will and—” She squeezes my arm. “Everything’s changing. And I’m not ready.”
I squeeze back. “You’re never going to be ready,” I say, and I can hear her, all those months ago, sitting with me in the Forest, teaching me how to write a joke. I wonder if she can hear herself, too. “You have to try it anyway. It’s the only way you’re going to learn.”
She must remember, because she smiles. Then she lets go of my arm so she can wipe at her eyes.
“You’re going to be fine,” I promise her. “You’re going to be great.”
“Thanks,” she says. Then her face nearly crumples again. “I’m really going to miss you.”
“I’ll come visit. On school breaks.”
The gulf between us hasn’t ever felt bigger, as I say that. Next year, I’ll still have winter breaks, and the SATs, and a curfew. Mo and the boys will have jobs, and taxes, and an unknown future stretched out in front of them. It seems so exciting, all those possibilities. Everything their lives could be. And it seems scary, too, and overwhelming, and so . . . unknowable.
My world might be smaller, with fewer choices, but it has more handholds, too. I can see what’s ahead of me, and I’m going to try to enjoy all the moments, simple and safe as they are, for as long as they last.
“Hey, so. We’re going to get lunch.” Mo turns to wave down her parents, who are still waiting in the accessibility section, talking with her girlfriend. “Do you want to come?”
I almost say yes, because it’s an hour with Mo, and I don’t have many of those left. But then I see her parents. Her dad, tall and with her exact same nose, pushing the wheelchair where her mom sits, looking at Mo with such overwhelming pride. Mo and I are family, with Will and Jonah. But this was her family first. This is a moment they deserve to share together.
“You guys go ahead.” I hug her one more time. “I have somewhere I’ve got to be.”
I double-check the address on my phone, then against the plain brick building in front of me. Triple-check. I have to actively resist a fourth time.
This isn’t my first time, but it is my first time going alone. I could have picked a place I knew, somewhere that didn’t scare me, somewhere I was known. But sometimes, what you really need is a brand-new stage. So this is the place I chose: the Robin. There’s no sign, but it’s the right address.
It’s at a theater, not a bar, and it’s all ages—I called and checked. It’s an annoying thing to have to do, especially when so many of them are eighteen and older, unless you’ve got an adult with you. But it’s also the right thing to do. Mom said she’d be my date to the places I needed a chaperone for, as long as I gave her enough time to block her calendar and didn’t do material about her. It’s a fair trade.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, why I’m hesitating this way. I’ve been here before. Not to this door, but to this moment: standing at a threshold, with everything familiar at my back, and something unknown on the other side. It’s hard to think of myself as the same girl who stumbled into her first open mic in January, but I am. Even if I’ve been engrafted new, she’s not gone. Not entirely. She’s in my roots, and nothing can bloom without its roots.
When I put my hand on the door, it feels heavy, like it might be locked, but all it takes is one gentle push, and it swings open.
Acknowledgments
Comedy depends on the rule of threes. But since I figure you’ve read enough jokes at this point, I’ll present you with three facts, instead.
Fact #1: I love stand-up comedy, and I love books.
Fact #2: Combining the two was much, much harder than I expected.
Fact #3: This book would not have been possible without the hard work and support of many people, all of whom have my eternal thanks.
My editor, Ben Rosenthal, whose insight, enthusiasm, and expert guidance helped me find the heart of this story. Thank you for believing in my ideas, despite the fact that they never have good comp titles, and for so rarely vetoing my jokes, even when you probably should.
My agents, both former and current: Sarah LaPolla, who was Izzy’s first champion, and Natalie Lakosil, who helped me bring her into the world.
The entire team at Katherine Tegen Books, who made this book a reality.
My writer’s group—Brian, Emily, Michelle, and Siena—who give the best feedback and bring the best snacks.
Leah, who was always the greatest test audience for my childhood comedy routines and is still my favorite critic two decades later.
My mother, who always made sure to tell me when I had “a good line” that deserved to be written down somewhere.
My father, who introduced me to Saturday Night Live, Monty Python, and Mel Brooks by the time I was ten and dutifully explained each and every inappropriate joke.
And most of all, Rob, who likes to say, “one day you’ll appreciate my jokes,” as if he isn’t already the funniest person I know.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
About the Author
Photo credit Chris Macke
KATIE HENRY, author of Heretics Anonymous and Let’s Call It a Doomsday, is a writer living and working in New York City. She received her BFA in dramatic writing from NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and is a published playwright, specializing in theater for young audiences. Her plays have been performed by high schools and community organizations in over thirty states. You can find her online at www.katiehenrywrites.com.
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Books by Katie Henry
Heretics Anonymous
Let’s Call It a Doomsday
This Will Be Funny Someday
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Copyright
Katherine Tegen Books is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THIS WILL BE FUNNY SOMEDAY. Copyright © 2021 by Catherine Henry. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be repr
oduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Cover design by David Curtis
Front cover photo © 2021 by offstocker/Getty Images
Digital Edition JANUARY 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-265766-4
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-295570-8
2021222324PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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