A part of me fell in love with comedy that day. The other part fell hard for Hunter MacRae. It was all good until a year or so ago. We lived on the same street; we walked to school together. I supported him through his parents’ divorce. He supported me through the pain of being bossed around by Brooke. But things changed at the start of grade ten. My friendly feelings toward him became much, much friendlier. The girl equivalent of you make me want to explode. Hunter does not, I guarantee, feel the same way about me.
“You need to get over yourself and tell him,” Carly says.
“We’re friends. I’m not going to take a chance and spoil that.” It’s a conversation Carly and I have had so often in the last few months, I can practically recite the lines in my sleep. “Besides, Hunter doesn’t like redheads. He likes brunettes.” In fact, last year I was pretty sure Hunter and Carly were going to hook up. I’ll bet Hunter would go for it. But Carly likes the athletic types, and Hunter’s only declared sport to date is potato-chip eating. (His record is fourteen bags of Salt & Pepper chips in one twenty-four-hour period.)
“It’s not about the hair, Paige.” She dabs her lips with a napkin.
That’s easy for her to say. Carly has long dark Kate Middleton hair. Mine is the female equivalent of Prince Harry’s: red and frizzy, especially in the rain. And in Seattle, it’s either raining or about to rain.
“It’s not about your limp either.”
I almost choke on a fry. I can’t believe she’s said it. I glance around to see if anybody’s heard her, but nobody’s paying attention. “I never said it was,” I finally manage.
She levels me with a look. “No, but you’ve thought it.”
Carly knows me almost as well as Hunter does. We’ve been friends since elementary school too. “Don’t look for a job working the psychic hotline,” I tell her. “Your mind-reading skills suck.” We both know I am lying.
When we were younger, I had a name for my gimpy leg. I called it Fred (as long as Brooke wasn’t around to make fun). We talked about Fred sometimes like he was a poor, needy relative that I had to endure. I can’t remember when that whole thing stopped, but it petered out—or maybe I should say it Fredded out—somewhere in middle school, when the whole pairing-off thing started up. I became painfully aware that guys didn’t date girls like me. They hung out with them, they accepted homework answers from them, and on good days they laughed with them. That was enough.
I catch sight of a familiar face. Hunter. My heart squidges in triple time. At least, it used to be enough. But now, as I watch him walk toward us, I’m not so sure. “Don’t you dare say anything,” I hiss to Carly.
She picks up her juice box. “You know I won’t.”
And I do know, because Carly has never betrayed me. I can trust her.
“Hey!” he says when he reaches us.
“Hey,” I say back. Hunter’s face is a little on the longish side, and his brows could use some manscaping, but he has the best voice in the world. Smooth and deep and hot, like espresso loaded with sugar. I swear he could make a ton of money with that voice. His jeans brush against my leg as he slides into the seat beside me. Heat races into my cheeks. Plus, he has an amazing body. And perfectly straight, überwhite teeth (this counts—yes, I am my mother’s daughter).
“I saw your latest video.” He helps himself to a fry. “Great job!”
Hunter has been my biggest fan since grade two. That, at least, hasn’t changed. “Thanks.” I push the other half of my burger toward him. He picks it up. Three bites later, it’s gone. He wipes his fingers and pulls a piece of paper from his jeans.
“Look.” He lays it on the table and smooths it with the palm of his hand.
I glimpse a picture of some teens and bright-blue lettering above them. The International Te—
Carly snatches the paper up before I can finish reading. “Are these the details?” she asks him.
“Yeah.”
“Cool.” She starts to read.
“What details?” I ask.
Carly looks at Hunter. Hunter looks at me, though not exactly at me—more at my nose. And then he clears his throat.
My spine tingles. Hunter only clears his throat when he’s nervous. Or mad.
“What?” I ask a second time.
“It’s the International Teens in Comedy Festival,” he says. “It’s happening in Portland a few weeks from now.”
Everybody knows about the International Teens in Comedy Festival. At least, anybody interested in comedy. It’s huge.
“And you’re going,” Hunter says.
I laugh. “Sure I am.” You don’t just go to the ITCF. First you have to be nominated. Then you have to go through a rigorous deal to get on the shortlist. Only the best go to the finals. “Come on, guys, that’s the Super Bowl of comedy. Get serious.”
“I am serious,” Hunter says.
My left eye starts to twitch.
Carly pushes the paper across the table toward me. “We submitted three of your YouTube vlogs as part of the nomination process,” she says. “You’ve aced the first round of eliminations. You’ve been shortlisted.”
Three
Carly has to be kidding. My eye twitch spreads to my cheek. Isn’t this the first sign of a stroke? My two best friends are trying to kill me. “No way,” I manage.
“Yes, way.” Hunter smiles. “They have your email. They’ll be sending you the official letter soon.”
Blood thumps in my ears. This is crazy. Insane. Like some kind of wacky dream. Or nightmare. I’m not sure which. “I got shortlisted for the ITCF?”
“I know! Isn’t it unreal?” Carly’s voice is one decibel below a screech. “You’ve been working so hard and doing all these amazing videos, and you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.”
I have been working hard. Doing the vlogs. Networking with other YouTubers. Comedy is what I want to do with my life. Making people laugh comes as easily to me as breathing. Although right now the breathing part is a problem, since I feel like I have an elephant on my chest. Me, shortlisted.
I crash back to earth. “I can’t go to Portland.”
“What?” Carly frowns. “Why? You’re banned from the city? Allergic to the air down there? What’s the deal?”
“That’s stand-up,” I tell them. “You know I don’t do that.” I love the idea of stand-up. I do. It’s a thrill hearing somebody laugh at something I say, especially if I’m in drama class or hanging out with friends. It’s my kind of high. Most people drink when they’re at parties. I make people laugh. It’s a total win-win: no hangover for me and lots of laughs for everybody else. But being in drama class or at a party with people who’ve known me since… well…the purple-and-orange panty days is way different than being onstage in front of a bunch of strangers.
Strangers who may not find me funny at all.
“They have a new category this year,” Carly says. “For online comedy.” She taps the paper in front of me. “Look.”
I start to read. The International Teens in Comedy Festival is pleased to announce a new category this year—video comedy. We’re looking for the mega stars of the future in this growing area of performance art. To qualify, interested participants must submit three videos for consideration by February 28.
I look up. “I can’t believe you gave them my contact information. And submitted three of my vlogs without even telling me.”
Carly grins like she’s won the lottery. “Would you have submitted them?”
“No.”
“My point exactly.”
“Keep reading,” Hunter says.
I look back down. Those who make the shortlist must travel to Portland for the final elimination rounds. At that time, they must be prepared to submit two previously unseen comedy videos, and they must compete wit
h other shortlisted video contestants and do a series of stand-up routines in front of a live audience.
I suck in a breath. A live audience? Walking across a stage? No way. “I can’t do that.”
“Yes, you can,” Carly says. “We’ve talked about this, Paige. You can’t hide in your room forever. If you’re going to have the comedy career you want, you need to demonstrate range. You need to be way more versatile.”
As far as Carly’s concerned, I should charge after everything I want in life. A career in comedy. Hunter. Straight hair. “I’m working on it,” I tell her. “Look at all the vlogs I’ve done. On everything from how to kiss a guy with facial hair to dating a toaster. And it’s not like I just sit there and talk into the camera either. I do stuff. How about that one where I demonstrated fifty uses for popcorn? And don’t forget my driving video.”
Until today, that was my most popular video ever. I did it from my car, on ways to fake out your driving instructor. I got five hundred subscribers in two days with that one. Two weeks later I also got a nasty letter from an uptight guy at the Washington State Department of Licensing, but I didn’t care because (a) I’d gotten my license the week before and (b) you haven’t arrived until you start getting hate mail.
“You need to learn other forms of comedy. Like improv and stand-up,” she says.
I’ve been shortlisted for the ITCF.
“Stand-up is dying,” I tell her. I’ve been shortlisted for the ITCF. Me. Paige Larsson. As I try to process my conflicting emotions (joy/horror/elation/panic), I do what I always do: speak my mind. “Who wants to get all dressed up and go sit in a cold, noisy club somewhere? My grandpa, that’s who. And pretty soon all those old people will die off and everybody else will be sitting at home in their pajamas, laughing at YouTube. YouTube is a community. I can interact with people. Comment on other videos. Get to know my fans. And I can make money too. YouTube is perfect.”
“It’s perfect today,” Carly corrects. “But what’s coming next month? Next year? You’ve got five thousand subscribers. You’ve had twenty thousand views to date. That’s not enough.”
I know she’s right. On the other hand, I have been picking up close to six hundred subscribers a month. And that’s pretty good, considering I only upload a few times a week. It’s not like this is my full-time job. Yet.
“We’ve been studying this in my social media class,” she continues. “People like Oakley and Marbles are getting numbers into the millions.”
I’d love that, but it takes years of work to get those kinds of numbers. And I’ve got school to think about. My part-time job at the pool. I tune Carly out. Go to Portland? Get up onstage in front of a bunch of strangers? Could I? It’s the kind of thing I’ve always dreamed of. But in my dreams I glide out effortlessly, graceful and sure. I don’t limp across the stage with a twisted foot. Or frizzy red hair. I glance at Hunter. He’s staring at his knuckle like it holds the answer to all of life’s mysteries. Finally he looks at Carly.
“Why don’t you quit talking,” he says, “and let her read the rest of it.”
Hunter’s middle name is To the Point. I start reading again.
Winners will receive $10,000 for themselves and $10,000 for their school drama or video department. Ten grand? Whoa! They will also receive a one-year contract with the Endless Field Agency and a one-month intensive with Kids Zone Comedy Troupe in New York. Oh my god. I feel like all the air has been punched out of my chest. I gasp in a breath. Endless Field represents Ellen DeGeneres and Amy Poehler. They handle social media platforming, sponsorships, agent representation. And Kids Zone Comedy is known for turning teen comic wannabes into stars.
Winners must be available to travel to New York City at least once during the twelve months following the win. Judging for this category will be led by Raven Prest.
Travel to New York. Raven Prest!
It’s a good thing I’m sitting down, because I am so light-headed I swear I could pass out. I love Raven Prest. She’s up there with Sarah Silverman and Jenna Marbles. She started out on YouTube, but she has her own comedy show now. Rumor has it she’ll be hosting the Academy Awards next year. “I can’t afford to pass this up.” My voice comes out in a barely-there whisper. It’s the truth, and it’s probably the hardest thing I’ve ever said.
“Of course you can’t.” Carly rolls her eyes. “What do you think we’ve been telling you!”
My friends—my best friends in the entire world—have landed me the biggest opportunity ever. And I am terrified beyond belief. Grandpa has a saying: Life is either preparation for success or preparation for failure. Well, here it is. My opportunity for success. Except…what if I fail?
“But Portland?” I say. For once I’m not saying all of what I’m thinking. That means I’ll have to limp across the stage in front of a bunch of strangers. “I can’t take time off school. I don’t have money for a hotel. My parents will never let me drive the van down to Oregon.” They don’t even like me taking I-5 into town.
Carly starts to speak, but Hunter holds up his hand. “The competition is on the weekend, so you wouldn’t miss school. Two nights’ hotel is covered for the finalists. And you don’t need to worry about driving to Portland. That’s taken care of.”
“What are you talking about?”
Carly chews the corner of her lip. “Don’t freak,” she says.
Nerves flutter in my stomach. As if I could freak out any more than I already am. “What?”
Hunter clears his throat. My spine tingles a second time. What aren’t they telling me? I stare at him. His blue eyes can’t quite meet mine. “A pile of us are going to Portland with you.”
I snicker. “Yeah right, sure you are.”
Hunter pulls out his phone and taps the screen. Five seconds later, the school website appears. He shoves it under my nose. “Look.”
There it is, front and center under the big black Lampshire Heights logo. See Paige Win. Congratulations, Paige Larsson, on being shortlisted for the International Teens in Comedy Festival. Join us April 3 when a group of us will travel down to Portland to see Paige win.
I am so stunned my mouth refuses to form words. Finally I say, “April 3rd is only two weeks away. Comedians take months to prepare standup routines.”
“You’ve got all the material there in your vlogs. You just need to reshape it for a live audience,” Hunter says. “That’s all.”
That’s all? That’s huge. “I can’t believe you already told people.” It’s one thing to bomb in front of strangers, but to bomb in front of my friends? Are they kidding me?
“We talked to Roskinski as soon as we got the email from ITCF, and he was totally stoked,” Carly says.
Roskinski is the drama teacher. Like Carly, he also thinks I need to “get out of my comfort zone.”
“He booked the school bus,” Carly says. “And it wasn’t easy either, because there’s some basketball thingy that Sunday.”
A black ball of horror rises up and threatens to swamp me. “The school bus?” It holds, like, forty people.
“I know the seats have crappy springs, but we can take lots of extra coats for padding and stuff,” Carly says. “It won’t be so bad.”
I’m not worried about the seats. I’m worried about the people sitting in the seats. All forty of them. Forty people to watch me make an ass of myself doing stand-up in front of a live audience. Forty people to come home and tell forty more, who will tell forty more, and on and on it will go. My shame will never end.
“What if I’d said no?”
“You can’t afford to say no,” Carly says. “And I knew you wouldn’t.”
She’s right.
“Don’t worry,” Hunter adds.
“I’m not worried. I’m freaking terrified. That’s three universes away from worried.”
&
nbsp; Hunter takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “You’re going to be great, Paige. You’re the funniest comedian I know.”
“I’m the only comedian you know.”
“You’re going to Portland and you’ll ace the competition.”
A lump the size of Mount St. Helens jams my throat.
He smiles. “And we’ll be right there, watching.”
I want to make a wise-ass remark, but the mountain-sized lump is cutting off my air supply. I’m going to compete in the Super Bowl of comedy. And I’m going to win.
I have no other choice.
Four
“It’s a terrific opportunity for you, Paige,” Dad says as we eat dinner later that night. Our kitchen smells like mashed potatoes and meatloaf. But I burned the edges of the meatloaf (as usual), and the cream I used for the potatoes was starting to go off, so there’s a charred, slightly sour undertone to the air.
“Dad’s right.” Mom enthusiastically digs into the salad I made. She loves my salads. Everybody loves my salads. It’s because they don’t go near heat or dairy.
“It is. I know.” Since Carly and Hunter told me the news, I’ve been experiencing a totally rare state called paniness. It’s a cross between panic and happiness. Or maybe it’s called happnic. Either way, it’s so overwhelming I could puke from it.
“I told her the same thing,” Grandpa says. “I am so proud of you, my little Paige note.”
I push a forkful of mashed potatoes across my plate and manage a smile. Grandpa comes for dinner on Fridays when I cook and Brooke works the dinner shift at Pizza Pieman. This afternoon I showed him the email I got from the ITCF, and we spent the entire time before Mom and Dad got home talking about what a great opportunity it is. Thank God Brooke wasn’t around. I don’t need my sister throwing doubts at me. I’m scared enough already.
“Our Paige is going to be as famous as Kathy Griffin. Only without all the swearing and Anderson Cooper.”
“Thanks, Grandpa.” He has more confidence in me than I have in myself. It’s touching.
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