Crying Laughing

by Lance Rubin

  For a moment, I consider scaring him by shouting “Boo!” but then I think better of it. I’ve moved on to more sophisticated comedic fare. I lean my body in front of his face and wave.

  It totally scares the shit out of him anyway, his shoulders jolting up to his ears.

  “Hi, sorry!” I say.

  “No, no, it’s all good,” he says, pausing whatever’s in his ears. “Just glad you didn’t say ‘Boo.’ ”

  Man, my instincts are spot-on. “You’re just hanging out back here?”

  “Yeah. I mean, my mom and stepdad are waiting out in the lobby, but crowds trip me out. Thought I’d give it a minute.”

  “What are you listening to?”

  Fletcher gets a little sheepish. “Actually? Tonight’s show.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Figured if I could listen back and hear what worked and what didn’t, it might make me better. Nerd alert.”

  He’s misreading the look on my face because I don’t think he’s a nerd at all. I’m kicking myself because the idea of doing that didn’t even occur to me.

  “What? No! Lots of big comics do that. I feel like an idiot that I didn’t think to.”

  “Oh well, I can send you this file if you want.”

  I stare at Fletcher, at his sincere eyes, his strong chin, his kind offer to give me a recording of the show, and I desperately want to kiss him.

  “Or not,” he says, trying to read my likely inscrutable expression. I don’t know how to get a kiss going. Do I just lean in? Should I ask first? I think he likes me, but maybe he’s just a nice guy, and if I kiss him, he’ll have to gently extricate himself and explain he’s never liked me like that. That would be worse than the worst. But my spot-on instincts are saying I should kiss Fletcher Handy!

  So I should probably ask. Consent works both ways.

  “You all right?” Fletcher asks. “It’s really not a big deal for me to send it to—”

  “Can I…” I can’t do it. “Ask you something?”

  “Sure.” Fletcher’s eyebrows rise slightly in this adorable way, and I don’t know what to say next. Suddenly everything he’s doing, every slight gesture, every half-formed utterance, is adorable.

  “Um…do you think they’re going to make Breakin’ 3?”

  Dammit, Winnie!

  Fletcher’s eyebrows drop back down, a small smirk on his face. “Uh, I’d say that’s highly unlikely.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hopefully google it from time to time.”

  We laugh, and then the room is silent again. I stare at a lonely tuba on its side under the whiteboard. I think I missed my moment.

  “I would like for you to send me that file,” I say. “That was really nice of you to offer.”

  “Oh, cool,” Fletcher says, and his eyes light up in this irresistible way that makes him look like a boy and a man at the same time, and that’s it for me, I’m like a rubber band snapping, the laws of physics dictating there’s nowhere for me to go but forward.

  But as I go in for the kiss, Fletcher leans down to push buttons that will transmit the audio recording through the air from his phone to mine, and I end up kissing the top of his head.

  “Oh,” Fletcher says, flinching back.

  “I tripped, I tripped,” I say, in some kind of shock, even though his hair felt nice on my lips and smelled like honey. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s cool, it’s cool,” Fletcher says, but he seems like he might be in shock too, frozen in place with his phone in the air. My heart is running circles in my chest, shrieking in embarrassment.

  “Anyway, thanks for sending that,” I say, racing through my words so I can end this interaction and have my parents whisk me away from all the cringing. Fletcher starts to get up because I’m sure he feels the same. “I really do appreciate it, and next time I’ll—”

  Fletcher’s lips are on mine.

  We are kissing.

  It takes me a full five seconds for my body to stop flipping out and catch up to the reality of what’s happening.

  And the reality of what’s happening is really great.

  “I told you it’s cool,” Fletcher says as we pull apart.

  “I didn’t realize you knew I was, you know, trying to kiss you.”

  “Your lips were on my head.”

  I smile and look away, my face flaming up. “Yeah. That’s true.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Fletcher says, one side of his mouth grinning at me, and I’m about to rubber-band all over again when Mr. Martinez walks into the band room. Fletcher and I separate as if vacuum cleaners on either side of us had turned on.

  “Oh, hey, guys,” Mr. Martinez says, the hint of a smile in his voice but otherwise no recognition that he just caught us about to make out. Very kind man. “About to shut this room down, so…”

  “No prob,” Fletcher says.

  “I just came in to get my jacket,” I say, awkwardly thrusting it into the air.

  Mr. Martinez laughs. “Super. And again, great show tonight. Everyone seemed to really love it. Including Principal Bettis. Who didn’t understand that it was improvised until I just told him.”

  Fletcher and I laugh as we head to the door.

  “Have a good night,” Mr. Martinez says.

  “You too,” I say.

  Neither of us says much as we walk down the hall back to the lobby. It feels like we might be dreaming.

  “So, maybe I’ll, like, text you this weekend,” Fletcher says finally, right before we reemerge into real life. “Or call you.”

  “Yeah, that, or maybe my dad and I will come surprise you at Stop & Shop.”

  “Oh, cool.”

  “I’m kidding, you should definitely call me.”

  “Aight, good. I will.”

  “Good.”

  “Just know that if you get more laughs than me, I’ll have to end this.”

  “Too soon,” I say as we round the corner and other people come back into view.

  33

  “Hey, look, everybody,” Dad says. “It’s geriatric Spider-Man!”

  Having placed his cane next to me on the backseat, he’s leaning on the car and, as if it’s a sideways climbing wall, making his way to the driver’s seat. Dr. Yu says he’ll probably have to stop driving sometime within the next six months, as his feet and hands continue to get stiffer, but for now he’s fine.

  “So, where to?” Dad asks once we pull out of the school parking lot.

  “Winnie’s choice,” Mom says.

  “Let’s do Indigo,” I say. It’s a no-brainer. We’ve been going to the Indigo Diner as long as I can remember. Their ice cream sundaes are kind of boring (they only have three flavors) (guess which ones) (you’re right), but the ambience more than makes up for it.

  “Indigo it is,” Dad says.

  I haven’t mentioned anything to my parents about what happened with Fletcher. What am I gonna say? Mom and Dad, I just made out with Fletcher, and it was awesome! I like that it’s my little secret, to delicately cup in my hands and then store away to look at again later.

  I mean, it’s not a total secret. Obviously, I texted Leili and Azadeh about it on the way to the parking lot. By the time I’d come up for air, so to speak, they’d already left for IHOP.

  Kissed Fletcher, I wrote. It was very great.

  OMG WHAT, Leili wrote, followed by the shocked-face emoji.

  YAY! Azadeh wrote. Which one is Fletcher?

  The Indigo Diner is a couple of towns away, so it’s a bit of a drive. I’m glad. For the first few minutes after we leave, we’re silent, lost in our own thoughts, I guess. This view, staring at the backs of my parents’ heads, always whisks me right back to being a kid.

  At some point, maybe a year from now, maybe f
our, I’ll be the one sitting in the front seat for family trips.

  “So I’m thinking we should go to Hawaii,” Dad says.

  “What?” Mom and I think he’s joking. He’s not generally much of a planner.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “During Winnie’s holiday break.”

  “Uh…yes, please,” Mom says, looking stunned.

  “Same,” I say, also stunned.

  “Awesome,” Dad says.

  We all know the subtext here, that we only have so much time together to do things like this. Thankfully, it stays subtext. We’re silent again.

  “So, Win,” Mom says after a few minutes, “I promise I’m not bringing this up to make you feel bad, but…what exactly was going on for you during some of those scenes?”

  “Mom!” I can’t believe she’s bringing up the show.

  “No, no, I’m only asking because I know how funny and sharp you are, and that Winnie…was not up there.” Something about the way she says it—maybe the compliment part up top—softens me and makes me less annoyed. Part of me also appreciates the honesty. “Look, I used to be a performer too. I know how hard it can be to bring what’s in your head onto the stage, in front of tons of people.”

  “And god knows I know,” Dad says.

  Mom and I laugh.

  “I know, I know,” I say. “I got in my head, I guess. At other rehearsals, I was always doing characters I’d already developed with Dad. Like, you know, Sandy the Dog, or Anthony from the pizza place—”

  “Aw, I love your Anthony impression,” Dad says. “You should have done that in the show.”

  “Well, I know, I would have, but Evan said that didn’t really count as improv.”

  “Ew,” Mom says.

  “I hated how he totally sold you out during the show,” Dad says. “I wanted to flick him in the ear.”

  “Me too!” Mom says.

  “Thanks, guys,” I say, genuinely touched.

  “I get why he’s no longer your boyfriend,” Mom says. “And anyway, why wouldn’t doing characters count?”

  “Just ’cause, like, they were bits I’d planned in advance,” I say. “Leili sorta agreed with that, too.”

  “Bullshit,” Dad says, in that way where you make it sound like you’re coughing. I love it when Mom and Dad curse in front of me.

  “No offense, Russ, but you’re not the world’s foremost improv expert…”

  “I know some things,” Dad says.

  “Right, sure you do,” Mom says. “So, Win, instead of doing a character, you decided to do…nothing?”

  She’s not trying to be funny, but the description is so accurate and so ridiculous, we both start laughing.

  “Oh god, I don’t know.” My face is buried in my hands. “Is that what it seemed like?”

  “ ‘Hello,’ ” Mom says through her laughter, imitating my dull-as-grass delivery. “ ‘Don’t drink my apple juice. Okay, never mind, you can.’ I felt like I was watching your brain melt.”

  “I was trying to do good improv!” I say, loving her impression of me and the unbelievable relief of laughing at myself.

  “Remember when…,” Dad says, stopping midsentence to silently laugh, maybe my favorite quality of his. “Remember when—I’m sorry—when you shouted intensely at her about the apple juice?”

  Mom really loses it now. “You seemed so angry…There was a grandmother a few seats down from me who flinched so hard after you said it. You really scared her.” Mom imitates the grandmother, flailing her hands. “ ‘Yaaggh!’ ”

  “Oh no!” It’s a hilarious impression. Mom is so funny.

  “Or remember when you randomly declared that you loved being in the Senate?” Dad asks.

  “I wanted to call back to the last scene!” I shout, pretending to be angry when really this is the happiest I’ve felt in a long time.

  “We don’t mean to gang up on you, Winnie,” Dad says, still riding the tail end of the laugh rush. “Thanks for being a good sport about it.”

  “Don’t worry,” Mom says, “there’s enough to go around for everyone, Mic-Drop Boy.”

  “Oh no no no, this is Winnie’s night,” Dad says, but he’s smiling. “Let’s not make this about me.”

  “No, please, let’s.” I’m literally bouncing in my seat. “I shouldn’t suffer alone.”

  “And anyway,” Dad says, “I can’t help it if I dropped the mic. Someone shouted ‘Woo!’ and startled me.”

  “Someone?” I ask. “That was me!”

  “What?” Dad says, staring into the rearview, mouth agape in shock. “Are you serious?”

  “Who did you think was Woo!ing you?” Mom asks, the giggles bubbling up all over again. “Some random fan?”

  “I mean, maybe, yeah!”

  “Like your fans have come out of hibernation after fifteen years to catch your act at a coffeehouse open mic night?”

  “Possibly!”

  We’re all cracking up so hard.

  “Some of those jokes, Russ,” Mom says. “What was that one about flirting with Siri?”

  “Oh, I don’t know! I was rusty, okay?”

  “RUSS-ty,” I say, and Mom and I are completely gone.

  “That’s legitimately awful,” Dad says.

  “How have we never made that pun before?”

  “Speak for yourself,” Mom says. “I used to call your dad that all the time before you were born. But then he forced me to stop.”

  “Because it’s a stupid name pun, and I don’t like it.”

  “Siri thinks it’s cute, though,” Mom says, wiping away laugh tears.

  “Oh god, was my Siri material really that bad? You should have told me.”

  “I think the audience did, sweetheart.”

  “It really was a horrendous set,” Dad says, getting the words out between silent laughs.

  A loud horn honks out of nowhere.

  “Oh shit!” Dad says as he swerves our car to the right.

  “You were swerving into the other lane, Russ!” Mom says, stone-cold serious. “You can’t laugh and drive. How many times do I have to tell you that? Don’t. Laugh. And. Drive.”

  There’s a brief sober silence, then we all bust out laughing again.

  “So sorry, Officer,” Dad says, “you’re absolutely right. I’m so ashamed.” He for real pulls the car to the side of the road, maybe as part of the bit and maybe because he’s truly shaken up by the near accident we just had.

  “Oh, okay, wow, you’re actually pulling over,” Mom says.

  “Just don’t tell my family, Officer. They’d never let me live it down,” Dad says.

  “Of course,” Mom says. “I’ll probably let you go with a warning. That is, as long as you don’t have any gardening weeds in the car.”

  Dad looks at Mom, confused.

  “That’s another reference to your bad stand-up comedy,” she says.

  “Hey, come on, that was funny. Weeds and weed, they sound alike.”

  “Yeah, we got it, Dad,” I say from the backseat.

  “I AM A FUNNY PERSON!” Dad shouts in his husky way. “Nipples on mannequins are funny!”

  “Nope,” Mom says.

  “Definitely not,” I agree, and by this point, we’re all in hysterics again, losing it on the side of Route 34 as car after car whizzes by us.

  I know our future isn’t pretty. I can barely think about it without wanting to sob.

  But right now, I don’t have to.

  Right now, we are a family of three, sitting in a parked car on the side of the road, making fun of my father’s terrible attempt at stand-up comedy. And my terrible attempt at improv.

  And we are hilarious.

  We laugh for a very long time.

  Acknowledgments

  This boo
k is so close to my heart that I’m tempted to individually thank everyone I’ve ever known. But that’s not realistic. So, a general thank-you to everyone I’ve ever known, and some more specific gratitude to:

  Kathy Valentino, who works with the Joan Dancy & PALS Foundation in New Jersey, which is dedicated to improving the lives of ALS patients and their families. Kathy’s incredibly thoughtful and specific read helped make the book truer and better. I’m also grateful to everyone who was at Kathy’s ALS support group the night I visited; those with ALS, their families, and their caregivers were all gracious, vulnerable, funny, and inspiring. ALS is a brutal disease for which there’s still no cure, and if you’d like to learn more or donate, please visit Joan Dancy & PALS (joandancyandpals.org) or the ALS Association (alsa.org).

  The late Susan Spencer-Wendel, whose huge-hearted memoir, Until I Say Good-Bye, was helpful and beautiful and hilarious, and also wrecked me.

  Nancy Siscoe, my brilliant editor, who is directly responsible for this book existing, as she generously rejected it in its previous, very different form (definitely didn’t seem generous at the time) and helped me find a better way to tell that story. Also, thanks to Marisa DiNovis, Ray Shappell (for the beautiful, eye-catching cover), Artie Bennett, Barbara Marcus, and the entire Random House family.

  Superb agent Mollie Glick and everyone else at CAA, including Julie Flanagan and Dana Spector.

  My insightful, honest, and encouraging first readers: Katie Schorr, Zack Wagman, Ray Muñoz, Mariel Hull, Dustin Rubin, Kathryn Holmes, Greg Andree, Jillian Tucker, Leah Pearlman, Sarvenaz Tash, Leah Henoch, and Natasha Razi. Added thanks to Kathryn and Greg for being fantastic writing buddies (one in person, one online) and for talking with me about this book. A lot.

  All my other author peeps. You know who you are.

  The librarians, booksellers, teachers, festival organizers, bloggers, and READERS who make the YA world such a warm and wonderful place to be. Extra-special shout-out to the fearless, delightful students who did improv during one of my school visits, further inspiring this book.

  French Woods, where I first experienced the magic of improv theater games.

  Mike O’Keefe and Pete Capella, who welcomed me into ImprovJam!—a short-form improv comedy group that performed at the now-defunct Internet Café in Red Bank, New Jersey—when I was a senior in high school and were, in effect, my Mr. Martinezes. Much love also to Andy, Carl, Cate, Dimitry, Lauren, Rich, Kevyn, Lisa, Keith, Sadecki, Bobby, Alice, Andrew, Bart, Gary, Francis, Darren, and anyone else whose name I accidentally left out.