And they’re right. I might not love Leo but I still love comedy. I might have made a mess of things, but I shouldn’t make decisions based on what a guy says or does. I wanna go to this thing and I wanna see my stuff performed, even if it is by him. I won’t let him take my funny away from me!
“All right, screw it. I’m not gonna let him spoil my fun.”
“Yay! I love you guys,” says Kas, reaching out for a group hug.
“Ya big soppy geek,” I say and she laughs as me and Chloe both bury her in cushions and jump on her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
On the way home, I think about Chloe and Kas, about how I hated being apart from them, about how we all need each other, about how different we all are and about how great that is. I know one day our lives might naturally split off on different paths—maybe I’ll be president of the Cambridge Footlights, Kas will be the world’s youngest prime minister, and Chloe will be presenting Love Island—but for now I could no more remove myself from them than you could remove an egg from a cake after it’s been baked. All you’d end up with is a crumbly mess.
When I get home, Mum’s still angry. She’s hiding in the kitchen, crashing around, sounding less like she’s tidying it and more like she’s angrily demolishing a shed full of china dolls. And I don’t blame her, but all I want right now is a hug and it’s not gonna happen. I could say sorry, but what difference would that make? I still drove away the guy she loves.
I go in and kiss Noah goodnight, impressed that he’s somehow managing to sleep through Mum’s racket, even though the gentlest raindrop on his window can wake him up, and then I disappear to my bedroom.
And in the quiet of my room the glow of my reunion with the girls fades, and I can’t stop the memory of Leo kissing Keesha from replaying over and over again. The hope of us being together shot to bits in an instant, the sudden realization that I’d been a complete idiot, the humiliation of the whole thing…it burns through my insides with each replay. I hug my pillow tight and curl up on my bed.
Ten minutes later, even though I haven’t told her I’m back, my door opens, and in walks Mum. Then, her psychic abilities as sharp as ever, she comes over to my bed, lies next to me, and holds me tight as the tears break through.
“Oh, darling, what happened?” she whispers.
“He…kissed…me and then…I saw him…kissing…someone else!” I sob.
She sighs and strokes my hair. “Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry.”
I cry some more and sniff some more and probably get snot all over her. And then, when I’m calmer, we sit up next to each other and lean back against the wall.
“I’m really, really sorry about Ruben, Mum…” I whimper.
And I know she’s still angry with me about that, but somehow she’s been able to divide her anger up and box some of it away, knowing I need a non-angry Mum right now. She’s amazing.
“Shh, love, don’t worry about that now. I just wanna make sure you’re okay.”
“Why didn’t you warn me I was heading into a stinkstorm of love, Mum? I mean, it never ends well, does it?”
She sighs. “Oh, don’t say that, Hay. It can, and I’m sure it will for you. But, I don’t know, I guess you have to experience that first horrible heartbreak for yourself. It’s like you can’t teach kids that fire’s really hot ’cause, whatever you say, until they feel the heat themselves, they’re just gonna think it’s really pretty and wanna dive right in. You have to learn through experience; you have to feel the heat—that’s the only way.”
I think about that for a while, then say, “Mum, that’s like the crappest analogy ever.”
“Really? I thought it was pretty good! I mean, I’m thinking on my feet here, Hay!”
“Yeah, it’s a nice idea and everything, but surely kids learn about fire being hot because most parents DO tell them it is and DO stop them from making a painful fool of themselves and sticking their hand in the flames? Otherwise ER units the world over would be filled with hordes of screaming toddlers with third-degree burns?”
“I did try to warn you, a bit.”
“I know,” I say. “Thanks. And I don’t even think I, like, love-loved him or anything. But it still burns like hell. Well, perhaps not quite as hot as hell, but definitely like a really hot barbecue. He barbecued my heart, Mum.”
I mentally file away “barbecued my heart” for my comedy notebook later. Every tragedy is an opportunity, after all.
“I know he did, sweetie.” She puts her arm around my shoulders. “And I know it hurts. Just because you didn’t fall in love doesn’t mean you didn’t trip over it and hurt yourself pretty badly.”
And another one!
“Oooh, now that’s good, Mum! Can I write that down?”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “You can have that one for free.”
Then she kisses me on the cheek and gets up to leave.
And I can still see the hurt in her eyes about Ruben and what I did. Hurt that she’s holding back because she knows I just need her to love me right now, and I love her all the more for it.
“You still want to go to the show tomorrow?” she asks. “And you still want me and Noah to be there? Maybe we could set Noah loose on Leo.”
I laugh a little. “Yeah. The girls think I should go and, well, it is still my stuff he’s performing. Plus, you know, train’s booked, tickets are bought…there’ll be other people to see. It’ll still be really good for me to go. I’m not gonna let him spoil our day, right?”
She smiles at me. “Right. If you’re sure. Love you, Hay.”
“Love you, Mum.”
And she leaves.
I lie back on my bed, wishing I could make everything right with Mum again by fixing it somehow with Ruben.
Then, like some telepathic fairy godmother in an A-cup, Chloe phones me with her idea for doing just that.
“So, Hay, if makeup has taught me one thing it’s that nothing is unfixable,” she says. “Has your mum still got his number in her phone?”
“I don’t know. Probably. Why?”
“So I’ve been thinking. Your mum’s coming to the competition, right?”
“Yeah, she is.”
“And Ruben’s staying in London, yes? So you can solve your mum problem by inviting Ruben along too!” says Chloe triumphantly.
“O.M.Geenius—that is good!” I say.
“Yeah! Pretend the invite’s coming from your mum and then when he shows up let luurve do the talking!” says Chloe.
“Eurgh, steady. Some of us have eaten recently,” I say.
“Pig, when have you ever not eaten recently?” says Chloe.
I laugh. She tells me to just send the text and that I’m not allowed to wimp out of coming tomorrow and we say goodbye.
And, although I do know I should still go tomorrow, the thought of seeing Leo, of talking to him, knowing that his girlfriend will be there, knowing that he kissed me—and it meant everything to me, but nothing to him—fills me with dread and makes me want to curl up into a ball, shrivel up and disappear.
But then why should I? What have I done wrong? I didn’t know he was with someone else. All I’ve done is help him write a kickass set while he swans around with his girlfriend, ignoring me at school and kissing me when no one’s looking. It was probably a charity kiss—he sees me as so pathetic no one else would ever want to kiss me so he might as well, just as a sign of gratitude for writing his set. Sending a thank-you card would have involved a whole lot less heartache.
Well, I’m done feeling sad and heartbroken. Now I’m just bloody angry.
He totally used me. It’s all been about him—making him look better, keeping his cool-kid reputation intact, letting him win while I run around after him like a puppy dog begging for the odd smoochy treat he might throw my way.
I want him to look at me for a change. I want to show him that I’m not a loser who lies down and takes crap from anyone. I want to show him and the school and (might as well admit it) Dad and the wor
ld that this is me: strong, funny, independent, confident, obnoxious me, and I won’t be used, trodden on, ignored, and sneered at any more.
But how do I do that?
The idea hits me like a thunderbolt. I’m gonna hit Leo where it hurts. Right in the funnies.
I am going to beat Leo at the competition tomorrow night.
As I sit in my room, fuming, the idea takes hold of me and sweeps me up in a whirl of excitement. I am funny. I know I am. The set at the pub, before it…well, before it all went buttocks up…wasn’t that bad. It got laughs and that was with nothing planned. I’ve got this evening and all of tomorrow before the gig to think of a proper set—that’s a lot more than the thirty seconds of panic I had before that gig! And I’ve got loads of stuff already. I’ll look through my notebooks and pluck out the best bits, combine them with some new stuff, then learn it, get up there, nail it, and boom—goodbye, heartbreak and humiliation. Hello, confidence and comedic fame.
Then I look up the London Young Comic of the Year website and see that I’ve missed the application deadline by about two weeks.
Balls.
But this is the new me! Undeterred, I write a begging email to them on my phone, including a short video that I make of myself performing a few ideas I already had (just stuff I read out from old notebooks, to be honest with you), and I press send.
Then I send a message to Kas and Chloe asking them to meet me in town at ten tomorrow morning, saying I need their help with something.
I grab a pen and fresh notebook and write and write pages of new material, this time for me, for my own stand-up routine, stuff I want to say, in my own voice.
And at two in the morning, drunk on tiredness and the chemical additives from the tub of Haribo sweets I’ve devoured throughout the night, I am convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that I can do this.
For I am the Queen of the Quips, the Princess of Puns, the Mistress of Mischief (no, wait, that sounds wrong).
But oh, I can SO do this.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Saturday morning I wake up, bleary-eyed, to “La Cucaracha” blasting out of my phone and only one thought rings through my head.
I so cannot do this.
I press snooze and slip back into a half-asleep daydream of me onstage, remembering none of my lines, and getting no laughs whatsoever until I trip over a set of false teeth with gleaming braces still attached that someone has thrown at my feet. As I fall, to thunderous, cackling laughter, I see Keesha’s gummy, toothless smile in the audience before Leo clamps his mouth over hers and they kiss to applause while people throw rotten eggs and vegetables at me.
When I finally surface from the nightmare, or possible premonition of this evening, it’s 9:15. And I’m due in town with Chloe and Kas at 10:00.
I can’t do this, I think again.
It’s going to take all the courage I have to actually go to this thing and see Leo up there, knowing what he actually thinks of me—an embarrassment that he kissed out of nothing but sympathy and pity. I can’t get up onstage and make more of a fool of myself on top of all that. What was I thinking?
Hopefully, my begging email to the competition didn’t work. But, just in case, I grab my phone, intending to send another message telling them to ignore the last one as it was all just a terrible mistake.
But ARGH, they’ve already replied!
To: Haylah Swinton
From: Vanessa Trimble
Subject: London Young Comic of the Year
Dear Haylah,
You’re in huge luck! Another contestant pulled out yesterday as he’s broken his leg, so we have one space left. We’ve been looking through the waitlist applicants and couldn’t decide who to put through and then we watched your video. You’ve got a great delivery and some hilarious material—basically, we loved what you sent us! So we’ve put your name down for tonight’s competition.
Please turn up at the front desk between 6:00 and 6:30 PM and collect a ticket for yourself and one other. You will then be given a time slot in which you will perform one five-minute comedy routine.
Good luck!
Vanessa Trimble
I read the email again and again.
They actually love my stuff! “Great delivery”? “Hilarious”? Argh, this is amazing!
My finger hovers over the reply button. I should tell them I don’t want to come after all and yet…I can’t do it. I can’t help being encouraged by their enthusiasm, and I can’t escape the feeing that this is a sign. I mean, someone literally broke their leg so that I can go—that’s gotta be a good omen, right? A sign from who or what I don’t know—maybe from the gods of comedy, smiling down on me saying, “Go for it.” “It’s now or never.” “You can do this. You can show them all and you can beat him.” Or maybe some kind of vengeful goddess, who just really wants to see me smash Leo. Either way, it’s all good.
So I reply, thanking them, and confirming my place. It’s done. I can’t back out now. I mustn’t back out.
I try not to think about it.
I try not to think about getting up onstage in front of all those people.
In front of Leo. Argh!
Instead, I concentrate only on the next task ahead of me. On having a shower. On getting dressed. On having breakfast. And then on getting Ruben there tonight. At least I now have a spare ticket for him.
While Mum and Noah are playing trains on the living room floor, I sneak into her room and send a text to Ruben, using her phone. I know he didn’t answer her phone calls after the breakup, but I’m hoping time and “Mum” sounding quite desperate to see him will do the trick. So I write:
Hi, Ruben. I really want to see you again. Could you come to the Junction Theatre in the West End tonight and meet me outside at 6:20 PM? Please don’t reply—we’ll talk then.
x
I figure he might think the “don’t reply” bit of the message a bit strange, but I don’t want him sending a message back to Mum later and ruining the whole thing. I just have to hope he gets the message and likes Mum enough to come along tonight, no questions asked.
Before I go, I grab a quick, nutritious breakfast of a Bounty bar. (If you think it through, the coconut is basically a fruit, a nut, and a seed all in one so what could be healthier?) Then, rushing out of the door, I see Noah lying on his own on the floor, playing with his trains. Mum’s getting dressed upstairs and I know I don’t have time, but I guess I could just have a quick play with him. I lie down next to him.
“Hey, Noah. You looking forward to going on a train later?”
“Yeah! It’s going to be just like this!” he says, ramming a Thomas the Tank Engine along the track straight into the derp-face of another engine coming the other way so that the two derail in a horrific rail accident.
“Erm, well, hopefully not exactly like that,” I say. “So, how are you feeling about that whole Dad thing now? You know, when he called the other day?”
He doesn’t say anything—just keeps pushing the train around the wooden track and making choo-choo noises. I pick up one of the other trains and join in.
“You know, I miss him too,” I say. “But when he’s here he just makes us all feel a bit sad, so I think he stays away so that we don’t get upset.”
“But doesn’t he love us?” asks Noah and my eyes fill a little bit.
“Of course he does—who wouldn’t love you? He just needs to stay away for a while. He’ll see us again when it’s the right time. When he can make us all happy again. Like Santa! We don’t see him all year, but we know he loves us, right?” I say.
“Everyone leaves,” he whispers.
And I well up some more as I feel a surge of fierce and neverending love for this little man.
“No, they don’t. I’ll never leave you. Mum will never leave you,” I whisper back.
“But Ruben left. And he was like Dad, but better ’cause he was here.”
“I know,” I say, not wanting to make any promises ab
out bringing Ruben back, but feeling more than ever that the plan to reunite Mum and him has to work. “I liked him too. But he didn’t leave because of you. I love you, Noah. So much. I promise I’ll never leave you, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay,” he says, picking up a wooden tree and putting is across the track before speeding a train right into it. “Boom!”
“Just promise me you’ll never be a train driver, okay?” I say, kissing him on the forehead before getting up off the floor.
“I don’t want to be a train driver, I want to be a comedian,” he says.
“Really?”
And it’s like the best news I’ve ever heard. That this perfect little guy would be inspired by something I do.
“Yeah, like you. I want to make people laugh. With chicken jokes. Make them happy.”
My heart melts a little bit with pride.
“Thanks, tiny man. You make sure you laugh super hard tonight, yeah?”
“I will,” he says. “I love Leo!”
“Hmmm,” I say.
I turn to leave, but see Mum peering around the door at us, smiling proudly. And I want to tell her I’m performing tonight. But she’d probably talk me out of it, asking if I’m sure I’m ready, which of course I’m not. If I’m sure I’m doing it for the right reasons, which I’m probably not.
So instead I just say, “Okay, so I’m off to meet Kas and Chloe in town. We’ll see you outside the theatre at six thirty, yeah?”
“Yep, fine,” she says. “You okay, Hay? About Leo and everything?”
“I’m fine. Well, I will be. Thanks, Mum.”
And, like a fearless she-warrior, I bravely stride toward the outlet mall and my next truly gruesome challenge. Shopping.
I meet Chloe and Kas in the store coffee shop next door.
“Okay, so why are we here?” Chloe asks.
And I tell them I’ve put my name down for the competition.
“What? Pig, that’s amazing! Oh my giddy-God, you’re gonna nail this, but I’m so nervous for you. You really think you’re ready?” says Kas, dipping a gingerbread man headfirst into a flat white.
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