by Jessica Kim
“Actually”—while I have her on my good side, I might as well push my luck—“Felipe and Sienna invited me to do some volunteer work with them tomorrow. Visiting the people in the nursing home, the one near the library. For community service. Really great on college applications. Can I go?”
“I like that idea. I can drop you off before work.”
“Perfect!” I say, practically pinching myself. That was way easier than I thought it’d be.
“Much better to help the seniors than waste time with the comedy nonsense.” Mom elbows me teasingly. “I see you are growing up and making mature choices.”
“Thanks.” I drop my head back onto the car headrest, and guilt gnaws at me from the inside. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up, but I have to. Just until the showcase.
CHAPTER 14
The next morning, I join my friends among the campers gathered in front of the nursing home right as Jasmine is going over some last-minute tips.
“Listen, there’s going to be all kinds of folks who live in this facility,” she explains as she unloads a few microphones and speakers from her car parked along the curb.
“Some are going to be more responsive than others. Just remember that your humor can bring a lot of joy, so don’t be intimidated by the unfamiliar. Just be yourself.”
We help her carry the equipment inside.
“Do you realize that this will be our first time performing outside of the Haha Club?” Sienna says, straightening her pink velvet cowboy hat. “This is going to be so next level! I’m totally nervous. Are you?”
“A little, to be honest,” Felipe says.
“Me too.” Even though I practiced seven of my strongest jokes in front of my laptop for almost an hour last night, I still feel unprepared.
The automatic glass door slides open, and we follow Jasmine into the lobby, where the walls are lined with dingy floral paintings and bulletin boards, like the kind we had in elementary school. The sign above the reception desk reads GREEN MEADOWS RESIDENTIAL FACILITY, but the harsh fluorescent lighting and that distinct hospital smell don’t quite give off that green meadow feeling. More like green mildew, if you ask me.
We’re herded into the common room while Jasmine sets up the audio stuff in the front stage area. There are maybe thirty or so senior citizens seated on chairs upholstered in vinyl. Some smile at us sweetly, some chat among themselves in wheelchairs, and some are staring off into space, unaware that we’re even there. The nurses and caretakers in pastel scrubs lead the group in applause when Jasmine taps the microphone.
She greets them in her great big voice. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Jasmine Jasper, and today our young comedians from the Haha Club down the street will be performing a very special comedy show just for you. Let’s give them a warm welcome!”
For the next half hour, I watch my fellow campers take the stage while trying in vain to rein in my jitters.
Sienna goes on and does this whole routine about how she’s so overscheduled with extracurricular activities that her pets don’t recognize her anymore.
When it’s Felipe’s turn, he does a bit about the advantages of being a chubby superhero and how he can fit more gadgets on his utility belt.
I watch one act after another, reminding myself that today is crucial for helping me narrow down which material I want to use for the showcase and audition. If I want to impress my parents, I have to pay attention to perfecting every detail. My pacing. My body positioning. My volume. All of it.
Just then, Jasmine calls my name.
I run up to the front and grab the microphone from the stand, taking care to stand up straight and fully face the audience. “Thank you, one more time for Jasmine Jasper!” I say with my arm extended, just the way I practiced at home.
When the applause dies down, I launch in.
“I wish my parents were more relaxed like my friend’s. She has the coolest parents. They let her do whatever she wants and wear whatever she wants. She doesn’t have curfews, and she stays up late to watch R-rated movies. She once complained that they keep signing her up for so many acting classes to ‘foster her creative spirit,’” I say with finger quotes. “The only thing my strict parents want to foster is a four-point-oh GPA.”
I get a smattering of courtesy laughs.
No biggie. I’ll get them with the next one.
I remind myself to walk. I am not a plant.
“Last week I was explaining to my immigrant parents how my friends get paid for each A they get on their report cards.”
I wait a beat.
And then I drop the punch line.
“My dad looked me square in the eye and said, ‘Should I also pay the dog to poop?’”
I get nothing. Just stone-cold silence.
The man in the front row loudly whispers to the lady next to him, “That’s really harsh.”
No one laughs, instead they start murmuring, and I hear phrases like “tiger parents” and “abusive.”
Oh no, they’ve got it all wrong! My parents aren’t like that; Dad was just trying to be funny.
Suddenly my throat is dry, and I can hear my pulse in my ears.
“Uh . . . so . . .”
There’s a really awkward stretch of silence as I struggle to move on with my next joke, but I can’t. I’m stuck.
Right then, Jasmine steps up to the mic and puts me out of my misery.
“Let’s give it up one more time for Kay Nakamura!”
I slink off to my seat, ashamed that I’m toast after only two jokes. My mind reels with the million things I could have said or done differently to avoid that disaster. No matter what, I cannot bomb like this at the showcase. I have to deliver laughs—big laughs—if I want to convince Mom and Dad to let me audition for PAMS. The pressure crushes down on me so hard, I’m not sure I can stand up beneath it.
Soon enough, the show is over, and we head out front to wait for our parents to pick us up.
“That was absolutely brutal,” I mutter to my friends.
“At least it’s behind us,” Felipe says.
“Easy for you to say. You finished your set.” Unlike me, the only camper Jasmine had to bail out.
I turn to Sienna, but she doesn’t say anything; she won’t even look at me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her.
She blinks hard. “I didn’t exactly appreciate you using my family as the butt of your joke.”
I’m stunned. “What? No, you weren’t the butt of my joke. I was. My parents were. Really! I was saying how jealous I am of you.”
She turns her back to me. “That’s not how it came across to me.”
I look to Felipe, but he stays quiet.
“Sienna, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Honestly. I was only trying to be funny.”
She jams her hands in her pockets. “Whatever, let’s just drop it.”
Right then, Jasmine calls from behind me, “Kay, can you help me take this equipment to my car?”
“Sure.” Relieved to get away, I run over and grab the microphone stand and the bundle of cords from the ground and follow her to the side parking lot. I should be thrilled for some extra one-on-one time with her, but I’m too upset to fully appreciate it right now.
Jasmine probably senses it because she asks me, “Are you still thinking about your set?”
“Yeah, it definitely did not go as intended,” I say, too sore to hide my feelings.
“It happens to the best of us. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” She balances a cardboard box on her hip as she fishes her car keys from her purse. “Who knows? Next time you might get a watermelon Jelly Belly.”
“Huh?” Jelly Belly? What on earth . . .
“The watermelon Jelly Belly,” she repeats, looking at me like what she’s saying indeed makes sense. “You know how wh
en you get a pack of Jelly Bellies, it’s a mixed bag. You get the okay flavors like bubblegum and banana. Some awful ones like buttered popcorn and licorice. But when you get your favorite one, it makes having to get through all the bad and mediocre ones worth it. For me, it’s all about the watermelon one.”
Yeah, no. “I’m sorry, but I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She opens the trunk of her lime green hatchback.
“Listen, what I’m trying to say is comedy is like that. You can’t know which jokes work until you try them. And when you do, they’re not all going to be great. Some will be decent. A few will be so bad you’ll retch. But every now and then, you discover a winner—the watermelon Jelly Belly. And that’s what we comedians live for.”
“You mean the Comedian’s High?”
“Exactly.” Jasmine places the cardboard box in the trunk, and I lay the microphone stand on its side next to it.
“If you think about it, your set today was more of a root beer jelly bean. And that could have been due to a number of factors. Might have been the crowd, might have been your wording. Doesn’t mean that it’s a bad joke. It just means it’s not ready yet. You have to keep tweaking it.”
“There’s no fixing that set. It’s a dud. Total failure.”
She slams her trunk shut and leans on the bumper. “Well, most jokes start off as failures. It tells you what isn’t working, which is a very valuable thing. Living with ‘failure,’” Jasmine says with air quotes, “is an essential part of being a comedian.”
I smirk. Mom and Dad sure would have some colorful opinions about that.
“You think I’m joking, but I’m not. I live with failure every day,” she says. “Even now.”
“What do you mean? You’re a YouTube star with tens of thousands of fans and a comedy camp. That’s not failure.”
She starts laughing. “If only you knew. I teach at the Haha Club and online to help kids and to pay my bills, but you better believe I’m still out there pounding the pavement. I want to be a writer for kids’ TV shows. I’m not there yet. In fact, this year alone I got passed over for two comedy writing gigs—one for a show on Cartoon Network and the other for Disney XD—but I keep hustling.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t let these setbacks stop me, probably because I can’t help it. I love to make people laugh.” She winks at me. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for the watermelon Jelly Bellies.”
I smile.
We head back to the front of the nursing home, and all the campers have been picked up. “Thanks for your help with the equipment. I’ll wait with you until your parents come,” she offers.
“No, it’s fine. I’m taking the bus. The stop is really close.”
“Okay, then. Think about what we talked about. Failure is your friend!” she says before we part.
I walk over to the bus stall around the corner.
It’s true, I do really appreciate her whole get-back-up-again message and everything, but she’ll never understand the world I’m coming from—the same way I don’t understand her world or Sienna’s. Let’s be real: my situation is different. I can’t afford to fail over and over like they can. I literally have one chance to convince my parents that I should pursue comedy at PAMS, and all the watermelon jelly beans on the planet won’t help me with that.
CHAPTER 15
It’s Sunday before lunch service, and I’m helping Dad install the new disco ball he ordered from the internet.
“Feels good for construction to be finished,” Dad says, climbing up the ladder. “Look at this stage. Isn’t it great?”
“I have to admit, it’s really cool.” The soft lighting on the raised wooden platform fills out the entire back area, giving our restaurant a cozy focal point.
“Karaoke will be a hit with the new customers.” He grabs a heavy-duty power tool from his leather holster. “It will bring back good fortune for our family.”
It’s a relief to see him smile again. He hasn’t talked about it much to me, but it’s clear by the way he stomps around the restaurant that he’s still upset about how things went down with Yuri.
Earlier today, I overheard him talking to Manuel. “Twenty years I raised her, but she will not even answer my phone calls. So ungrateful!” Which only got Manuel going about his teenage niece, who barely looks up from her phone when he comes home from work. Luckily, their little vent session broke when the workers finally finished up construction. He’s been distracted by getting the stage ready ever since. This is the best mood I’ve seen him in in days.
“So how does this disco ball work?” I ask Dad.
He perks up. “Let me show you.” He hits a button on the remote and the sparkly globe glitters as it rotates, dappling the wall of traditional brush paintings with festive dots of lights.
I hoist myself up onstage.
“Oooooh, it really transforms the place!” I spin around with my arms outstretched. “I feel like I’m on American Idol.”
“Right?” He leans the ladder against the wall and admires the disco ball.
I grip the microphone from the stand. “Ladies and gentlemen, the multitalented restaurateur-slash-singer superstar . . . Mr. Bong Ju Chung!”
My dad, the ultimate karaoke king, cannot refuse the microphone. He takes it in both hands and belts out his go-to song, an old classic Korean folk a cappella.
“Ho-rang nabi han maree gaaaaaaa ggot baht-te anjan-undeeeeeee,” he sings in perfect pitch.
“I thought it wasn’t good to show off.” I giggle.
“Who is showing off? This is just how I sing. I cannot help,” Dad says, playing dumb.
Mom rolls her eyes as she plops into an empty booth with a cardboard box in her arms.
“You two stop being foolish and help me. Mr. Montgomery is going to be here soon.”
She says it sternly, but the corners of her eyes turn up warmly as she rolls plastic utensils and disposable chopsticks into napkin bundles for today’s to-go orders.
“I dedicate this song to my best-dressed wife, who makes most delicious food in Koreatown.” Then he croons a Korean love song, showing off his silky tenor.
Mom runs her fingers through her hair. “Aigoo cham-nah.” Which means something similar to “oh, come on, now.” Dad’s romancing seems to be working, because pretty soon, Mom is clapping along with the beat as he sings.
My parents’ lovey-dovey mood is cute, but only in small doses. Like wasabi. If they don’t cut it out soon, they’re going to make me lose my lunch.
Dad takes a dramatic bow after his song finishes. “See? This stage is already bringing joy back to our restaurant. It will sound even better when we get the big speakers.”
Mom waves us over. “Now come help me finish this.”
I join her in the booth and start bundling.
“Dad, when’s the new audio stuff going to be put in?”
He smiles broadly. “They are coming this Wednesday. We have to close restaurant so they can install, but it will be worth it.”
I knew any mention of the audio equipment would keep him in good spirits. He’s one of those people who can tinker with the bass and treble dials on a stereo system forever until he gets the purest sound. He’s the only Korean dad I know who rocks the Beats by Dre headphones.
“I ordered the top-of-the-line speakers,” he says, rattling off all the features that make no sense to me or anyone outside of Best Buy.
“That’s great, Dad.” I grab another handful of plastic spoons. “What about publicity for the Grand Reopening? You know, how are we going to spread the word?”
“Aha! I will show you.” Dad goes over and unboxes the newly printed posters for the big event. “I got these made. I will post them at every church and restaurant in Koreatown.”
Hmm. Churches and competing restaurants don’t sound like the most obvi
ous places to attract new diners.
“Oh, I have an idea.” I pull out my phone. “We should create an Instagram account and post a Facebook event, too. The hashtag ‘ktown’ is popular. A lot of food writers and social media influencers—”
“Omo omo,” Mom interrupts, pushing the phone from my hands. “Put that away. You don’t know what kind people are on internet.”
“We don’t need,” Dad says. “We have these posters, and I already put ad in Korean newspaper.”
He slides the posters back into the box.
“But what about the people who don’t read the Korean newspaper?” I ask. “How are they going to hear about Chung’s Barbecue and Karaoke?”
“What are you talking about?” Mom secures a rubber band to her bundle. “Everybody reads the Korean newspaper.”
Uh. No, the waygookin most certainly don’t, but I don’t want to argue with her and ruin this moment.
Then Mom’s phone chimes loudly from her purse on the hostess stand. She gets up to answer it. “Hello?” Her back straightens when she hears the voice on the other end. “Oh yes, how are you, Mrs. Pak?”
Mrs. Pak? I break into a cold sweat, the plasticware slipping from my hands.
Why is she calling my mother?
As I scramble to retrieve the fallen cutlery, I strain my ears to catch bits of their conversation. Mom paces around mm-hmming a few times. “Our Yumi did that?” she says in an almost whisper. I can’t tell if it’s good news or bad news. Oh shoot, did Mrs. Pak find out I’ve been sneaking off to the Haha Club? I hold my breath. If there’s anyone who would find out, it’d be her. Mrs. Pak knows everything. She’s calling to rat me out, I just know it. My life flashes before my very eyes.
“Thank you so much for calling me,” Mom says graciously. “Yes, goodbye.”
I hold my breath, preparing for the worst.
“What did Mrs. Pak want?” asks Dad, who’s also hovering over her.
Mom pauses. “She called to tell me Yumi is studying hard and improved on her practice test the other day. She got the ninety-two percent.”