“Yeah, but I can do it.”
“If you say so. I thought you wanted to be an actress.”
“Who says I can’t do both?”
Caitlin doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then she snorts. “Well, break a leg, I guess.” It’s obvious she doesn’t think I can do it. “They’ll yell boo and stuff if you’re bad.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“I just want you to know what you’re in for.”
“Thanks.” My voice is cold.
“Listen…I’m sorry about calling you an idiot. But did you ever think we’re not as close as we used to be because you’ve had this whole other life on the soccer team, and in plays, and now summer school? What about me? I try out for everything and never make it. Even here, I didn’t make it into one single production.” I can’t remember the last time Caitlin cried, but it sounds like she’s about to. “You know where they put me? On the crew. Holding up backdrops or helping talent change in between scenes. That’s what they call the actors. Talent. To remind the rest of us that we don’t have any.”
I can’t think of anything to say, except, “Maybe next year you’ll get a part. At least you got to go to camp.”
“It wasn’t how I thought it would be. I won’t be coming back. You should go, though. You would have gotten a part.” It’s the first time she’s said anything slightly nice to me in months.
I feel sorry for her after she’s revealed all that, but why didn’t she tell me sooner? A real friend would have, instead of treating me badly. “I gotta go,” I say.
“Are we friends?” she asks.
No. Say no. “Maybe. But you have to be nice to my summer school friends, even after school starts. And to me. That’s the deal.”
“Okay,” she says.
I guess I do want to give Caitlin another chance.
We talk for a few minutes before hanging up. She says she’s my shoulder to cry on after the comedy show if I need it, so I should call her afterward.
How dare Caitlin automatically assume I’m going to fail? Haven’t I been teaching myself stand-up skills working with Max? Sure, they’re magic shows, but they count. Plus, I’ve been learning a lot from the comedy book Max gave me.
Max.
Mom told me I wasn’t allowed to do the comedy show.
I have to move forward with good decisions.
But I also need to prove to myself, to everybody, that I have something special.
So what if Caitlin and my family don’t believe in me?
I believe in me.
Three words for them. They. Are. Wrong.
I’ll show Caitlin. I’ll show everybody. This is a good decision.
I take out a notebook and jot down some of the rules of comedy I read in the book Max gave me.
1) Make fun of yourself.
2) Make fun of your family, your life.
3) Be honest.
4) Be fearless.
5) Make fun of what gets you angry. Outrageous comedy comes out of rage.
I look over the list.
And start writing my set.
I walk out onto the stage and the first thing I realize is…I’m in the spotlight, where I belong. The second thing I realize is…I have to pee.
Really bad.
Reallyreallyreallyreallyreally bad.
But that’s not the worst part. There’s the fear. The sweat on my brow. My hammering heart. And the possibility that I’ll never be as good as the kids who went on before me.
I have to pee so badly. Grandpa dropped me off here. He’s the only person on the planet who knows I’m doing this. He was thrilled to hear I was giving it a try, but I made him promise to leave and swore him to secrecy. He told Mom and Dad I’m helping him with inventory at Pewter Palace. I didn’t tell anyone at school about this either, so at least if I fail, my failure will be private.
My eyes are dry. I was so hyper focused on writing this material, I stayed up until two in the morning.
It’s dark except for the votive candles on the tables. I wonder if they can see the blue chalk streak I put in my hair backstage. The streak makes me feel creative and hipster-cool. At least I look the part, even if I blow it.
I can barely see the audience. My index cards are on the stool next to me. The Comedy Cave gave us seven minutes each. My heartbeat is a machine gun, bambambambambambambam. Why can’t I remember how my set starts? One…two…three…
Just be yourself. Do what you practiced.
This. Is. THE ABBY SHOW.
My eyes adjust to the darkness. I tug the hem of my black shirt, smooth it over my black jeans. I’m wearing all black, like the pros do. In the front row, I spot the boy who went on before me. He was nice backstage. Friendly. His eyes meet mine. Go ahead, they seem to be saying. You’ll be fine.
I pace the stage like I’ve seen comedians do on Comedy Central, the way I pace when I’m on the phone. Pacing helps me stay focused. I look at my cards. Key words pop out: Grandpa ATM machine and Mom on Weight Watchers.
“Hi, I’m Abby,” I start. “My grandpa drove me here. He supports my comedy career. Every time I see him, he gives me twenty bucks. He tells me I’m his favorite grandchild. He also tells my brother that.” I hear some chuckles. “I don’t let Grandpa know that we know what he’s doing, because he’s my only source of income.” A few laughs. “Grandpa is basically an ATM machine with dentures.” I get a few chuckles here and there. Not the wall-shaking, knee-slapping hysteria I’d imagined, but I’m not tanking.
Yet.
“And then there’s Grandma. You could be an axe murderer, but if you’re Jewish, she’ll love you. She’ll invite you to dinner, give you Jell-O, tell you to hang your axe in the closet, and since you’re up, please make the air colder.” More people laugh. “Then there’s my mother. She tries to dress like a teenager, and I’m like, ‘Mom, most teenagers don’t choose a miniskirt based on whether it hides stretch marks. You’re not fooling anybody.’ ” Lots of people laugh at that one. A few clap. “Actually, she has nicer clothes than I do and looks better in them. I dress like Little Orphan Abby. I might actually be an orphan. I’m nothing like my family.
“Everyone in my family has problems. My dad recently went bald, and not in the cool way. He used to have a great head of hair, but now it’s all moved to his back and chest. My dad’s chest is so hairy, I saw crop circles on the front of him the other day, but then I realized it was just his nipples.” Huge laugh. Yes! “Watch for my dad’s back on SyFy.” Lots of laughing now.
“I have my own problems too. Plenty of problems. I’m grounded, and I so don’t deserve to be.” Wait a beat. “All because I blew off this one class.” Wait. “Oh, and I lied about my grades.” Wait. “Oh, let’s see, what else, oh, yeah, I snuck out of my house, vandalized a car, and got busted. I also broke a window. And misplaced an elderly person while I was volunteering. Oh, um, and then there was this YouTube scandal that went viral? But that’s all. What’s the big deal?”
The whole room cracks up. “I wasn’t the best student last year. I believe the official term for my academic level is Lost in Space.” The laughs keep coming. “I guess it’s because I have ADHD, Attention Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder. The problem is that I get, like, easily distracted.” Wait. Eyes up. Eyes down. Stare at the lights. Tap lip with finger. “Um…what was I just talking about?” The whole room explodes in laughter. It’s a beautiful sound. A heat spreads through me, warming my insides. “I’m also diagnosed as gifted. Twice exceptional, it’s called. My mother read that Bill Gates is twice exceptional.” Scratch your head again. Get that blank look on your face. “Yeah, I tell her not to count on me buying her a dream house and a Mercedes with my genius money.” More laughs. “I might be able to get her a plastic shed and a go-cart. Used.”
“My brother is having a big BM.” I wait. “Bar mitzvah.” The laughs come. “Supposedly, this makes him a man. Yup, a thirteen-year-old man, ladies and gentlemen. If that’s true, he’ll be the only man I know wh
o still sleeps in pajamas with feet.” I pause to let people finish cracking up. “I’m supposed to have a bat mitzvah next year, but I should probably have it, like, never, if it means growing up. I’m afraid of bugs, I break things, I’m forgetful, and I say things that are way out of bounds.”
I keep going—I talk about how Grandma thinks Whoopi Goldberg is Jewish, the way my parents do the robot when they dance together. I imitate the way Grandpa blows his nose. I imitate my mother looking at her rear end in the mirror, squeezing in her butt cheeks to try and make her butt look smaller. I pretty much roast my entire family.
But mostly, I roast myself. I mime myself looking for things and spacing out in class. I do all my crazy characters, the ones I do in my room in front of my mirror. I interview myself. I show them the bruises on my legs and have audience members guess which countries they look like. I talk about how I apologize for something every single day, how my superhero name is The Apologizer and my superpower is the ability to tick someone off with a single word.
The crowd roars.
Eddie the MC is giving me the cutoff sign. Has it been seven minutes already? The whole front row is beaming up at me. “Thanks, you’ve been a great audience, and I wouldn’t trade this night for anything,” I say. “Okay, well, maybe I’d trade it for my own comedy special. HBO, are you listening?” I spot a lady in the audience wearing long, dangling earrings. “Or maybe those earrings you’re wearing.” I step off the stage, hold out my hand to her. She chuckles. I wiggle my fingers. “No, seriously. I need the earrings.” She laughs, but doesn’t budge. I wiggle my fingers some more. “I’ll give them back. Promise. Hand over the earrings.” The whole room is hysterical, clapping as she takes them off, puts them in my hand. I take off my own hoop earrings, hand them to her, say, “Let’s trade,” and put in her danglies. Then I jump up onto the stage and run off, saying, “Thanks! Gotta go!”
I did it.
I DID IT!!!!
I’ve finally done something right.
And then it comes. The sound I was waiting for. Like a floodgate opening, it rushes in. Clapping. Whistles, whoops. Going on and on. They love me.
Me!
Backstage, I give the lady’s earrings to Eddie the MC, who says, “Great job, kid.” He goes out into the audience and hands them to the lady, who hands him my hoops, which he gives back to me. Tonight, I have proof that my mouth, the thing that always got me in trouble, the thing I thought was my enemy, might just be the best thing I have going for me. I can hold on to my dreams. Your biggest flaw can be your greatest asset.
Truth. Thanks, Dr. C.
I try to tone down my giant pleased-with-myself smile, but I can’t wipe it off my face as I walk through the door that leads into the lobby.
But when the door closes behind me and I look up, I stop smiling. Because there, in a row, waiting for me, is my entire family. Grandpa, Grandma, Mom, Dad, Drew, Mike, and Beth. All of them.
I’m dead.
They rush toward me, all talking at once. Grandpa gets to me first. “I had to tell them, I had to tell them,” he says, throwing his arms around me in a hug.
Someone pats my back. It’s Dad. “You were a real pro out there, buddy. A real pro.”
“You were funny, you really were,” echoes my mother, smiling big. Smiling.
Hang on. Hang on just a minute.
Did I hear her correctly? I untangle myself from Grandpa, scan Mom’s face. “You’re not mad?” I ask her, shocked. She doesn’t answer, just shakes her head no. She bites her lower lip, sniffs. The look on her face. It isn’t anger, it’s…
“I’m so proud of you,” she says. “So very proud.”
Pride. And then she says it again. “I am so incredibly proud of you, Abby.”
I can’t help crying a little. I’m not The Great Disappointment. Not tonight. Maybe I never was.
She hugs me and keeps hold of me, swaying a little bit, and that chokes me up even more, because I can’t remember the last time I hugged my mother tightly for a long time. My blue hair chalk gets all over her shirt, and she doesn’t even care.
I pull back from her arms so I can see her face again. “But you said stand-up comedy is sleazy. You didn’t want me to do this.”
“So? A person can change her mind, can’t she? You changed my mind.” She’s crying a little too. Maybe she never will approve of everything I wear or all the jokes I make, but she’s accepting me, letting me be me.
“But I made fun of you,” I say, searching the faces of Dad, Drew, Grandma, Grandpa, Mike, and Beth. “I made fun of all of you.”
“Yeah, you did,” Mike says, not sounding happy about it.
“Give us a little credit, Abby,” Dad says.
“Right, we know it’s a performance and it’s all for the act,” says Mom. “Okay, well, mentioning my stretch marks…maybe that one went a little too far. But I understand you have to get your material from somewhere. All comedians insult their families, right, Howard?”
Dad nods, agreeing. “And you insulted yourself more. That’s the mark of a true comic.” My parents are suddenly experts on comedy?
“Let’s face it!” Grandpa shouts. “We’re hilarious!” He points at me. “I always said my Abby was going places. You’re on your way, kiddo!” For a second Grandpa makes me think of Simon. He would have loved this. Maybe I’ll talk to Bonnie about doing a comedy show for Millennium Lakes.
That makes me think of Max.
Drew, who is filming all this, still hasn’t said anything. “You’re not mad at me either?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “I don’t sleep in those pajamas anymore.”
“I know,” I say. “I made that one up.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m going to tell all my friends that my granddaughter is a regular Joan Rivers, may she rest in peace,” announces Grandma.
“But what about how your friends wouldn’t be caught dead at a comedy club because they’re so sleazy?” I ask her.
“This one’s not so bad,” she says.
Mom and Grandma will never admit they were wrong. But who cares? I cannot believe their reaction. This is amazing. I roasted them, mocked them like crazy, and not only are they not mad, they’re happy about it. How did this happen?
I finally feel like they see me for who I am, like they get me.
“You did great, Abby,” Beth says. “You were funny.” She hugs me and puts my hand on her belly. I feel something.
“Was that a kick?” I ask, excited.
“Nah, just indigestion,” she says. She touches my blue streak. “I like that. Very you.”
Mike puts his hand on my shoulder. “Listen, we better get going.” He gives me a stiff hug. “You were funny. Funny-looking. Ha-yah!” He karate chops the air. “Now who’s the comedian? See you on late-night TV someday, huh?” He and Beth kiss me and leave. I guess Mike means well. He just doesn’t know how to show it. I know what that feels like.
“I still say Whoopi Goldberg is Jewish,” Grandma says, and we all laugh.
“Does this mean I’m not grounded anymore?” I plead with Mom and Dad. “Please. Pleasepleasepleasepleasepul-leeeeeeez.”
“You lied to us to come out here tonight,” says Mom. “You knew you were still supposed to be grounded, and you broke the rules.”
“But I’ve learned my lesson,” I whine. “After everything that’s happened this summer, don’t you think I’ve been grounded long enough? Can we just get rid of the list already?”
“Okay,” Mom says.
And just like that, I’m not grounded anymore.
Drew smiles at me. I thank Mom and Dad about a hundred times.
“Do you want to go out and celebrate with your friends tonight?” Dad asks.
“They don’t even know I’m here. I told them I wasn’t doing this.”
“What are you talking about?” Grandpa says. “They were sitting in the back row with us.”
Just as I’m about to insist he must be mistaken, the double door
s open and people stream into the lobby. Leading the pack is Amy, Trina, and Max.
MAX!!!!
Behind them are Tony and other kids from class—Kelvin, Graham, and Sofia and her Guatemalan crew. They come up to me woo-hooing and shouting, “Surprise!” “Incredible!” “You were great!” “Hysterical!” and “Totally!”
“You’ve got skills, girl!” Kelvin says with a big smile. “Yeah! Seriously. My stomach hurts from laughing.”
“Yeah, me too,” says Graham.
They all came to see me. I can’t believe it. “Thanks, you guys.” I hug all of them, even the ones I don’t know well.
“What are you doing here?” I ask Max. “You said I made you look like the world’s dumbest magician, and I embarrassed you…but you’re here.”
He looks down at me with this sweet expression. “I forgive you. I know your idea of funny isn’t always mine. It’s okay. I’m over it now.” I can’t speak. I’m too choked up. He hugs me. I float away, whiffing the scent of lavender fabric softener from his shirt. He lets go first. “I know you did it to try and make me stay.”
“Did it work?” I ask into his ear.
“No. I’ve got to go.”
“You’ll never know how sorry I am. You’re my best friend, Max.”
He nods. He doesn’t have to say anything. I know he’s saying I’m his best friend too.
I turn to the others, who are watching us like we’re in a movie. “How did you guys know I would be performing here? I didn’t tell anyone.”
Max answers, “I had a feeling, so I called here and asked if you were in the lineup. Then I spread the news, and everyone wanted to come.”
Kelvin, Sofia, and the other ponytail girls say some nice things to me, about how I was the best one up there and how my parents are so nice to let me use them for my comedy material (!!!!!). They leave after that, but Max, Trina, Amy, and Tony stay.
“I’ve got to go,” Tony tells my parents, “but I just want to tell you what a talented kid you’ve got there. She’s a gem. I can’t tell you how happy I am that she’s in my class. Abby, you’re a star!” Tony says with a wave. He heads out.
This Is Not the Abby Show Page 17