Stepping Out

by Laura Langston

  Over the next couple of days, I study comedians I admire: Sarah Silverman, Amy Poehler and Margaret Cho. And in my spare time, I go to the ITCF website and check out the other nominees.

  It’s a big-time dumb move. I’m so shocked at how good they are, I don’t have the guts to comment on a single one of their videos. So when Carly reminds me after school on Wednesday that I need something to wear onstage, I agree to go shopping with her. I’m desperate for a distraction. Anything to forget who I’m up against. But three hours of following Carly through a pile of stores is not a feel-good experience.

  “Don’t get discouraged,” Carly says as we leave Aéropostale and walk into the mall. At least the clerk looked me in the eye when I asked for a size four in the top I liked. Half the time they treat me like I’m blind too. “We’ll find you something.”

  Considering the fact that we’ve covered most of the stores at Bellevue Square Mall, I doubt it. “Maybe I’ll check out the thrift store where I found those cool pants last year.”

  Carly wrinkles her nose. She doesn’t share my taste for second-hand funk. “Not the thrift store.”

  “I’ll buy online then.” We turn the corner at Aveda. Buying online is easy, and the clerks never stare. But my order probably wouldn’t arrive in time. Especially not by Monday, when I’m testing my routines in drama class. “And don’t tell me you’re jealous, because I know that already.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Rub it in, why don’t you.”

  Carly hates that I’m a perfect size four and tall. I can’t help my Swedish genes any more than she can help her pasta-loving Italian ones. Too bad Brooke inherited the Swedish hair and I got Mom’s red frizz.

  “Let’s go in here.” She stops in front of Loft.

  “What? I’m a lawyer now?”

  She ignores the question and heads for the elevators. “You’re grumpy. You never should have gone online and looked at those other vloggers. It totally messed you up.”

  Technically I’ve been messed up since last Friday when she and Hunter dropped this bombshell of an opportunity on my head. Of course I’d check out the other nominees in my category.

  “Athletes don’t spend their time before the Super Bowl worrying about everybody else,” Carly says. “They work on their own game. That’s why we need to get you in game shape.” She stops in front of J. Crew. “How about here? We missed it.”

  I shake my head. Getting me in game shape is enough to bend even my good leg out of shape. “I’m done,” I say. “Let’s go to Jamba Juice. I’ll buy you an Orange Carrot Twist.”

  “I’m not thirsty. At least let’s go to Sephora and deal with your hair.”

  We stop in front of the elevator. Deal with your hair is such an encouraging phrase. “Do we have to?”

  She eyes the top of my head with obvious distaste. “No. Go onstage with that snarly red tumbleweed on the top of your head. I’m sure you’ll get a few laughs from it.”

  I sigh and push the Down button.

  Thursday morning, as I sit down to work in a library stall at school, I’m still traumatized by the whole Sephora experience. But considering the raw material I got, it was probably worth it.

  Walking into that store was like walking into the middle of Vogue magazine. The women all glittered. The prices were off-the-chart stupid. And the stench of perfume made it hard to think. Or maybe it was the music affecting my brain. I couldn’t hear much over it—although I definitely heard the glitter girl trying to sell me approximately $989 worth of products.

  I pretty much lost all capacity to think after that.

  It takes me most of the hour to jot down some notes and work it into a rough routine. I’m writing up my last few lines when a shadow looms across my cubby.

  I look up. It’s Ms. Vastag, wearing her infamous purple Birkenstocks and holding an armload of papers. “Why aren’t you in gym class, Larsson?”

  “I’ve been excused for a few days to practise for the competition.”

  Ms. Vastag’s eyes narrow. “Exercise is important.” She points to her ample stomach, barely covered by a tight red-and-blue-checked shirt. “Look what happens when you don’t get it.”

  “I know, and I feel terrible about missing the class, but I need the time.”

  Ms. Vastag glances around and then leans close. “You don’t fool me for a minute. You hate gym.” She glances at my leg. “You’re always looking for an excuse to sit it out because of your disability.”

  Ms. Vastag doesn’t dance around my limp like so many people do. And she doesn’t make allowances for it either. She treats me with the same offhand annoyance she treats everybody else with. I like that about her.

  She’s not finished. “You can’t run from reality.”

  “I can’t run, period.”

  The ghost of a smile flashes at the corners of her mouth. “Maybe not a marathon, but you can manage. And here’s the thing. Everybody has something. A deformed foot, a brother in jail, bad gas. Whatever. Life’s a poker hand. We all have to deal. But the bigger person learns not to be defined by the hand they hold. Speaking of holding…” She thrusts a piece of paper at me. “The Seattle Times wants you to call.”

  My heart skips a beat as I look down at the small slip of paper. Dylan Shaw, Seattle Times Entertainment is written in thick black ink. The name is followed by a phone number. “Me?”

  That hint of a smile is back. “I assume so. Unless there’s another Paige Larsson around here.” She turns to go. “You can call him after school. You’ve got work to do. And that’s no laughing matter.”

  When God handed out patience, I was clearly napping, because I have none.

  A reporter from the Seattle Times wants to talk to me. I can’t wait until after school. But I can’t skip math either, so I wait until class is over, and when the bell rings I hurry down the hall to the band wing. After a couple of jocks finish at their lockers, I punch out the number Ms. Vastag gave me.

  “Dylan Shaw.”

  His voice is brisk. I hear someone talking behind him. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe I should I have waited until after school?

  “Hi. This is Paige Larsson.” I sound like a mouse running laps. I take a deep breath. “I’m returning your call.” Oh God, now I sound like an uptight secretary.

  “Right. Hi. Thanks for calling. And congratulations on being shortlisted for the International Teens in Comedy Festival.”

  “Thanks.” I figured on some publicity, but I didn’t figure on it before the event.

  “My boss wants me to do a feature on it for the weekend paper.”

  My breath stalls. A feature! In the weekend paper! Brooke loves the fashion and entertainment section. She loves, loves, loves it. And this week I’ll be in it. Maybe now she’ll take my comedy seriously. My knees start to tremble. I lean against a locker for support. The gray steel is cold through my thin T-shirt.

  “Since you and another teen from Washington State are going to the competition, I thought I’d get quotes from each of you.”

  “Sure.” It’s like I’m channelling Carly, or maybe I’m just remembering what she said to me last Friday, but I manage to answer all his questions without sounding like a mouse or a secretary or anything else embarrassing. It helps that Dylan is easy to talk to and that he quotes the guy from Spokane who made the shortlist in the straight stand-up category.

  “Your YouTube vlogs are great, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I wonder if he really checked them out or if he’s just saying that.

  “I’d like to pull a visual from the one you did on dating a toaster to run with the article. Would you be okay with that?”

  He has watched them. I had Carly film me while I took my toaster out for pizza and to the movies. Me and toaster boy even went for a romantic walk in the park at the e
nd of the night. And before I started editing, I searched through my royalty-free music file for something really romantic to mix in. It was so good that even I laughed when I played it back. “Sure.”

  “Judging by how funny they are,” he adds, “I’d say you have a great chance of winning.”

  Seven

  Saturday morning, I wake up to the sound of a crow being slaughtered.

  Heart pounding, I bolt out from under my covers and stare around my room. Was I was dreaming? Then I hear it again—the silly Ricky Gervais bird ringtone I downloaded last month.

  It’s my phone. I forgot to set it to Silent when I went to bed last night. Grabbing it from the nightstand, I slide back under the covers and peer through sleep-crusted eyes at the screen.

  Three text messages and one missed call. All from Hunter.

  For him, I’ll wake up to the sound of slaughtered crows any day of the week. I bunch my pillow up under my head and hit Redial.

  “What is wrong with you?” I ask when he answers. “It’s not even seven thirty yet.” So what if I’m happy to hear from him? I can’t let him know that.

  “I take it you’re still in bed?”

  I flush. There’s something incredibly intimate about his voice whispering in my ear while I’m lying half naked under the covers. Even if I am wearing a ripped Friends T-shirt that has a big ketchup stain across Jennifer Aniston’s face. “Of course I’m still in bed.”

  “So you haven’t seen the Seattle Times?”

  “Since I haven’t quite mastered the whole reading-in-my-sleep thing yet, that would be a no.”

  “There’s a huge picture of you on the front of today’s entertainment section,” he says. “Come downstairs and answer your front door. I bought three extra copies.”

  And the doorbell rings.

  Okay, so my picture isn’t that huge. And I’m not the only one on the front of the entertainment section either. The guy from Spokane, Jacob Muller, is beside me. But Dylan Shaw has repeated his pronouncement that he expects me to win. He has compared me to Amy Poehler. In his first paragraph. Hunter thinks I should be ecstatic. Instead I’m numb. I’m nowhere close to Poehler. She’s, like, up in the stratosphere. I’m somewhere down in middle earth, trying to crawl my way out.

  Hunter looks up from his phone. “The number of your subscribers just went up again.” He’s sprawled on the couch in the TV room, and I’m in Dad’s ratty old easy chair across from him, a copy of the paper spread out at my feet. On the coffee table between us are the two Americanos Hunter brought over, along with an almost empty bag of All Dressed potato chips and a couple of raspberry muffins. “You’ve got over seventy-five hundred.”

  Whoa! That’s two thousand more than I had last night when I went to bed. All because of an article in the Seattle Times. My phone buzzes. Your subscribers are going up BY THE MINUTE, Carly texts. You are already famous.

  What I am is shocked. This whole morning feels unreal. “I can’t believe this.”

  Hunter digs out the last few chips. “Believe it.” His dark hair is sticking up on one side of his head, like he hasn’t combed it properly or hasn’t showered yet this morning. Or like he was in a hurry to drive over and see me. My tummy does a tiny flip-flop.

  Don’t be stupid. As I fold the newspaper sections into one neat pile, I hear voices coming from the kitchen. Mom and Dad? Mom and Brooke? I can’t tell. At least Mom was up when Hunter rang the bell, which gave me a few minutes to throw myself together. Throw being the operative word. When I came downstairs in my jeans and sweater, Hunter calmly pointed out that I had a bright-red streak of something on my chin. It was blush. That’s what I get for trying to multitask before breakfast.

  C U tomorrow, Carly adds. 11:30. DON’T forget.

  How could I? The salon—Fringe Benefits—has called and emailed to remind me of my hair appointment.

  Hunter tosses his phone aside, grabs the empty potato-chip bag and crumples it up. “Why don’t we go out?” he suggests. “Grab something to eat? My treat.”

  Hunter is always asking me to go places. I never used to mind. But last year, when my feelings went through that change, it started to feel awkward. I want to go out out with him, not just hang out.

  “If you’re hungry, have one of the muffins.”

  “I’d rather drive over to Big June’s for her stuffed French toast. Come with me. You love her cinnamon buns.”

  Of course I do. What’s not to love? They’re the size of a dinner plate and loaded with enough sugar to send you into a diabetic coma. That’s the other problem. Not diabetic comas (I always order a side of scrambled eggs, and I’m pretty sure the protein cancels out the sugar), but the fact that everybody loves them. Big June’s is a popular place. I don’t want to walk in there with Hunter and see someone from school. “I can’t. I have a ton to do before Monday.” I rattle off my list: haircut, clothes, the second video I need for the contest. “Plus, I have to get my routine ready for the practice run in drama.”

  He stands up, slides his phone away and shoves his feet into his runners. “Yeah, I heard about that.” Instead of heading for the front door, he turns toward the kitchen. I’m confused until I spot the empty chip bag in his hand. He’s going to throw it away before he leaves. Hunter hates litter as much as I hate germs. What a team we’d make. For sure we’d live in a clutter-free, sterile environment. How romantic is that?

  “Roskinski’s telling everybody,” he adds.

  I roll my eyes as we walk down the hall. “Great.”

  His chuckle is low and soft. So sexy. My heart races a little. “I figured you’d be impressed,” he says.

  The voices in the kitchen grow louder as we get closer. My shoulder blades tighten. It’s not Mom talking. It’s Brooke and Twin One. Or maybe Twin Two. Whatever. The twin part doesn’t matter. The Brooke part does. To give her fair warning that we’re coming, I clear my throat and say in a too-loud voice, “The garbage is in here.”

  Hunter looks at me as if I’ve suddenly turned into an owl. “I know where your garbage is.”

  The voices stop when we reach the doorway. Brooke and Twin One are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. They look over and smile. The paper is open between them. I see a large coffee stain on the picture of my face. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

  “Hey, Brooke,” Hunter says as he heads for the trash can.

  “Hey, yourself,” Brooke drawls. There’s enough syrup in her voice to send anybody into a diabetic coma. “You’re looking hot.”

  Hunter always looks hot. And whenever Brooke sees him, she points it out. If I didn’t know better, I’d say my sister has a thing for him. Except she likes college guys with tricked-out cars. Her current target drives a silver Audi.

  “Thanks.” His shoulders flex as he pitches his empty bag into the garbage. He really is rocking that tight black T-shirt.

  “Pour yourself some java and grab a chair,” Brooke says. She doesn’t even look at me. No surprise.

  “Thanks, but I’m heading out.” He gestures to the paper. “Great article, right?”

  “Yeah.” Brooke smirks. She looks at Twin One. “We were just discussing that and the whole contest thing.”

  Twin One grows very still. Her face fills with color. I’m suddenly on alert, waiting for the bomb to drop. Hunter, oblivious to the undercurrents, walks back toward me.

  “It’s good that the ITCF is making space for people with disabilities this year,” Brooke says.

  I turn cold. At least she’s being politically correct. She hasn’t called me a freak once yet this morning. Twin One inspects her nails and won’t meet my gaze.

  Brooke slides a quick sideways glance at me before giving Hunter a brilliant smile. “It’s great for their image. It’s probably part of their mandate that they have to include
them or something.”

  Them. Nice one, Brooke.

  “You know. Make a few spaces for the ‘disabled.’ ” She puts air quotes around the word disabled.

  Hunter clears his throat. His eyes harden. “That’s not very—”

  “Smart,” I interrupt. I am furious. Embarrassing me in front of Hunter is a new low. “You’d think they’d have special categories for people like me. Para-comedy or something.”

  Twin One snickers. When Brooke shoots her a warning look, she picks up her coffee and hides behind her cup.

  “You should get on that, Brookie.” Brooke hates it when I call her that. I take Hunter’s arm and tug him out of the kitchen. “Write them a letter. Include your title too. MRO of Larsson Enterprises.”

  Hunter bursts out laughing. Twin One snorts coffee out of her nose. My sister looks confused. She obviously missed the Paige Notes vlog I did two Wednesdays ago, where I ranted about telemarketers and called them MROs, which is short for major rectal opening. Too bad for her.

  “Did you just call your sister an asshole?” Hunter asks as we head down the hall.

  “No way. I wouldn’t stoop so low.” I dredge up a wide smile, even though inside I am dying. That black pit of self-hate is back, and it takes everything I have not to get sucked in. “Major rectal opening is the official, scientific term.” I open the door with an exaggerated flourish. “And I’m all about being scientific.”

  I watch him walk down the steps. He’s still laughing when he gets to his car.

  It’s a small victory. But a good one.

  Eight

  First Paige Monday: The word for the week is porcelain. Porcelain is big in my house. My mom’s a dentist, and my dad’s a plumber. They’re all about the teeth and the toilets. If my sister and I brush and flush, they’re happy. Conversation at dinner is a little problematic though. I can never figure out what opening they’re talking about. The mouth or the toilet. Talk about potty mouth.