Stepping Out

by Laura Langston

  I just hope my best was good enough.

  Back in the theater, I quietly take my seat between Hunter and Carly. A couple of people give me a thumbs-up. Mr. Roskinski mouths, “Great job.” I hardly hear a word of the last two performances. Instead, I’m reliving every word I said onstage, hearing every laugh all over again.

  By the time the judges take the stage to announce the winners, I’ve bitten three nails.

  Carly slaps my hand as I start on the fourth one. “Stop!”

  Raven Prest steps forward to speak into the microphone. Blood pounds in my ears. “We’ve seen an incredible amount of talent this year, which has made the decision-making especially difficult.” The oversized gold hoops in her ears shimmer under the bright lights. “And we’d like to offer our sincere congratulations to all the contestants for making it this far. But, unfortunately, there can only be one winner in each category.” She pauses. “In the straight stand-up comedy category, the winner is Alexander Stein.”

  There’s a shout about ten rows ahead. Not Jacob, I realize as I join in the clapping. Poor guy.

  The clapping fades. “And now for the video comedy category,” Raven Prest says.

  My heart’s hammering. I lean forward, grip the edge of my seat. Please let me win. Please.

  “In that category, the winner is Robyn Paul.”

  The air disappears from my lungs. There’s a shriek somewhere off to my right. I slump into my chair. Tears feather the back of my throat, a nasty mix of disappointment, shame and humiliation.

  I lost. There’ll be no agency representation. No trip to New York. No ten grand for me or the school. I catch Brooke’s eye. She smirks and then turns to one of the twins. I almost cry. Around me, my friends and family offer their support.

  Carly: “I don’t get it. You’re better than her.”

  Mom: “We think you’re a winner.”

  Grandpa: “Those damned judges screwed up.”

  Hunter: “You’ll win next year for sure.”

  I nod and smile and thank them. But it doesn’t matter what they say. I gave it my best shot, and I lost. I let everybody down. And I let myself down too.

  After a while I manage to sneak away to the bathroom. I hide in a stall and let the tears fall. People come and go. Toilets flush. Hands get washed. Just about everybody talks about the contest. Someone even mentions my name. She says I was pretty good.

  I hold that comment close. I pretend I’m my own best friend. I tell myself I was brave to go out there in the first place, especially when I was so freaking scared. I remind myself that I’m not meant to be onstage anyway. YouTube is where it’s at. YouTube is where I belong.

  When I’m finished crying and the bathroom is quiet, I open the door and come out.

  Brooke is leaning against the vanity. Bottle rockets go off in my chest. She watches me walk to the sink. “I told Mom I’d come and see if you’re okay.” Her voice is almost gentle.

  She cares. The tears are back, crowding the back of my throat. I retrieve a paper towel and look at us in the mirror. She’s tall blond perfection, and I’m short red frizz. But in spite of everything, we are sisters. And finally I’m looking at the sister I remember from when I was really little. “Thanks.” I swallow my tears and moisten the paper towel under the tap. “I’m okay.”

  She crosses her arms. “Mostly I wanted to tell you you’re not funny.” Her voice hardens. “You’re an embarrassment. And now you’re a loser. How do you think that makes me look?”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me.”

  Heat hits the back of my neck. With it comes that black pit of self-hate. The one that started in elementary school when Brooke laughed with the mean boys. I blot my swollen eyes. “This isn’t about you.”

  Her lips thin. “Yeah, it is. You’re my sister. You limp. And for months you’ve been making an ass of yourself trying to get people to laugh.”

  I don’t try. I do it.

  “People talk,” she continues. “And I hate it.”

  The heat climbs into my cheeks. I cover them with the paper towel. I put everything I had into this contest. I took a huge risk putting myself out there. And all Brooke can think about is herself? Unbelievable. My shame hardens to anger. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” I manage, just barely, to keep my voice steady.

  “It’s time you gave this whole comedy thing up.”

  No way. For a minute when I lost—okay, maybe for two minutes—I thought about it. For sure I wanted to hide under a rock somewhere. But give up? Not gonna happen. “I’m not stopping. Comedy is a part of me. Like my limp is.” It’s the first time I’ve said that to my sister. It actually feels good.

  Brooke’s eyes, flat with anger, meet mine in the mirror. That’s when I realize today’s loss doesn’t matter. Even if I’d won, Brooke would be mad. I’m a disappointment to her. And I always will be.

  “You are such a freak,” she says.

  I’m totally sick of that word. But this time my anger is mixed with sadness. I can’t believe how bitter and hateful Brooke is. It must suck to carry all that negativity around. To be her. “We all have our freakish bits.” I drop my soiled paper towel into the wastebasket.

  She looks confused.

  “At least mine are on the outside,” I tell her as I head for the exit. “It’s better than having them on the inside like you.”

  And I slam the door behind me.

  Fifteen

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Carly says a couple of hours later as we walk down the hall to the theater’s administration offices. Contestants have to sign release papers to allow the ITCF to use photographs or footage for future promotions. I was so upset after the exchange with Brooke, I almost forgot. “The fact that you made the finals is huge.”

  “I guess, but I’m never doing stand-up again.” I’ll give Brooke that much.

  “Never say never,” Carly says.

  I glare at her. “Never.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “I appreciate you and Hunter nominating me, but walking across that stage”—limping across that stage—“was torture.” And Brooke calling me an embarrassment later was torture too.

  She rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, don’t be such a drama queen.”

  We stop beside the door to the administration office. Inside, two contestants from the other category are standing at a long counter, signing papers. I don’t know them, and I’m glad. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I don’t even want to take the bus back home. I’m driving back with Mom and Dad instead. “Wait here,” I tell Carly. “I’ll just be a minute.”

  At the counter, a plump, middle-aged woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun is flipping through a stack of beige envelopes. “Your name?” She doesn’t even look at me.

  “Paige Larsson.”

  Her fingers stop moving. Her head rises. There’s a curious look in her eyes. “One minute, please.” She disappears into the back. I glance at Carly, but she’s on her phone and not paying any attention.

  “Paige Larsson.”

  The voice is vaguely familiar, but I don’t realize who’s speaking until I turn back and see the woman standing there. My breath catches. I stare at her. “Raven Prest?”

  Her laugh is low and husky. “The one and only.” She gestures behind her. “Come on back. I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

  My knees feel all rubbery as she leads me around the counter and down a hall. Raven Prest wants to talk to me? Stunned, I follow her into a small boardroom. Half a dozen black padded chairs frame an oval table.

  “Have a seat.”

  I take the chair beside her. I’m close enough that I could touch her. The thought leaves me speechless. I want to tell her I love her work, that I’m a hu
ge fan. That I know I’m lousy at stand-up, that it was my friends who nominated me. But all I can do is stare and think stupid, dumb thoughts like, She has a really, really long neck, and, God, that diamond she’s wearing on her finger is practically the size of a chicken nugget.

  “I’ve seen your YouTube videos.” She crosses one booted leg over the other. “You’re good. You have great timing and a funny way of looking at the world.”

  There’s a whooshing sound in my head. Raven Prest thinks I’m good? “Thanks.” My voice comes out in a stammer. I sound like a fool.

  “But you almost didn’t make the final round.”

  Am I dreaming? First she says I’m good, and then she says I almost didn’t make the final. “I didn’t?”

  “No. Your second routine almost got you disqualified.”

  I knew it was bad. “I had trouble with it.”

  She nods. “That was obvious. But instead of reaching for something everybody could relate to, you fell back on your disability. I suspect that’s your default place to go, making fun of yourself?”

  She’s right. Hunter hated it too. I nod.

  “Well, if you’re going to get anywhere in the world of comedy, you need to focus on a broader picture. It’s one thing to comment on your disability like you did in your driving routine, but don’t make it the focus. The world doesn’t need more ‘poor me’ stuff.”

  Poor me? Is that what she thinks I’m about? That I feel sorry for myself? Everything I want to say crowds into my throat. I’ve been trying to get my limp front and center, trying to put it out there before anybody else could. “I’ve been trying to avoid pity,” I finally manage to say.

  She stares at me for a minute. Her dark eyes look almost black against the crisp white of her button-down shirt. “Fair enough. But by being afraid that people will laugh at you instead of with you, you’ve sold yourself out. You’re in danger of becoming the comedian with the limp instead of Paige Larsson, the comedian.”

  The truth hits me like a slap. She’s right. Heat floods my face.

  “Look, you have tremendous potential. With a little guidance, you could go places. If you’re truly serious about comedy and are willing to work hard, I’ll help you,” Raven says. “I’ll do Skype sessions with you once a month, and we’ll go over your material.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Seriously? You’d help me with my video routines?”

  “No.” Raven shakes her head. “I’d help you with your comedy routines. All of them. Stand-up and improv and video comedy.”

  My stomach sinks. It’s the opportunity of a lifetime. The other contestants would kill to be in my shoes. But there’s no way I’ll put myself through that again. “I can’t do stand-up. Or improv.”

  “You think you can’t. I think you’re afraid.”

  The heat in my face races down my neck. Maybe I am a little.

  “I know what it’s like. When I went from YouTube to stand-up, I had such bad stage fright I’d puke before I went onstage. Every single time.” She laughs. “It was my very own lose-weight-without-trying program.”

  My eyes widen. “I can’t believe it.” She looks so natural onstage.

  “Believe it. It got so bad I almost gave up.” She looks at her watch. She needs to be somewhere, I can tell. “If you’re a true comedian, you need to master every aspect of comedy, even the stuff that scares you.” She gives me a half smile. “You have to be prepared to step out there.”

  I am a true comedian. At least, I want to be. I look down at my hands. A pressure in my chest makes it hard to breathe. But if I step out, I have to be prepared to fall down. Maybe that’s what separates the true comedians from the wannabes. Being prepared to bomb. My heart crowds into my throat. Do I have the guts to risk bombing again? I look back up, take a deep breath. If I really want this, I have no choice. “Okay.” I’m giddy with excitement and fear and gratitude. “I’ll do it.” I blink back tears. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m looking forward to working with you.” She stands. “With luck, you’ll be back on that stage next year.”

  “So what’s your story today, Larsson?” Ms. Vastag asks when she stops beside my library cubicle at school Monday afternoon. I spot Hunter walking through the door. Brooke, who’s sitting with one of the twins, waves at him. “Why aren’t you in gym?”

  “I have a bad cold.” It’s true. I stayed home this morning, and if I didn’t have a math quiz next block, I’d still be under a blanket on the couch.

  She frowns. “And I have hemorrhoids. Big deal.”

  I start to laugh.

  “You think that’s funny?” But her words have no punch, and there’s a glint of amusement in her eyes.

  “Not really.” But I do. With her delivery, Ms. Vastag could be onstage. Hunter walks by and wiggles his eyebrows at me. I give him a little wave.

  Ms. Vastag watches him pull out a chair at a nearby table before slouching against the cubicle and looking back down at me. “I heard about the competition.” She looks especially colorful today with her rainbow-striped socks and purple Birkenstocks. “I’m sorry you lost. Word is you killed it onstage though.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t kill it enough to win.” I still feel rotten about letting people down. Mr. Roskinski’s been great about it, and so have my friends, but that doesn’t take away my disappointment.

  “Like I said last week, life’s a poker hand. There’s always another game coming. As long as you pick up the cards and deal yourself in.”

  “I guess.” Maybe I’ll get shortlisted for the ITCF next year. If I don’t let fear or doubt or Brooke’s mean comments get to me. I still hope one day we’ll be close again. That she’ll stop resenting me and grow up. But it may not happen for a long time, if ever. Life doesn’t come with a guarantee.

  Ms. Vastag bends down. She’s so close I can see the coffee stains on her front teeth. “I see Brooke’s trying to move in on your territory.”

  I look at Brooke. She’s practically jumping out of her chair trying to get Hunter’s attention. I look back at Ms. Vastag. Territory? Did I hear her right? Has the cold plugged my ears?

  “Hunter MacRae,” she whispers.

  I’m stunned. Ms. Vastag isn’t like any other teacher in the school, but this is getting personal, even for her. “He’s not my territory. He doesn’t belong to me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Maybe not, but the guy’s been following you around like a homeless puppy for the last six months. You need to put him out of his misery and tell him how you feel.”

  Oh jeez. Is it that obvious? Does everybody know? I look at Brooke again. Does she? Is that why she’s been throwing herself at Hunter lately?

  Ms. Vastag follows my gaze. “Brooke wants what you have,” she says. “She’s threatened because you’re funny and she’s not.”

  Brooke’s just jealous. I flash on Hunter’s words. Maybe he’s right about that too.

  “Forget your sister.” She inclines her head ever so slightly toward Hunter. “Well? Are you going to just sit there?”

  What? Ms. Vastag is telling me to go talk to Hunter? No way. The cold is messing with my head.

  She gives me a pointed look. “Don’t be a wuss, Larsson. Remember that other thing I told you? We’ve all got something.” She stops, presumably waiting for me to answer. When I don’t, she smiles and says, “Just don’t let your something get in the way of having a life.”

  It’s the smile that gets me. That’s only the second time Ms. Vastag has smiled since grade eight. It has to be a sign. I look at Brooke. I look at Hunter. Then I push my chair back and stand.

  It’s time to get in the game.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Sarah Harvey, who got the ball rolling, to Barry for insisting comedy isn’t all
that scary, and to Zach for insightful comments along the way.

  LAURA LANGSTON is the award-winning author of nineteen books for children and young adults, including Hot New Thing in the Orca Limelights series. When she’s not writing, reading or walking her Shetland sheepdogs, Laura can usually be found spying on people in the grocery store or twisting herself into a pretzel in yoga class. For more information, visit www.lauralangston.com.