by Lance Rubin
I don’t know, I probably just came up with that rationale so I wouldn’t have to feel bad that Dev never had any interest in me. And never laughed at my jokes. For example, I once told him during a pottery elective that if he ever needed a rabbit for his act, I could supply him with one from the family of bunnies I was raising in our bunk bathroom. “Don’t you think that’s a little…inhumane?” Dev asked. He looked so serious that I couldn’t get up the nerve to tell him I was joking. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I said, looking back down at my pottery wheel. It was then that I became convinced Dev didn’t actually write his own act, but that’s another story entirely.
The thing is, Evan does get my jokes. And that’s actually kind of awesome. I stare down at his last text: Sorry, Stranger.
Not a problem, I text. Do you want some candy, young man?
The joke is a bit of a reach. The three dots pop up immediately.
Haha No I don’t take candy from strangers.
He got it.
He’s cooler than I thought.
It’s two Snickers and a Pixie Stix tho, I write. Kids love Pixie Stix.
OK I changed my mind I’ll take it, he writes.
I laugh. So easily convinced.
You actually picked 2 candies that I really love haha, he writes.
Well, there was poison in all of it, so you’re dead now. Should have listened to your parents’ advice.
He texts the openmouthed Xs-for-eyes emoji.
Haha, I write. This feels good. This is fun.
We joke back and forth like that for a little while, speaking of absolutely nothing of substance, until I realize it’s been almost forty-five minutes of texting. I also realize I’ve gotten so wrapped up in our conversation that I never responded to a Leili text that came in twenty minutes ago.
She skipped dinner! Leili wrote, followed by another text, presumably after I’d failed to respond: Hulllooooooooo?
Sorry! I say. I’m texting with Evan. Can’t believe Oz did that.
Leili fires back a shocked-face emoji.
I know, I say.
He reeeeeeeeeally likes you.
Right? The whole thing is weirding me out.
It’s not weird it’s cute, Leili says, followed by a bear emoji.
Are you ignoring me? Evan texts, followed by four winky faces. Oops, I’m bad at texting multiple people at once. (I know, what kind of twenty-first-century human am I?)
I am, I say. It was a test. You failed.
AW DANGIT, Evan says.
Gotta go, Leili says. Azadeh’s home.
Give her hell, I say. She sends back a heart and a fist.
Then, to Evan: I should get going, more kids to poison.
Going for Stranger of the Year Award, he writes. It makes me laugh out loud, which is not the easiest thing in the world to do.
Already won twice actually. Going for the threepeat. That’s a sports word I heard Mike Muscone say to Matthew Lee before class once, and I filed it away in my brain for a moment just like this.
Evan sends a cry-laughing emoji.
Blammo! Preparation + timing = comedic genius.
I’m gonna find you at school tomorrow, he says.
There are many creepy ways to read that, yet I receive it the way he’d intended: a tiny, cozy campfire that lights up my stomach. Is Evan Miller going to be my boyfriend? This is nuts.
Not if I spend all day hiding in one of the utility closets, I say.
You just gave away your hiding spot.
AW DANGIT, I say. Nothing I text will top that, so I triumphantly toss the phone away to prevent further communication. I overshoot, though, and it smacks directly into the headboard, then bounces off the mattress and onto the floor.
I pick it up and see that three new cracks have formed across the screen.
The funny thing is, I don’t even mind.
“Aw dangit!” I say aloud.
11
Is it possible that I spent an entire weekend texting with Evan Miller and now am scared to see him in person?
Yes. It’s very possible. Because what if real life doesn’t live up to our invisibly transmitted hilarity?
Okay, that wasn’t the only thing I did all weekend, but pretty close. I also devoured that book Truth in Comedy in one sitting after finding out Dad still had his copy from college. Every time I stumbled on a note he’d written in the margins (like “SIMPLIFY”), I got chills. It’s so cool to be following in his footsteps (or, you know, fingerprints). The book was really good, though now I can’t remember a single thing I learned. I might have read it too fast.
Wait! Here’s something: Don’t make jokes in improv! The book explained that improv is more about listening and paying attention and making connections and finding the humor that way, which I love. Because it’s true. If you pay attention, as I have been doing my whole life, funny things are happening all the time. The things people say, the way they interact, the stupid customs humans have.
Like, for example, saying “Good morning.” It’s a little aggressive. I don’t know what kind of morning you’re having—it might be a terrible morning—so who am I to force a label on it? That’s why I just say “Morning.” Or I pose it as a question: “Good morning?” Occasionally I’ll do “Have a good morning,” though that’s still pretty pushy.
See? Maybe that’s not hilarious, but it’s a universal moment that we never really stop to examine. Our days are filled with those! And thinking about them makes life so much more satisfying. And by satisfying, I mean bearable.
Because, let’s be real, our lives are filled with many unfunny things too. Like, even genuinely upsetting things. But when you filter them through the lens of comedy, you can turn pain into laughter. Dad first taught me that in third grade. Leili, Azadeh, and I had just become friends, and resident dick Mike Muscone decided to coin annoyingly obvious nicknames for us: Ukulele, Mazda, and Pooh (as in “Winnie the”). Unfortunately, the names caught on like wildfire with the rest of the class.
“Aw, Banana,” Dad had said when I came home crying one day. “I’m sorry. It’s funny how that inevitably happens, isn’t it?”
This was not the comfort I was looking for. “It’s not funny, it’s mean. I’m really sad about it.”
“No, of course. That’s what I meant. Not funny haha, funny sad. That kids always do this to each other.” I just stared at him. “Look,” he said, “I’ve always found the best thing to do when something is making you upset is to see if there’s any way to turn that into something funny.”
The next day at school, I came prepared with a nickname for Mike Muscone: Muskrat. Leili and Azadeh thought it was hilarious. We started using it. Soon the whole class was on board. It somehow neutralized the entire nickname situation, and within a week or two, everyone was being referred to by their preferred names again. Not only that, but it made Leili and Azadeh and me much closer.
So. That was a very long-winded way of saying: I think improv is going to be a good fit for me.
And lo and behold, moments after I step off the bus, I see the best friends I was just thinking about stepping off theirs. Our buses usually show up within the same four-minute window, but it’s never as magically precise as this. It feels like a sign from the universe or something. Leili and Azadeh are deep in solemn but animated conversation, and they don’t notice me approaching, so I leap toward them and shout, “BOO!”
I immediately regret it. They both startle, looking authentically frightened for at least two seconds, and even once they realize it’s me, they don’t smile.
“Why did you do that?” Leili asks very genuinely, almost confused.
“Sorry,” I say. “I don’t know.” What was I thinking? Scare humor isn’t even my thing!
“That was straight-up terrifying,” Azadeh says. “And you know I don’t sc
are easy.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I thought it would be fun.”
“It wasn’t,” Leili says.
“Yeah, I get that.” I pretend my glasses need adjusting because I don’t know what else to do. “Anyway, morning.”
“Morning,” Azadeh says as she starts walking toward the school entrance and Leili and I fall into step next to her.
Leili doesn’t say anything. Either I really annoyed her with that scare or there’s still some resentment after Azadeh skipped out on family dinner last week. Probably both.
“Good weekend?” I ask. I was so wrapped up in trying to come up with funny bits for Evan that I wasn’t in touch with them much.
“Definitely,” Azadeh says.
“Well, of course it was for you,” Leili says. “You were barely home.”
“Lay, I said I’m sorry!”
“No, don’t worry about it. I love hanging out with Mom and Papa and Ramin while you’re out having fun. Everybody wins.” Wow. I mean, Leili and Azadeh squabble all the time, but this seems particularly intense.
“I’ll make it up to you,” Azadeh says, “I promise.”
“Fine, fine. It doesn’t matter. I gotta get to homeroom.”
“We’re in the same homeroom!” Azadeh looks to me, like What is with her? I pretend I don’t notice. Past experience has taught me it’s best not to take sides.
“Well,” Leili says, “how am I supposed to know if you’re gonna decide to skip it at the last minute or not?”
Azadeh tips her head back and lets out a Hulk-like grunt of frustration as I hear a “Happy Monday!” from my right and my heart ping-pongs. Evan Miller appears at my shoulder wearing a purple-and-blue argyle sweater that looks surprisingly cute on him.
“Hi hi hi,” I stop to say, immediately realizing that Leili and Azadeh have continued walking. I call after them, but they’re too enmeshed in their own conversation to realize I’m not with them anymore.
“Just the human I was looking for,” Evan says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and pivoting me back the way I came. “Come with me.”
It’s jarring, in a nice way, as no guy other than my dad has ever put an arm around me like that. Even Asher Fisk.
“Wait,” I say, “my homeroom is in the B Wing.”
“We’re not going to your homeroom.”
“Um,” I say. It’s fun to be wanted, so I smile, but I’m confused. “Where are we going?”
“Top secret,” he says in a gruff federal agent voice as we weave around a pack of loudly laughing football players. It’s like I’ve suddenly found myself on a roller coaster, and it’s exciting, but also terrifying, because How many loops does this thing have? How big a drop? Texting all weekend is one thing, but actual one-on-one contact before the school day’s even begun? Are we gonna make out? Did I remember to brush my teeth?
“Hold on,” I say, stopping in the middle of the hall. “I actually don’t want to miss class. And I haven’t even gone to my locker yet. So.”
“Whoa,” he says, smiling. “I’ve never seen you this serious. Don’t worry, I promise. Just come with me.”
“Watch this, I can be even more serious,” I say, furrowing my brow as much as humanly possible, which gets a laugh out of him. I definitely forgot to brush my teeth. I bet my breath smells like scone. I think I’m shaking. “Now tell me where we’re going. Or else.”
Evan gives an exaggerated shrug. “It’s a surprise! So just— It’s a school-sanctioned activity, okay?” He better not be trying to tutor me or something. “You won’t get in trouble. Pleeease?” He makes what I imagine he thinks is a very adorable face, smiling without showing teeth, eyebrows raised high. And he’s right. It is very adorable.
“Okaaaaay,” I say, and now he genuinely smiles, his whole face lighting up like a jack-o’-lantern.
“We’re gonna have to pick up the pace,” he says, looking at his phone. “We’re gonna be late.” He starts walking much faster than before, so I have to sort of run to keep up. I follow him through the lobby and straight toward…the school office?
Guess we won’t be making out.
This is weird.
He swings open the glass-windowed door and holds it for me as I tentatively walk in, the white-haired lady behind the desk shuffling papers and staring at me with a Can I help you? look.
I have no idea what to say, seeing as I have no idea what I’m doing here.
“Cutting it close, Evan,” the white-haired lady says as she spots him behind me.
“Nice to see you too, Ms. DiMicelli,” Evan says, in an exceedingly sweet voice, clearly the one he uses to kiss grown-ups’ asses, before winding his way around the desk—something I’ve never in my life seen a student do—to walk deeper into the office. What is happening? “Hi, Ms. Moore,” Evan says to the other secretary, who’s curly-haired and slightly younger than Ms. DiMicelli.
“Morning, Evan,” she says without looking up from her computer.
“Come on,” Evan says, gesturing wildly at me. “Back here.” I look to Ms. DiMicelli and Ms. Moore, thinking they might object, but they’ve stopped paying attention.
“Are you planning a heist?” I whisper to Evan once I’ve awkwardly scampered over. He just smiles, which is a tad infuriating. I’m already thinking up ways to return the favor, maybe a “surprise visit” to a room of rabid raccoons.
The homeroom bell rings, so now I’m officially late to class. Evan glances over to Ms. DiMicelli, who gives a little nod. “Here we go,” he says to me before pushing a button on the wall next to us, leaning in, and starting to speak.
“Good morning!” he says. “Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.”
Ohmigod. The morning announcements. He’s the one who does them! Duh. I knew his voice was familiar. He stares at me as he recites the Pledge, a big exaggerated smile playing on his face, a look more suitable for performing the opening number of a musical.
So…is this why he brought me here? To watch him while he announces? Is that what I seem like? A watcher? I guess it’s fun, in a way. Like a behind-the-scenes peek at how it all happens.
As Evan transitions into the actual announcements—reading from a printout on the wall reminders about Yearbook and French Club and Back-to-School Night that he spices up with his own asides (“And, Frenchies, don’t forget to bring your berets!”) (weak)—I start wondering if this is part of his courtship ritual with every girl he likes. Did Jess Yang stand in this exact spot last year? So that Evan could dazzle her with his delivery?
I’m pulled out of my own head when I realize Evan is talking about the improv troupe. “Yes, that’s right, kiddos, we meet Thursdays after school in the auditorium, and this is your last chance to join and be a part of the shenanigans!” Shenanigans. Ugh. “But you don’t have to take my word for it…” I realize with horror that Evan is giving me an Are you ready? look.
Oh no.
“I brought my dog Spot to let you know why the Manatawkin Improv Troupe could be just the extracurricular you’ve been waiting for.” Evan nods and points to the microphone part of the wall. “Take it away, Spot!”
I’m supposed to speak? Right now? To the whole school?
My heart is pounding. I try to get a deep breath. Evan’s body gets all wavy, then solidifies. I want to say something, and I want it to be funny. But I have no idea what that is.
“Uh…Spot?” Evan asks.
In the midst of this paralysis, though, my nerves take a backseat to something else: my anger, that I’ve been put in this position in the first place. If he’d only let me know last night while we were texting, I could have dug into my Sandy repertoire and absolutely destroyed. But instead I’m supposed to manufacture brilliance out of thin air?
Also, side note: Spot is the most clichéd dog name of all time. But whatever.
&nb
sp; “Sometimes Spot gets a little shy,” Evan says into the wall. He can tell that I’m nervous but not that I’m angry. Because I’m hiding it well. Why am I hiding it? “Spot, why don’t yo—”
“I’m not shy,” I say into the microphone, nudging him to the side as the words explode out of me. Evan stares warily, suddenly uneasy about what I might say next. “I was just relieving myself on a desk. Geez!”
Evan grins at me, reassured. “Oh wow, sorry, Spot, I didn’t realize you were…doing that.”
“Yeah, well, you never realize anything that I’m doing,” I say, not returning the grin. “Because you’re a terrible owner. The worst.”
“Oh.” Evan is slightly thrown, but he’s trying to roll with it. “That’s not true.”
“It is! This guy only gives me off-brand dog food!” I say, leaning closer to the microphone. “Never the good stuff.”
“But…,” Evan says. “Can you even taste the difference?”
“Of course!” I shout. “All dogs can!” Evan chortles into his hand as creative inspiration courses through me. “This guy’s idea of a quality chew toy is the cardboard from a toilet paper roll.”
“What’s the problem with that?” he asks.
“What’s the problem? I want something that squeaks, man! Squeaks are the whole point!”
Evan is now legitimately cracking up, which feels pretty great. I’m actually feeling like I might laugh too.
“I’d honestly rather live with a cat than with you,” I say. “And that’s saying a lot. Because cats suck!”
“I’m sorry!” Evan says in between laughs. “I’m truly sorry, Spot!” I have to say, I’m impressed by how well he’s playing along. “But we’ve gotten way off track. I brought you here to talk about the Manatawkin Improv Troupe.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “That. I don’t care if you join. Whatever.”
“Okay then. There you have it, friends. Join us after school on Thursday. That’s all the news this morning. Have a super day!”
Evan presses the button to turn off the PA system and looks at me with awe and wonder. “That. Was. Incredible.”