by Lance Rubin
“Should we be wearing more makeup?” I asked Leili.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I have some in my bag if you want.”
“None of the guys are wearing any—we shouldn’t have to either.”
“For sure,” Leili said. “We can do whatever we want.”
“I want people to see me up there and think I’m funny,” I said, “not focus on how I look.”
“Well. It can probably be both.”
It was such a relief to hear her say that. “It can, right? Because those other girls look so freaking badass. Like, I don’t even see them as sexy, they just seem, like, powerful.”
“I know! I was thinking that too!”
So that’s why, while the rest of the group is in the band room hanging out after all our warm-up games, we ducked out to the bathroom.
Leili wipes the stray mark below my eye with a wet paper towel, then proceeds to do my mascara for me, working with a precision that surprises me until I remember she’s Leili, innately skilled at everything.
We stare at ourselves, and even though Leili only had mascara and some light pink lip gloss, we look pretty cool. I almost don’t recognize us.
But I’m still nervous. I can’t put a finger on what’s most responsible for my acute jitters. Probably that my parents are going to watch me perform for the first time since my bat mitzvah, and I want it to go better than it did then. Or maybe it’s that the past two weeks have been the most intense of my life, leaving me with residual nerves, like aftershocks.
“FYI,” Leili says, making one last adjustment to her purple hijab, “I was super-nervous for every one of our shows last year, but it mostly goes away once it starts.”
“Mostly?”
Leili shrugs.
“That was mostly helpful,” I say.
“You’re mostly welcome.”
Tim Stabisch greets us as we walk back into the band room. “Did you just put on makeup?”
“Shut up, Tim,” Leili says, an uncharacteristic response for her, and way better than the one I was coming up with.
He nods and goes back to pushing both arms against the wall, his body stretched out behind him, as if he intends to get so physical during the performance he’s worried he might pull a hamstring.
“Circle back up, everybody,” Mr. Martinez says, and he seems almost as nervous as me. He’s wearing a blue suit and a black tie with white vertical letters that say YES AND. Pretty dorky. But endearing, too. I can tell Leili definitely thinks so.
As we all form a circle, I try to make eye contact with Evan across the way, as a peace offering or something, like if I flash a quick smile, it won’t be awkward if we end up in a scene together. He either doesn’t see me or pretends not to. And who am I kidding, we haven’t talked since he dumped me in a text. No smile’s gonna save us from that.
“The three most important things to remember tonight,” Mr. Martinez says, “are to listen to each other, to play the scenes as honestly as you can, and…to have fun. We’ve obviously never performed a Harold for an audience before, but the good part is, there are no mistakes in improv. They’re all opportunities for you to support each other as a group and spin what could have been a mistake into a brilliant scene. Because, look, Steph Curry may be one of the stars of the Warriors, but the real star is the way they work together as a team.”
Man, he sure is obsessed with Steph Curry.
His words remind me, though: I’m not going to do any of my characters tonight. Evan’s not my favorite person, but Leili is, and they’re both right. I haven’t really been improvising. But I want to. I’m going to come in with an open mind and listen and respond honestly and hilariously, thereby spinning an inspiring web of improvisational magic.
“And, uh,” Mr. Martinez continues, “Principal Bettis is in the audience tonight. He told me he’s never seen an improv show before, so you get to be his first. But no pressure!”
Oh geez, that’s probably why Mr. Martinez is so nervous. I don’t know if that adds to my nerves or calms them. Mr. Bettis is such an airhead, it’s unlikely he’ll understand what’s happening.
“All right, team,” Mr. Martinez says, looking at his phone for the fourth time in the past minute, “we still have at least five minutes till showtime, but let’s walk down to the backstage area.”
I’m the kind of nervous where my mind is whirling on its own axis while my body works on autopilot, so when I snap back into the present moment, I’m walking down the hall with Leili on one side and Fletcher on the other. I have no idea how long he’s been there, but he seems incredibly calm.
“Oh, hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, staring forward, hands in his pockets. I realize what I interpreted as chillness is actually his version of butterflies.
“You’re nervous,” I say.
“Me? Nah.”
“When in doubt, just think: What would Turbo do?”
Fletcher cracks up. “That’s what I’m worried about. Gonna freeze up and spend ten minutes pretending to sweep.”
We cross the threshold to backstage, our eyes adjusting to the darkness as the din of audience chatter hits us. My stomach somersaults. The curtain’s already open, since it’s not like we have a set or anything, just a few chairs and a couple of black cubes to sit on. I’m tempted to peek out at the crowd, though I still have the psychic scars from when Lacey Rengle scolded me before one of our middle school Annie performances.
“Don’t look out there, Winnie,” she hissed at me. “That’s bad luck!”
“What is?” I said.
“Peeking out at the audience before the performance!” She shook her head and clucked her tongue, like I was a server who’d screwed up her order. “If we have a bad show, I know who to blame.”
We did, in fact, have a bad show—the musical director had a migraine and inadvertently conducted the band a few beats slower than usual on every song (“Tomorrow” was a confusing, messy dirge)—and Lacey did, in fact, blame me.
But screw that. That rule probably doesn’t apply to improv. I inch over to the curtain bunched up to the side and peek out.
The auditorium is about two-thirds full, which is more people than I was expecting. I gulp like a cartoon character.
Azadeh is the first familiar face I see. Roxanne is next to her, with Ramin and her parents on her other side. I wonder if they know yet. Roxanne seems to be telling them all a funny story, leaning forward in her seat and gesturing. Mr. and Dr. Kazemi aren’t cracking up like Azadeh and Ramin are, but they’re definitely into it.
Evan’s mom is the next person I notice, sitting with a man who looks like a balder, older version of Evan and two of Evan’s older siblings, a guy and a girl staring intently at something on the girl’s phone. I wonder if they know anything about me.
And I wonder if Evan’s mom knows her son and I aren’t going out anymore. I wonder if she thinks it’s my fault. I hope not. She was nice.
I continue scanning the crowd, and I’m mildly panicked to not see my parents anywhere. What if something happened? What if Dad fell?
Not a second after I have this thought, Mom appears in the auditorium doorway, stepping forward and looking around for the best place to sit. I see Dad leaning on his cane in the shadows outside the auditorium. They discuss something, and then Mom scans the crowd again, calculating, strategizing, and finally settling on some seats that aren’t too far off the aisle, thereby reducing the number of people who will have to get up as my dad slowly shuffles past.
I wish they’d gotten here earlier.
Mom walks back into the shadows, and she and Dad emerge a moment later, his arm linked through hers as he navigates down the aisle with his cane, white streamers and all. It’s a slow, choppy walk.
Undeniable proof that he’s getting worse.
As they slowly move fo
rward, I can tell how hard he’s trying to seem like this is a normal situation, like Oh, what, a cane? No big deal! when actually, for many people here, this will be their first awareness that something is Wrong with Russ Friedman. It’s his ALS coming-out moment. And he’s having it because he wants to be here for me.
“Hey, quit peekin’,” Leili says from behind me.
I jump.
“Sorry, sorry,” she says. “We’re about to get started, so.” I must look fairly shaken up because she says, “You’re gonna be great, Winner.”
“You too,” I say.
Before I can find Mr. Martinez, he’s appeared onstage, starting his opening spiel, about this being the second year of Improv Troupe, about attempting something called long-form improv, about this being “a low-pressure experiment,” seeing as long-form is very advanced and not something high schoolers usually take on, about being really proud of the great progress we’ve all made, and a lot of other things I can’t take in because I’m still thinking about Dad. Hopefully he and Mom are seated by now.
Everyone around me in the wings starts moving onto the stage—I guess Mr. Martinez officially introduced us—as our troupe theme song plays (the majority voted, in spite of Leili’s and my heated protestations, for “Uptown Funk”) (she, Rashanda, Jess, and I voted for Enya’s “Book of Days,” which is actually an awesome song that gives me chills and would make hilarious entrance music, but oh well). Most of the group does these self-conscious, trying-to-be-ironic dance moves, like Look at us, we’re very funny people and this is gonna be so much fun! Even Leili is doing this dorky bounce thing I’ve never seen her do in real life. And Evan does a cartwheel, for crying out loud. I try to focus on the task at hand. Gotta get my mind back in the game.
We form a line across the back of the stage, and I breathe easy seeing that Mom and Dad are both seated, seeming relaxed and happy.
Don’t worry about being funny. Just listen and be honest. No recurring characters. Don’t try so hard. Be present, and the funny will happen. Let it happen.
“Can I get a word from the audience?” Mr. Martinez asks.
Leili grasps my hand and gives it a quick squeeze. Here we go.
“Filibuster!” a pretentious-looking dude with glasses shouts.
Oh please, let Mr. Martinez choose a different word from someone else.
“Filibuster,” he says. “Perfect.”
I don’t even remember what a filibuster is exactly. I know it has to do with government, I remember Mrs. Howard going over that last year.
“Okay, here we go!”
We start our stream-of-consciousness word association based on the suggestion. My one contribution is “Cheese!” which came on the heels of Mahesh shouting “Senator!” and I’m immediately kicking myself because in what world is the word cheese at all connected to the word senator? It puts me so deep in my head that the first scene quickly comes and goes, followed by a second that features Leili and Shannon as senators, without me even attempting to jump in.
This is my problem. I’m so worried about failing that I can’t enter a scene until I know I’m fully prepared. That changes now.
Well, maybe not now, as Fletcher and Jess both beat me to it. In their scene, Fletcher is a guy named Phil, and Jess is his girlfriend (which immediately makes me jealous) (which is its own can of worms I can’t begin to think about now), who has just discovered that he’s cheated on her. Thus, Phil is busted. Filibuster. Genius. I know improv isn’t really about how well you connect your scene to the suggestion word, but I’m still impressed.
And, of course, I’m also reminded of my own father’s indiscretions. Fun!
Fletcher and Jess’s scene is the first of the night to get bona fide laughs. They end up in a slow-motion battle, with Fletcher bending backward Matrix-style as Jess throws a punch in his direction, and the crowd is so on board with what’s happening, there are nonstop waves of laughter crashing our way. Principal Bettis is clapping and cheering like a child at the circus. I’m so happy to see Fletcher kill it, but I also wish I had already killed it myself, so I can get to that mostly-not-nervous place Leili alluded to.
Mahesh runs out in front of them, ending the scene, and we move on to the next part of the Harold, another group game. This one is a sound symphony. It starts with an improviser repeating some kind of sound or word, and one at a time, everyone else joins in, building up to a chaotic yet harmonious wall of sound. As I give a ghostly howl over and over again, I think about what’s happened in the show so far, trying to get ideas for what I can do when I go out for a scene right after this.
I’m still deep in thought when Evan breaks out from the sound symphony, immediately transitioning into a new scene, with Mahesh and Tim jumping out to join him. Argh! Missed my chance again!
Leili gives my shoulder a gentle pat.
Evan, Mahesh, and Tim’s scene is loud and nonsensical and involves them being Ghostbusters. (Not even the new awesome Ghostbusters. The old Ghostbusters.) Evan’s pretending he just got slimed and shouting really loud, and it’s all spectacularly stupid.
I can’t believe he was my boyfriend.
I’m laser-focused now, ready to make my move. There’s a big laugh, so I run across to end the scene. Evan gives me a hard stare—he thinks I’ve cut it off too quickly, which is probably true, but, frankly, I don’t give a shit—and now it’s my moment.
The stage is empty, and Rashanda walks out with me.
My brain is thinking of all these different characters I could do—Sandy the Dog! Sue the Super-Talkative Hygienist! Anthony the Pizza Guy!—but I shut it down.
We’re not doing that, Brain, remember?
Instead, I stand onstage and stare at Rashanda, completely at sea, my mind a blank canvas. I think back to what the second scene of the show was, since this is technically supposed to connect to that. I wasn’t paying attention as much as I should have been, but I know it was a smart scene with Leili and Shannon as senators. I guess maybe I’ll be a senator too?
“Hello,” I say, in my normal non-charactery voice.
“Hey,” Rashanda says, walking past me like there’s something interesting to look at on the wall. “You have anything to eat in here?”
It catches me off guard since I thought I was being a senator.
“What?” I ask. Maybe we’re in my office.
“Do you have anything to eat?” Rashanda repeats.
“Oh, here?” I ask. I am adding approximately nothing to this scene. “We do have some things to eat. In that fridge over there.” I point across the stage.
“Cool, thanks, Mom,” Rashanda says.
Oh shoot, now I’m also her mom. Okay. I can roll with that.
Rashanda mimes opening a fridge and leaning in to examine its contents. I have no idea what to say next. If I’m not going to be a character, I at least want to say the right thing.
“You got weird food in here,” Rashanda says.
“Like what?” I ask, regretting it as soon as it’s out of my mouth. Don’t ask questions. “Like apple juice!” I shout, trying to amend my own mistake.
“Yeah,” Rashanda says. “There’s nothing but apple juice in here. That’s what’s weird.” We get our first laugh, thank god. Or, I should say, Rashanda gets it.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” And again, I can’t think of a single other thing to say. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I turn my head to make it look like my character is thinking, but really I’m taking a peek at my parents. They look like they’re concentrating hard, trying desperately to lock into the frequency of my subpar improv.
“So can I have some of this apple juice?” Rashanda asks.
“I don’t think so,” I say. Yes, and, Winnie, for god’s sake! “I mean, have as much as you want.”
“Cool,” Rashanda says, then mimes pouring apple juice into a glass
and taking a big gulp.
“I like being in the Senate,” I say finally, trying to tie our scene back in with the earlier one, even though it makes no sense.
“We know, Mom,” Rashanda says, getting another laugh.
Evan runs across the stage, ending our scene.
Total dick move.
We were barely getting started. And, yes, I know, maybe I edited his scene early too, but not that early. As he and Fletcher begin a new scene, I want to punch something. I did nothing in that scene. Like, almost literally nothing. Nothing funny, no smart choices, a total embarrassment.
In the scene now, Evan has called back to Fletcher’s earlier scene by initiating that he was another guy named Phil, and they were both at a support group for guys named Phil who cheat on their girlfriends. It’s a funny idea, I’ll give him that.
Another group game goes by, and I get myself amped up for another chance in the ring, another opportunity to prove to my parents and myself that joining Improv Troupe is one of the best life decisions I’ve ever made.
Evan, Mahesh, and Tim jump out for another Ghostbusters scene. Mahesh immediately establishes that many years have gone by, and now they’re old men, so fighting ghosts is harder for them (bad back, achy joints, terrible eyesight). I glance out at the crowd, and Dad is one of the few people not laughing at the old men Ghostbusters. At first I’m very moved, as if he’s taken a no-laugh stance against Evan on my behalf, but then I see his faraway contemplative look, and I think I understand.
He probably won’t live to be an old man.
I look at my feet, blinking my tears away, pretending there’s something in my eyes so I can quickly wipe them.
I’ll never see what Dad is like as an old man.
“Your grandpa Russ was amazing,” I’ll have to tell my future kids. “He’s the reason I’m so funny, and thereby the reason you’re so funny too.” (Because of course I’m going to have funny kids.) (Unless I marry someone unfunny, in which case we won’t have kids at all because I’ll have killed myself first.) (Sorry, I shouldn’t joke about suicide. I was just trying to make a point.) “But here, why don’t you ask your funny grandma Dana about him?”