by Lance Rubin
Ohmigod, is Mom going to marry someone else?
WHY HAVE I NOT THOUGHT ABOUT ANY OF THIS?
AND WHY AM I THINKING ABOUT IT NOW?
I realize how skilled my brain has been at hiding details I don’t want to acknowledge. The weight of everything clamps down on my chest, steals my breath.
I’m literally pulled out of these thoughts as someone tugs at my arm and drags me onto the stage. It’s Rashanda, returning us to the immensely unsatisfying scene from earlier. I hadn’t even realized Evan, Tim, and Mahesh’s scene had ended.
“I drank all your apple juice,” Rashanda says.
“All of it?” I ask. Be funny, Winnie. Listen and be funny.
“I think so,” Rashanda says. “Unless you’ve got a secret stash I don’t know about.” A nice laugh from the audience.
“But, sweetie, I was saving all that apple juice. For a party.”
“What party, Mom?”
And again, my slow-moving brain can’t come up with anything. Well, that’s not entirely true. It’s more like my brain can’t decide on anything. I’m trying to think three steps, four steps ahead to what would make the perfect sense for this scene. A birthday party? A retirement party? What other kinds of parties are there?
“I hope the Democratic Party,” Rashanda says, and she gets a hearty approving laugh. She connected it back to my comment about the Senate from the last scene. So smart.
“Yes,” I say. “It’s apple juice for the Democrats. Because they are the best.”
Silence from the audience. Which I get, seeing as I didn’t really make a joke. Rashanda is about to speak, but I cut her off in an effort to redeem myself. “I’m excited for the big election,” I say, trying to introduce something new to spice up the scene a bit.
“Oh yeah,” Rashanda says, rolling with it, “I think we can win. Especially if we run on our Apple Juice for Everyone platform.” All of Rashanda’s apple juice material is killing, yet rather than building on that, I go with an idea I was thinking of before she mentioned the apple juice, as if it were too late for me to course-correct.
“I’ve been knocking on a lot of doors,” I say. “For the campaign.”
“I hope you brought apple juice.” Rashanda crosses her arms and nods her head as she says it. Another big laugh. “I mean, that would definitely persuade me to vote for whoever.”
“More like apple-juice-ever,” I say, trying to get in on the apple juice humor.
The audience is silent. That was very bad.
Not even a pun, really.
Rashanda, meanwhile, rolls her eyes, which gets a real laugh.
“Hey!” I shout, fueled by genuine rage at myself. “Don’t ever drink my apple juice again, okay? Just…don’t.”
Rashanda raises her eyebrows, looking a little shocked, as perhaps I’ve come off a little more intense than I’d intended.
The audience seems a little shocked too.
At this point, I’m ready to surrender, hoping desperately that Leili or someone will edit the scene and put me out of my misery.
Before that happens, though, Evan jumps onto the stage, not to end our scene, but to join it. “Hey, I heard a horrible screeching, shouting sound!” he says, yet again in Ghostbuster pose, pretending to hold his imaginary ghost gun, or whatever it is. “Is there an unfunny ghost here?”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s referring to me, at which point I become too enraged to speak.
“Hell no,” Rashanda says, immediately getting what Evan’s doing and nobly ditching Yes, and and all other rules of improv to defend me.
“Are you sure?” Evan says, now straight-up pointing at me. “Right over there. I see a screechy, boring ghost.”
“Knock knock knock,” Fletcher says, surprising all three of us onstage as he knocks on an invisible door.
“Uh…who is it?” Rashanda asks.
“Police.” Fletcher uses a gruff, low voice I’ve never heard from him before.
“Okay, be right there.” Rashanda walks toward the door, and at this point, I’m watching like an audience member, like What’s gonna happen? As she lets Fletcher in, Leili comes forward from the back and walks through the imaginary threshold with him.
Fletcher doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m Officer Jones,” he says, “and this is Officer Bones.” He gestures to Leili, who nods. “We’ve been searching for a Ghostbuster impersonator.”
“Yeah,” Leili says. “He’s been going around with a vacuum cleaner, claiming he’s a Ghostbuster.”
The improv police, here to save me. My heart.
Evan stares at them, like You can’t do this, but Leili and Fletcher are unfazed.
“There he is!” Leili says.
“Yup, that’s him, all right,” Fletcher says.
I’m not really sure what the audience is making of all this, but I am freaking loving it.
And I love it even more when Jess joins the scene. “I’m sorry,” she says as she walks in, “I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying, and I wanted to confirm that yes, that man is a fraud.” She points at Evan, and I can tell she’s enjoying this as much as I am. “He’s not even qualified to be in the same room with ghosts, let alone bust them.”
“I’m not a fraud,” Evan says. “I’m a real Ghostbuster!”
“Of course you are,” Leili says in a very soothing voice. “Of course you are.”
I feel a little bad that Evan’s getting ganged up on like this, but not that bad. So it’s disappointing when Dan Blern runs across the stage to end the scene, though I understand it’s probably for the best.
I fall back into line, and even though my performance thus far has been a disaster, I feel okay. Good, even. As the next scene returns to the support group for guys named Phil who have cheated on their girlfriends, I have a huge smile on my face.
I watch as, one by one, each of my improv teammates walks onstage as a guy named Phil, and I’m still smiling as I become an unfaithful Phil myself and enter the scene to join them.
32
“Hell yeah! We killed it,” Rashanda says as we leave the stage to robust applause.
“What what!” Mahesh says.
Mr. Martinez is waiting in the wings to give each of us a high five as we pass through the stage door into the hallway.
“Nice work, Winnie,” he says, though I feel like it’s implicitly understood that I beefed it.
“Thanks, Mr. Martinez,” I say. “That was fun.”
“It was, right? Awesome job, Leili!” She’s behind me. It’s obvious from the contrast in tone and word choice that I am one billion percent correct about my beefing it, but I’m actually okay with that. And I’m happy for Leili, who will be able to ride this compliment from her illicit crush for at least the rest of the month.
“You really were great, Leili,” I say once we’re heading to the band room to get our things. “I want to be you when I grow up.”
“That’s stupid,” Leili says as she puts an arm around me. “You’re great.”
“Maybe, but my improv wasn’t. That was so terrible.”
Leili laughs. Because she knows I’m right.
“I tried to not do all my usual bits,” I say, “and I tried to listen, but then…I don’t know. Maybe improv isn’t my thing. Just like stand-up wasn’t my thing.”
“Ugh!” She literally pronounces the word ugh. “Don’t you hear how ridiculous you sound? You’ve tried each of those things exactly once! Your bat mitzvah was one set. Under very weird and specific circumstances! No one’s good after doing something once!”
“Yeah, but—”
“You mean Yes, and?”
“Touché.” Evan, Mahesh, and Tim are up ahead of us, howling as they literally jump off the walls like skateboarders without skateboards. I scan the group for Fletcher, but I do
n’t see him. “Seriously, though, I just feel like—”
“Winner, I love you, and I’m right about this. There will be lots of bad shows. Because all this stuff takes practice. Steph Curry, remember?”
Is it possible I’ve spent all this time making a huge deal of my bat mitzvah set for no reason? I’m embarrassed as I remember what Mom told Dad after the open mic show. The first set was always going to suck. It just was. And I agreed with her! So how come I haven’t applied that same logic to myself?
“Okay,” I say. “You may be right.”
“I definitely am.”
Only Leili can make declaring herself right seem endearing. “Fine,” I say. “I’m willing to keep sucking it up at improv. But it would be— I mean AND it would be cool if our school had a sketch comedy group. I feel like I could do better if I know what’s happening before it happens.”
“Well, why don’t you start one?” Leili says, like it’s no big deal.
I stare at her, the words sounding impossible and foreign.
“People do that all the time. All you need is a faculty supervisor.”
“Nah,” I say. “I would have no idea how to go about—”
“Didn’t you say Mrs. Costa is, like, begging you to join Speech and Debate? Maybe she’d supervise for you.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t even go to Speech and Debate.”
“So what? If you start a sketch group, I’ll join.”
This is vintage Leili, getting a ball rolling before I’ve even acknowledged the existence of the ball. I see how it’s a good idea, but it’s also overwhelming, and I have no business creating a sketch comedy group.
“Or if you think you can’t handle it, don’t do it,” she says. “It was just a suggestion.”
Can’t handle it? Of course I— Damn Leili. I see what she’s doing.
“Okay, fine,” I say, “maybe I’ll start a sketch comedy group. If you’ll be in it too. Which might be impossible because you’re already in so many—”
“Great! I’ll make it work.”
“Wait, did you just say you’re starting a sketch group?” Rashanda says, poking her head in between us. “I want in.”
“Yeah, me too,” Jess says, appearing to my right.
“And me,” Molly says. “Totally.”
“Maybe it should be an all-female group,” Leili says.
“Is that allowed?” I ask.
“Shit yes,” Rashanda says as we walk into the band room, which is crackling with postshow energy. “And if it’s not, we’ll just intimidate any guys who show up so they won’t want to come back.”
“Wow, okay,” I say. “We’re doing it, then. Our own sketch group.”
“Wait, what?” Evan says from across the room, holding a huge mallet he’d just been using to bang on a bass drum someone left out. “Who’s starting a sketch group?”
“Me,” I say. My voice shakes a little. “It’s gonna be an all-female sketch comedy group.”
“Ha,” Evan says. “Good luck with that.”
“You don’t have to be jealous.”
“I’m not. Why would I want to be in a group that’s not funny?”
Tim and Mahesh laugh.
“Yo,” Rashanda says, getting fired up.
“You have no idea what funny is,” Jess says.
“Hold up,” I tell them, throwing a hand in the air. “I got this.” I stride across the room toward Evan. Mahesh and Tim stop laughing, taking a few steps back. The whole room is suddenly quiet.
Evan stands tall, still holding the mallet, but I know that look in his eyes. He’s feeling insecure.
“You don’t have to be threatened by me,” I say.
Evan scoffs. “I’m not. Especially after that performance today.”
“Yeah, it’s true. I beefed it. Big-time. But I’m still funny. And I know you know that.”
He opens his mouth, but I interrupt before he can say something else stupid. “It doesn’t even matter. There’s room in the world for both of us to be hilarious,” I say. “You seemed to know that when you wanted to date me. And when you wanted to date Jess. But once we got too funny or too cool or too whatever, you forgot, I guess.”
Evan looks confused, maybe on the verge of tears. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“I think maybe you do.” I pick up my backpack and walk out of the room before anyone can say another word.
It is incredibly badass.
I stop about ten steps outside the door because I don’t want Leili to think I was ditching her. The band room is vibrating with energy again, a cacophony of voices as people try to understand what exactly they just witnessed.
“Well, that was interesting,” Leili says a minute later, as she walks out of the room toward me.
“Was I too intense?”
“What?”
“To Evan.”
“Oh. Considering he’s been a total jerk to you, probably not. But I think you made him cry a little.”
“Yeesh,” I say. “I’ll apologize later.”
“I think Tim Stabisch just asked me out,” Leili says.
“Wait, what?”
“Yeah, just now.” Leili’s speaking slowly, like she doesn’t fully believe it happened. “He walked over to me after you left and said he’s sorry Evan was such a dick to you and would I maybe want to go out with him sometime. He said I’m obviously the hotter twin.”
“Holy bajoly! That’s…Are you gonna do it?”
“Uh, absolutely not,” Leili says. “Tim’s a doofus. But it’s nice to be crushed on.” She smiles.
“Toldja you were gravitational.”
In the lobby, there’s a sea of family and friends, of bouquets and balloons. Azadeh bounds into our path.
“Yeah!” she says, wrapping up Leili and me in a hug. “That was so good!”
“Thanks, Oz,” I say.
“You really made all that up on the spot?” Azadeh asks. “That was ridiculous!”
I’m tempted to call out some of my bad scenes—that if those had been written ahead of time, it was some truly terrible writing—but I resist the urge.
“Yup, that’s why it’s called improv,” Leili says with a healthy layer of sarcasm.
“Oh, shut up, Lay,” Azadeh says, getting her in a solo hug and squeezing tight before kissing her on the cheek. “I’m trying to compliment you, sister.”
“Good show,” Roxanne says, appearing from behind Azadeh, followed by Ramin and the Kazemis, who wrap Leili in a hug. “That was dope.”
“Thanks,” I say. I wonder if she’s nervous being around Azadeh’s parents. Probably not. She’s so cool. But I’m trying to remember that everybody’s always dealing with something, usually with a lot of somethings we have no idea about. Even the most together-seeming people are just figuring it out as they go.
I notice my parents off to the side near the trophy case. I’m sure Dad doesn’t want to be positioned with his cane in the center of everyone.
I gallop over to them.
“Yay!” they both shout.
“These are for you,” Dad says, gesturing to a bunch of fruit cut into flower shapes that Mom is holding. “It’s a chocolate banana bouquet.”
I’m moved, and it catches me off guard. “Thanks, Mom and Dad.” I’ve never been moved by fruit before.
“That was a lot of fun,” Mom says.
“It really was,” Dad says.
I know they know I sucked and are being polite parents.
“We were thinking we could go get some ice cream or something,” Mom says.
I feel an arm wrap around me. “Yo yo,” Rashanda says. “These your parents?”
“Yeah,” I say. I see her eyes flick to Dad’s cane, but only for an instant. “Mom and Dad, this is Rashanda.”
“You did an awesome job,” Mom says.
“Yeah, great show,” Dad says.
“Thanks, Friedmans,” Rashanda says. “You have a badass daughter. There’s talk of hitting up IHOP. Want to come with me and Jess? I’m driving.”
A warm feeling floods my insides. I have new friends.
But then I look at Mom and Dad. Of course they’d be fine with me going to IHOP, but the limited nature of opportunities like this one, of getting ice cream with Mom and Dad, of being a complete family, crashes down on me.
“Oh, thanks,” I say. “I’m actually going out with my parents.”
“Honey, you don’t have to—” Mom says.
“Yeah, it’s fine if—” Dad says.
“No, no, I want to,” I say.
“Cool cool.” Rashanda gets it. “In that case, see you at school, Win. Nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Friedman.”
“You too,” Dad says.
“Eat some pancakes in my honor,” I say as Rashanda walks away into the crowd.
“Nah,” she shouts without turning around, “I’m really hungry, so I gotta eat ’em in my own honor!”
“I respect that,” I shout.
“Didn’t you wear a jacket tonight?” Mom asks.
I look down and immediately realize that, in my badass haste, I left my new awesome denim jacket lying on a folding chair in the band room.
“D’oh! Lemme run and grab it. I’ll meet you outside.”
I skirt the edges of the already thinning lobby mob and head down the hallway toward the band room. Everyone should be out by now, but I’m remaining cautious in case Evan is for some reason still in there.
My whole body unclenches as I step into the empty room. I’ll obviously have to see Evan again soon, but I’m glad it’s not right now. As I bound up the risers and grab my jacket, I realize the room isn’t as vacant as I thought.
Fletcher is hunched over in a folding chair on the top level, so what looked from the door like a coat is actually a human being. He’s got earbuds in, his elbows balanced on his thighs, super-focused. He has no idea there’s another person in the room.