Comedy Girl (7 page)

“Wow! The Varicose Veins,” the tattooed menace said. “It's sold out!”

“I know. Give it back.”

“I bet this cost you something, pretty girl.”

“Give it to me now.”

“If you think they're so great, why'd you leave the concert?”

“It's none of your business. Give me back my ticket or I'm calling the cops!” Then I mumbled, “Or my mother—which will be a lot worse.”

“How much is this ticket worth to ya?” he asked, fingering the stub.

The ticket was worth everything. My clothes, my watch, my purse. My money. But if I offered him my accessories, there was no guarantee he'd give me the ticket.

I was so high on adrenaline, I was ready to kill.

He caressed the ticket as I caressed my mace. I had never used it, but Sergeant made me keep it on my key chain. Did it work? Maybe it had expired. Did mace expire? I couldn't check now.

I had taken self-defense classes long ago, but never offense classes. The only fighting I had ever done was with Sid, and he always won. I saw myself lying tattered and shoeless in the gutter while the Tattooed Menace partied at the Mosh Pit, sharing beers with Gavin, slinky babes on either side of them.

“You're right,” I said abruptly. “The Veins suck! They're great on CD, but at the Mosh Pit they're rancid. I guess it's the acoustics—and the fact that the singer has laryngitis. Have a good time! I'm going home.” I walked away.

The Tattooed Menace stood speechless. His Golden Ticket was suddenly worthless.

“Next time you should see Aerosmith!” he called to
me. “They always rock!” He tore the stub in two, lit a cigarette, and walked the other way.

 

I breathlessly presented the torn stub to the gnarly doorman.

“Man, someone hated this concert! Did you find this in the street?”

“No. It's mine.”

“Where'd you get this?” the gothic gargoyle asked.

“I bought it.”

“A scalper sold you a torn ticket stub?”

“No, I bought the ticket. Actually my date bought them. And he's in there right now waiting for me.” Or so I hoped.

“Must be some date if you left without him,” he said flirtatiously. “We don't honor torn ticket stubs. But you can sit here with me.”

“You have to let me in—he's my ride home.”

“I can call a cab. Or better yet, I can take you home myself.”

“Bob, I need your counter,” a man said from inside the club.

The gothic gargoyle sauntered into the coat check-room. I eyed the red rope. I'd never snuck in anywhere before, but was it really sneaking in if I had a ticket—torn or not?

I hopped over the rope and made a dash for the dance floor.

I had made it back—alive. My heart started racing again. Would Gavin still be here? Would I find him with a gorgeous blonde? How would I explain spending over an hour in the bathroom? I wished I was back onstage in front of strangers.

I didn't see Gavin anywhere. He wasn't on the dance floor, and he wasn't by the phones or the T-shirt booth. He wasn't at the beer stand. He wasn't near the bathrooms. He wasn't by the coat check. He was gone.

I'd blown everything. I'd lost my only chance at my dream man. Why had I gone to Chaplin's? I couldn't blame Gavin for going home.

I leaned on the balcony overlooking the dance floor. I might as well hear some of the Veins. At least I could tell Jazzy what songs they played.

I stared out onto the stage, four skinny musicians jamming, highlighted by red neon and slithering fog. The crowd singing, dancing, tightly squeezed together, a sea of black clothes amid overflowing smoke and fog. Everyone looked the same.

But one person glowed in the dark on the dance floor below—Gavin! He seemed distracted, like he was looking for someone.

I didn't know what I would say, but I didn't care. I ran
down to the dance floor and pushed through the crowd. “Gavin! Gavin!”

I finally reached him and hugged him hard.

“Gavin, I couldn't find you!”

Like a father who has lost his child at the playground and then finds her, Gavin went through several emotions, anger being the first.

“Where have you been?” he yelled. “I waited forever for you. After several eons I thought maybe you had come out of the bathroom, so I came back here to the dance floor. But the fog machine poured out so much smoke, I couldn't see anything. So I went back to the concessions, thinking maybe you were waiting for me by the T-shirt booth. I checked the phones, the parking lot. I was just going to call your house!”

“I'm sorry. I guess we kept missing each other.”

“I bet it's against code to have all this fog going when the club's filled to capacity,” he said, calming down.

I gave him a wry smile.

“It looks like you've been through hell too,” he joked, placing my dress strap back on my shoulder.

“Yes, I'm totally frazzled.”

“I never should have gone to the souvenir stand. But now we've found each other,” he said, pulling me close.

I melted against him in a long embrace.

“Wanna dance?” he finally asked.

We bopped to the fast pulse of the bass. I threw my whole body into the mix, swaying, rocking my hips, and stretching my arms overhead as if we were alone in my room and I was dancing just for him.

“I'm clapping for you,” he said after the song was over.

I melted.

We danced closely through all three encores.

He held my hand as the lights came on. “The T-shirts are awesome. I should know—I stared at them for about an hour. Want one?”

I hated concert T-shirts. They were always too big and extremely overpriced, but a shirt was a souvenir of our night together, and I wanted all the proof I could get. I'd pay anything.

Instead Gavin paid—a black Veins shirt for him and a red one for me.

“You look great in red,” Gavin said as I held it against myself. We walked out, hand in hand, T-shirts dangling from our free hands.

 

Gavin stopped talking when we reached his car.

“Something wrong?” I asked, leaning against the passenger door. “Did you lose your keys?”

“I've had a taste for coffee all night,” he said, his keys now jingling in his hand.

“There's a coffee shop on the corner.”

“I'm not talking about Starbucks,” he said. Then he leaned over and kissed my mocha-flavored lips.

He kissed me long and leaned his body up against mine. I thought I was going to epplode.

“Much better than Starbucks,” he said as we got in the car.

Gavin's words gave me a more powerful jolt than drinking ten caffe lattes with double espresso!

I
was helping Sergeant load the dishwasher after dinner the next night when the phone rang.

“It's a young man,” Sergeant said loudly, handing me the receiver.

“Sshhh! He'll hear you!” I yelled, embarrassed.

“He didn't hear me.”

“Believe me, everyone hears you!” I shouted, running up the stairs. “I'll get it in my room.”

I plopped on my fluffy bed.

“Thirsty for some more coffee?” I said flirtatiously.

“Coffee?” another guy's voice said. My stomach dropped in embarrassment.

It was Ben. “Where the hell did you go last night?”

“I told you I couldn't perform—”

“It doesn't matter…. I just called to tell you that you friggin' won!”

The words echoed in my head. “Won what?”

“The Amateur Comedy Contest. You won!”

“The contest or a door prize?”

“Do I have the wrong Trixie Shapiro?”

“I won?”

“Yes. You won.”

“I can't believe it! This is so unreal. Are you sure?”

“It was between you and the pilot. Yes, I'm sure.”

“Ben, this is unbelievable!”

“Congrats!”

“I never win anything. Not even a free Sprite when I open a can of pop.” I was stunned. “Can I tell my friends?”

“You can tell the world.”

“Not that I have many friends to tell. By the way, what did I win?”

“That's what I've been trying to tell you! You won a digital video camera.”

“A video camera? No way! A video camera?”

“Trix, I can't talk—”

“Do you know what I can do with a video camera? I can tape everything! Me and Jazz at the mall, me and my talk shows…My—”

“Your act?”

“I really have an act now, don't I?”

“Listen, I can't talk. I was just getting you on the phone for the booker. Hang on a sec, but don't ramble. Okay?”

“Ben? Ben? Ben? Are you there?” Maybe this was a
joke—Ben's way of getting me back for coming late and leaving early. “Ben, this isn't funny!”

“I'll be the judge of what's funny,” another man's voice said. “I'm Vic. I book the comedians at Chaplin's. Where did you run off to last night?”

“I had…another show,” I said truthfully.

“Well, your act was great—great material. This business is short on females. And with the high school angle, you've got yourself a hook. And you look comfortable, you just need more stage time. Your impression of the first lady was perfect!”

“Thanks,” I replied, stunned.

“I need an emcee next week.”

“Emcee? Me?”

“I have the headliner and feature acts. I just need an opener. Are you there?”

“Am I where?”

“Use the same material you performed last night, mention our sponsor, and introduce the comedians. Wednesday through Sunday.”

I didn't even hear the dates. He wants me to emcee? To be part of the actual show? Winning an amateur contest was enough—I'd take the video camera and call it a day. I should quit while I'm ahead. Although I had fantasized about this all my life, the reality was difficult to grasp.

“We'll start you out at two hundred.”

Two hundred dollars? Did I hear him right? Maybe he said two dollars.

I scrambled for a pen, but I couldn't find a piece of paper. All I had was the Varicose Veins ticket stubs. I scribbled the dates, times, and names of the comedians—Tucker Jones and Cam—on my tiny love souvenir.

I placed the phone on my nightstand and started screaming.

“Are you all right?” Sergeant shouted, bursting into my room.

She found me jumping up and down on my bed, kissing the ticket stubs.

“I thought you were hurt! You almost gave me a heart attack!”

“You'll never believe what happened!”

“You dusted your shelves?”

“No, this is way bigger. Bigger than a sparkling kitchen floor!”

“I'm waiting….”

“I won a comedy contest—and now they want me to perform in a real show! I'll have a real microphone and a real audience! And a video camera and two hundred smiling George Washingtons to prove it.”

“A contest? At school? Congratulations!”

“No, at Chaplin's!”

“Chaplin's?” she asked, suddenly changing her tone. “I let you visit Chaplin's to get you away from the TV and out of the house. But to watch—not to perform. Besides, I thought you gave up that dream.”

“Ben signed me up. It's a fluke I got a spot in the show at all!”

“I don't understand. You didn't even tell me you entered. Don't you have to have parental permission?”

“It was a contest, not a field trip!”

“But your father and I would love to have seen you!”

“It was a last-minute thing, Ma, otherwise—”

“Trixie, you should be spending your evenings studying. Chaplin's isn't a place for a teenage girl. And all that cigarette smoke—it's not a healthy environment.”

“It's no worse than Sid's dorm. I get secondhand smoke just talking to him on the phone.”

“Sid's in college, but you still live under my roof.”

“A lot of kids have jobs after school.”

“But not until midnight! Besides, I don't want you to endure another Talent Night. It was hard on you.”

“I don't either—so make sure you're not in the audience.”

“You don't want us to come?”

“I'll videotape the show. Then you can watch it over and over, while you're vacuuming.”

“You're being paid?” she inquired slowly.

“Yes! Can you believe it?”

“You really won?”

“I really won!”

“It's not what I envisioned for you…but you won!”

I smiled a wild grin.

“But…one week,” she warned. “Not one day more! No drinking, no smoking, no passive dating. And if anyone heckles you, you tell the owner, the cops, or better yet—me.”

“Of course!”

“Congratulations!” she said with a huge hug.

“Thanks, Ma,” I exclaimed, kissing her on the cheek.

“But one week and then you trade your comedy notebook in for your English notebook,” she said, leaving.

“Deal,” I called through the door.

“Our baby won a comedy contest!” I heard Sarge yell to my dad, as she ran down the stairs.

S
tuck-up
Melrose Place
wannabes who didn't know I was alive two weeks ago now stared at me as I walked through the halls. Not because I was going to be a real comedian at Chaplin's for a week, but because I was on the arm of Gavin Baldwin. I felt like the first lady, although no one asked for my autograph—yet.

Our relationship consisted of phone calls, school lunches, and our first movie together.

 

We had just a few days before my gig at Chaplin's. The time I didn't spend rehearsing and writing in my comedy journal, I devoted to Gavin.

One day at lunch I found Gavin sitting against a tree by the baseball field, writing in a notebook.

“Finishing your homework for fifth bell?” I asked, leaning over him.

“Uh, no,” he said, pulling the notebook to his chest.

“Is it a love poem?” I asked coyly.

“Whatever!” he said, covering the words from my sight.

I grabbed the notebook and ran around the other side of the tree.

“Don't, Trixie—,” he moaned, rising.

I began to read an eloquently written narrative about a father and son at a baseball game. “This is great, Gavin! Is the boy you?”

“Give it back,” he warned, stepping closer.

I stepped back and continued to read, but he caught me, tickling my belly until I released the notebook from my grasp.

“Is this for class?” I asked, following him back.

“No—I just jot down my thoughts, like you jot down jokes.”

“You can write! You should submit it to the
Mason Mag.”

“It's crap,” he said. He ripped the page from the notebook, crumbled it up, and threw it over the school fence.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You could be the next F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

“I'll be more like the next W. Robert Baldwin, my father. Apparently Baldwins are more practical than you theatrical dream–chasing Shapiros,” he teased, poking me in the side. “I'm going to be an architect, just like my dad.”

“Really?” I asked, impressed. I was pleased Gavin was sharing his dreams with me. Or were they his dreams?

“But is that what you want to do?”

“Does it matter?” he asked. “Let's quit talking,” he said, and kissed me long, taking my mind off anything but his lips.

 

I made greeting cards with silly poems, hung candy on his locker, and brought him cupcakes for lunch.

One afternoon we were sitting on Mason's back steps. He was reading a note I'd written to him during first bell—a sprinkle-filled note with heart stickers surrounding a cartoonish drawing of him that read: “World's Hottest Hipster.”

“So why do you like me?” I asked. “Is it because of the stickers? Or the sprinkles?”

He shook his head at me and looked away.

“Because I leave cute phone messages on your voice mail? Because you want to be an architect and I buy you Frank Lloyd Wright cards? And leave stuffed animals in your locker?”

He folded the note and put it in his pocket.

“Really, tell me why,” I begged.

“Because there's more to you than a pretty face, Starbaby.”

“There is?” I leaned against Gavin's shoulder and whispered my new name—Starbaby Shapiro!

 

“Hi, honey, I'm home,” Gavin said, entering the heart-shaped mansion he had designed especially for us. “I missed you all day, sweetie!” He kissed me with love-filled lips. “I'll pick you up from Chaplin's when you're finished tonight. I know you don't like me to watch you perform.”

“But you don't have to show up in the limo with roses—”

“Tonight I'll do more. I've bought Chaplin's for you, and I'm calling it Trixie's!”

 

“I can't wait to see you perform soon,” Gavin said, bringing me back to reality.

“But you can't!” I exclaimed.

“Of course I can. You'll need a cameraman to videotape you. And you'll need a bodyguard to protect you from all your new fans.”

“You mean hecklers! No, you can't come, really.”

“I've seen you perform already, remember?”

“But I didn't know you were there!”

“I'll be as quiet as a librarian.”

Gavin at Chaplin's? Sitting in the front row? His gorgeous baby-blue eyes watching me as I drew a comic blank? What if I didn't live up to his expectations? What if I bombed?

The bell rang.

“See you later, Starbaby,” he said, kissing me on the cheek and hurrying away to class.

Starbaby!

I glowed from the sound of my new nickname—a vast improvement on “Shrimp.”