Noah and I exchange a smile of solidarity, and I’ve decided I’m going to make it yet.
Up until the lady onstage announces my name.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’ve forced my shaky limbs up to the stage, but I’m struggling to follow through on stepping into the spotlight.
Are my breaths seriously that loud, or does it only sound that way in my head?
And how much louder is it going to get when the microphone amplifies every shaky exhale? It’d be great if my body wouldn’t forget how to function during the times I need it most.
Whoops of encouragement pierce the air, and how embarrassing is it going to be when Noah has to carry meoffthe stage because I passed out?
This is for Bette; do it for her.
The instant I step into the spotlight, it’s all I can see, so I resort to my other senses to ground me.
Four things I can touch are the cool metal of the microphone stand, the rim of a glass I hazily make out in my peripheral, the polyester pleats of my skirt, and a floor that’d be sticky, so I won’t actually touch it.
I hear the rustle of audience members, the clink of glasses against tabletops, and yep, the microphone is amplifying each of the breaths that saw in and out of my bone-dry mouth.
Taste is the last sense, as well as the easiest, because I’d give anything to be back at the table sipping another rum and Coke.
Feedback screeches as I step closer and clear my throat, and with my eyes slowly readjusting, I’m able to distinguish vague profiles and faces dimly lit by battery-powered candlelight or the glow of their phone screens. I swear I catch concern in a few expressions, whether for me or my act I can’t tell, but there’s a strong chance I’m also projecting.
The situation’s funny in all the wrong ways, the awkward tension choking the air and rendering me incapable of speech. I think it goes without saying that’s rather detrimental to a comedy routine.
“Wahoo, Mia! You’ve got this,” Wanda calls.
Rita whistles. “Let’s go, Mia Mija.”
The rest of the table erupts, my personal cheering squad raising the energy of the entire room, and Grandma Helen’s voice lifts above the rest. “That’s my granddaughter! Give her some extra encouragement, will ya?”
It takes the Cronies less than a minute to get the entire crowd on my team, and while I’m terrified everyone’s about to be disappointed by my delivery, their encouragement boosts my courage enough to grip the metal microphone stand, which is downright icy from the beam of A/C pointed directly at me.
Good. I need a little jolt.
“Come on, Mia.” Noah’s voice cuts through the din, huskier than the rest, and my pulse skitters like a squirrel on Red Bull. I remind my racing heart rate we don’t have time to examine the dizzying meld of gratitude and attraction as his next words cause a whole-body flush. “Aim that pretty little mouth my way and hit me with it.”
That sparks something within me, the undiluted sass that he brings out in me rising to the occasion.
Oh, I’ll let him have it—my jokes, my nerves, my body.
Whoops, too far, andohmygod, say something before you’re booed off the stage.
Then again, that’d probably get it over with faster.
“In case you can’t tell, this is my first time.” I flatten a hand to my brow, shielding my eyes with my hand, and whoever’s working the spotlight lowers it enough I can semi-see the crowd.
Shakily, I lift the microphone to my lips and mention these jokes come courtesy of one of my many grandmothers. “If you’ve ever dealt with incredibly brilliant, slightly obtrusive grandparents, just imagine having ten of them…”
I pace toward the other side of the stage and flick the microphone wire, alternatively in awe that cords are still a thing while holding on to the words for the rest of this unscripted aside. “That’s not a punchline or a joke. It’s just my life, and if anyone out there is single, my grandmothers would like to hook us up.”
That earns me sniggers, along with a whoop from the back and a few comments I can’t quite sort from the other. There’s also a request from a scrawny dude seated at the bar for me to hookhimup with one of my grandmas.
To which I reply, “Sorry, dude. There’s a reason they’re focused on my love life, and that’s because theirs is booming already.”
“They don’t call us boomers for nothing,” Bette hollers, earning more laughter, boosting the energy in the room, and creating the perfect opportunity to deliver a joke I’m 100 percent behind, despite being the wrong comedienne to tell it.
