10

I EXCUSE MYSELF AFTER DINNER, TELL MY PARENTS I'M GOING TO SEEsome friends, and make my way to the casual Lebanese fusion restaurant where the open mike Going Bananas is being held.

I quickly locate the cluster of comics. They are seated in a corner booth, close to the small, raised stage that typically houses the live band; there's no holding room here, so the comics have to go up when their turn is announced. They wave when they see me. I wave and let out a breath I didn't know I was holding when I realize Royce isn't there. I meet Milly, a British expat in her forties, who is a professor of linguistics and more of an improv comic who occasionally performs stand-up to sharpen her skills; Sai, who's another veteran comic in his late thirties, nods at me and chats only with Bryan; Kong, the first-timer, is in his early twenties and blue with nerves. He manages a feeble wave.

I slide in next to Kumar and Gina. "How are the acoustics?" I ask Gina.

"Super." She is sweating.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, nervous as heck. It's my first time doing a twenty-minute set. Most of my longer sets were ten- or fifteen-minute ones."

"It's a milestone," Bryan, who's showrunning tonight, says. He reaches out and companionably pats Gina's arm. "The first twenty-minute set is always a big deal, just like the first ten-minute set, the first fifteen…"

"Okay, er, break a leg? Good luck? May the Force be with you? Whatever you believe in," I say quickly when her face purples.

"Anyway, here's the set list posted on the group chat with your times," Bryan says. I scan it and see that I'm the second performer in the second half, and I'm doing a five-minute set. Ray's closing out the first half, with seven minutes.

Kong emits a barely audible squeak of thanks. Bryan says, "There, there," and pulls him out of the booth to a corner outdoors, presumably to pep-talk him. Performance nerves are contagious.

"Where's Ray?" I wonder. It's ten minutes till curtains come up.

"He told me he's a few minutes away," Gina says. "He and his dad are stuck in traffic."

I nod, vaguely clocking Royce's lie while keeping an eye on the door for Zee, who has also just texted to let me know she is on the way, which in Malaysian-speak meant she had just realized she had to leave and was going to arrive half an hour later; there's a small part of me that still hopes to see my teammates in the audience. Royce slips in a few minutes later, standing to the side of the room. Gina motions for him to join them, but he shakes his head. His eyes meet mine, cut away.

He's avoiding you, a voice pipes up.

I set my jaw. I don't know if this is true—I suspect it—but if it is…the idea of Royce avoiding me cuts me like backhanded slap. After our interaction on the bleachers yesterday, I was beginning to think we might be friendly, but now that I'm back in comedy he's back to treating me like I'm nobody again.

Whatever.I force myself to remember the time when this would not have bugged me, because it does, more than I care to admit.

Bryan opens the night with a strong performance, followed by Vern, Milly, Kong (who bombs but gets raucous applause for being a sweet, bumbling comedy virgin). Kong exits the stage and runs out of the restaurant, presumably to heave the contents of his stomach onto the sidewalk.

"Another one bites the dust," Milly says.

And then it's Royce.

Royce goes onstage, licks his lips, and grips the mike so hard I can see his knuckles shining whitely. This would normally be my cue to jinx him in my head, but strangely enough, I don't, I can't.

What is happening to me?

"I—I—I…"

He shakes his head, then begins again, his voice firmer.

"I'm going to medical school in the UK—or so my mom tells me. She's even got my school picked out for me, can you believe it? Oxford. She wants me to go to Oxford. Kill two birds with one stone. This way, if I fail medical school, at least I'll marry someone successful. Preferably royalty—but no pressure."

The audience chuckles. Kumar leans over and whispers, "Oh cool, he's doing his pushy-mother, student-debt set. Good stuff."

Royce continues. "Anyway, medical textbooks are so expensive, so my mom says let's get your whole set now to beat inflation! I had to buy an immunobiology textbook, and the storekeeper said, ‘We accept Master, Visa, and kidneys.' I told him I'm all out of spare kidneys after my anatomy textbook, but he could have my mom's. After all, she did say, ‘Anything to get you to college.'" A pause. "Bet she didn't think it meant giving up a kidney."

He gets a couple of small laughs and keeps riffing on being a student in today's inflationary world. The setup and punch lines are solid and should have gotten stronger laughs, but it's his delivery that is unconvincing. I bite my lip and cringe as the set goes on in the same vein. Why is he making these jokes? Doesn't he have other material? Royce isn't poor. He has bodyguards, for goodness' sake.

Who is Ray Lim, really?

The rest of his set goes by and ends with polite applause. Royce catches my eye and looks away almost immediately. He ambles down the stairs and hugs the side of the room, looking at his phone, while Bryan does some housekeeping announcements. There's a fifteen-minute intermission, and I wonder if he will come over when Bryan is done.

My breath catches in my throat when he approaches the comic's table and greets everyone with a hey. Everyone says encouraging things, but Royce doesn't seem cheered by it.

He ignores me, and I ignore him, hurt. I pull out my phone and pretend to be focused on my set. Well, if Mr. Bigshot is going to be a dick to me, for reasons I don't understand, then I'm going to forget being cordial with him. It makes no difference to me whether Royce is in my life or not.

But my fingers tremble as I run through the set.

Royce announces he's going to get a soft drink and asks if anyone needs anything from the bar. Gina goes with him; apparently the comics have an open tab for soft drinks on the house, but she needs to come with him to sign the bill.

"Is Ray the most experienced, after Gina and Bryan, at least on this list today?" I ask Vern. "Seems like he has more time than other performers."

"No, he isn't, but comedy's not about who's been at it longer, it's about who's good at it. Ray gets more time because he's very good, although he's only been performing stand-up for two years or so." Vern sees my befuddled expression and says, "I hate to admit it, but he's usually much, much better. He's been off his game lately, right around the time you came along." He contemplates me. "So, tell me the truth: Is there something going on between you two? There's a bit of a palpable…tension."

I hold myself still. "Well, we kind of know each other from school." I don't give more details, since the moment they find out which school we go to, Ray's comic persona's credibility would be shot to pieces. "Like, we're cocaptains of the track-and-field team, and, uh, we're kind of competitive."

Vern smacks his hand on the table. "Aha! So that's what it is. It all makes sense now."

"Yeah, we really don't get along because of that."

"So, you're not seeing each other?" he asks, watching me.

I shake my head, and he gives me a clouded smile. "Interesting," he says. He brushes his hair out of his face and is about to say something when Royce comes back with Gina and Zee, radiant in an emerald-green long-sleeved top, jeans, and a pink-and-white floral headscarf and rocking a dark berry lip. The three of them are carrying opened bottles of soft drinks for everyone, though Zee has one arm up taking a panning shot of the place as she narrates a reel for her socials.

"Zee!" I say, waving.

"Agnes!" she says, putting the drinks, then her phone down. "I come prepared with power banks, plural! And I bought drinks for everyone!"

"I tried to tell her soft drinks are complimentary for comics, but she basically shoved me back and told them to put all the drinks on her fancy metal credit card," Gina says.

"Oh, it's no problem, I'm happy to support," Zee says airily. "After all, Agnes is my dearest friend. Now, I know I am the odd non-comic out crashing this table, so anytime you guys need anything, just let me get it."

"Wow," Vern mutters under his breath next to me, and I feel a jolt of recognition at his tone.

"You're always welcome to hang with the cool table," Milly says, grinning, "if you're buying drinks."

Zee claps twice. "Sold. As long as it's not alcohol, for obvious reasons." She slid into the booth. "I'm sorry I'm late," she calls down the table to me.

"No worries," I say. "I'm used to it. At least you haven't missed my set."

"Yeah, though I am bummed that I missed ‘Ray's' performance here," she said with a wink at Royce, who flushes. Royce must have briefed her about the situation when they ran into each other at the bar.

I introduce Zee as Zee but of course everyone recognizes her regardless—when your great-grandfather is one of the founding fathers of the oldest political party in Malaysia and your father is a chief minister, it happens.

I catch the little inhale she does when she shakes Vern's hand. Uh-oh. "Are you a model?" she asks Vern, one hand on her heart while looking deep into his eyes.

Vern scoffs, brushing his tousled hair out of his eyes. "Absolutely not." He abruptly turns to Hamid, and the two of them begin discussing Bryan's set.

Zee nods. "So rude," I hear her say a little dreamily.

People leave the booth, and in the reshuffle, Royce and Zee end up sitting at the other corner of the booth. I watch Royce chatting with Zee and Gina, fighting a twinge of envy as they laugh together. Royce can be very charming, although he certainly isn't trying with me. Somehow, that irks me more than it should. Focus, I tell myself.

Then it's my turn. I go up on the stage to whoops from the audience. There's a large table of particularly raucous diners celebrating what appears to be a birthday (the giant 30 balloon helped). Someone from that birthday table yells, "Jailbait!"

"You see, people like that"—I point to the birthday table—"is why I welcome the Purge."

They laugh good-naturedly, or drunkenly.

I segue into my set about being a teenage girl online and gaming.

"I'm in crypto," yells a man wearing a garland of fuchsia plastic flowers—presumably the birthday boy—from the boisterous table. A low chant begins among his friends, "Crypto, crypto, crypto."

"Shut up, cringe farts," I say amicably. "You speak when you have a mike, can you crypto that?"

The surrounding tables burst into applause and hearty boos, and the original heckler raises his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "I'm drunk," he says, like it's an excuse for everything.

I turn my attention away from that table. "Anyway, speaking about social media, my parents aren't on TikTok, and that's a good thing. I think they would regret having kids if they saw what we get up to. The other day I saw someone post a TikTok of zits popping in slow motion. I mean, just open the seven seals already."

I continue in this vein until Bryan signals that my time is up by making an X sign with his arms, and I finish the set with a snappy punch line. The audience claps hard, and I acknowledge them somewhat bashfully, the adrenaline leaving my system as I make my way to the comics' booth. Meanwhile, Bryan gets up and heads onstage to introduce the next comic.

I hesitate when I get to the crowded booth. There's only one spot untaken—and it's on the bench next to Royce, who's seated next to Zee.

I clench everything and force myself to slide in, like it was nothing, next to him. Because there is nothing between us that could make sitting next to him an issue, anyway. Royce is just like anybody else. Just an average human being.

Zee leans over and pinches me; her eyes are wide. "Agnes, you didn't tell me you were funny."

I smack her arm, and she sticks out her tongue.

"Scoot over," Milly says when she's back with a tower of beer and some glasses. "And this round's on me, you cheap fucks, so help yourselves."

I scoot over, wearing the expression of a slug entering a salt bath, until my body and Royce's body meet.

He and I are holding ourselves at an angle to minimize contact, but despite how we started out trying not to touch, it feels like we're not fighting it after a while. His thigh presses hard into mine with an insistence that makes my mouth go dry. Maybe he's trying to man-spread, yeah, that's it. I push back, in the spirit of defending my territory on that bench and only that.

Vern reaches over to shake my hand. "Ags, you didn't prepare that set at all, did you? And I mean this in a good way."

"No. I mean yes, parts of it I freestyled because of the heckler."

"Nice job," Gina says, high-fiving me. "You're a natural. Maybe the best I've seen."

Royce says in what he thinks is a joking way, "You used to say that about me," to which Gina shrugs and says, with a conspiratorial wink at me, ""

"I speak Mandarin, too," Royce grumbles. He unsticks his thigh from mine.

Vern helps himself to a mug of beer and places another before me. "Want some?" he says nonchalant.

I am about to reach for it—my first drink of alcohol, why not, it's been a whole month of life crapping on me—when Royce pushes the mug across the table with a flick of his wrist. "Are you trying to take out the competition, Vern?" He doesn't say this in a jokey way. In fact, his whole body is tensed. "Also, she's underage."

"Oh, don't be a buzzkill, Ray," Vern says. His voice is playful but his eyes are cold. "It's not like I haven't seen you drink, and you're her age, aren't you?"

Royce turns to me, and I can read his look. It's a "What have you told him?" flash of worry, and I shrug and give a curt shake of my head to let him know it's fine, his secret rich-boy identity is safe with me, and he relaxes a little, but not enough to move his arm out of the slide path of Vern's mug of beer.

"Cut it out, Vern," Gina says, before tensions escalate. "You don't want to get Bryan in trouble with the restaurant over underage drinking."

Vern shrugs. "I didn't think it was a big deal. She's, what, seventeen? Not a baby." He flicks his feline eyes at me and there's a dare in them.

"Yeah, Dad," I say flippantly to Royce, annoyed that he thought he was in any position to "protect" me.

Royce withdraws his arm and says, "Go ahead, then."

"I don't think either of you should be drinking," Zee says. "Especially you, Roy—Ray, you know. Because of who could be around." She raises her eyebrows and I know she's thinking of the tabloids. Because even with the weird hair, the rumpled clothing, and the beanie, Royce is too han—I mean he's too Royce-looking to pass as someone else, although you have to know who you're looking for beforehand. It's only because he's always kept a low profile in the media that no one's hounding him, but if anyone knew that the son of Peter and Ming Taslim was in the room—

"No one under twenty-one drinks here," Gina says, stepping in to grab the offending mug of beer and downing the contents in a few noisy glugs. "We don't need any slipups, guys." She jerks her head toward the bar, where a bespectacled man in his fifties was glaring in their direction. "See that guy in a suit? That's Nick, the new restaurant manager. I hope we don't get complaints about today's set, because he hates when we are rude to customers, even if they are hecklers. It's bad for business. We need this venue: It has a crowd that's a good mix of locals and foreigners, the stage is professional, and the setup we have here is sweet, with the free drinks and snacks during the show." She isn't finger-pointing, but I wilt a little at her words. I hadn't thought about the ramifications of my name-calling.

"Sorry," I say.

Gina waves my apology away. "Don't worry about it, it's not your fault. I'm going to check in with Nick, placate him if needed. And intimidate people into tipping."

Because there wasn't a door charge at this restaurant, the comics were passing around a tip box that was currently making its rounds among the seated diners.

"Thanks, Mama Gina," the table choruses.

To my right, in my ear, Royce mutters, "You didn't have to apologize for anything. Those bastards were rude and arrogant." He bites his lip before muttering, "And I thought your set was…not shit. There were some really acceptable punch lines."

A callback—my callback. A slow, secret glow spreads through me.

I turn to Royce to thank him just as he glances over, our gazes hook and this time we don't look away.

~

Gina goes on after Hamid and kills. Her set is polished, one bit segueing into another without hesitation. I skip along with her, barely noticing time flying by. Watching Gina at the top of a game she loves made me realize that all this, and more, is within my reach. I can be as good as I was at running, and I could enjoy myself doing this.

I have purpose again.

When her set finishes to crashing applause, she floats down the stage and joins us. A band comes onstage to set up for live music.

Nick ambles over and hands them a tip box that's been going around after the performance marked STARVING COMICS' FUND and an envelope. "The envelope's from the birthday table. Good job today, everyone." He gives an awkward salute, then leaves.

Gina's eyes widen as she checks out the amount of money in the envelope marked Enjoy, and sorry we were dicks! –Dan.

"Wow, guys," she says, her voice hushed, "there's a lot of money in here. Crypto is definitely treating Birthday Boy well." She opens the tip box and rattles the contents in there speculatively. "And there's a bunch of money in here, too."

The comics gather around Gina with reverent faces. Malaysia does not have a strong tip culture, so this is a welcome surprise. She pulls out the money from the envelope; the wad of five- and ten-ringgit notes obscene in its thickness. She counts the pile of notes slowly, as though she is savoring the experience. "Three hundred…four hundred…five hundred…six hundred." She licks her lips and gives a low whistle. "Holy crap. I mean, I've been a performer for a long time, and this is a huge tip. There's, like, six hundred twenty ringgit in here, on top of the tips we got from the other tables." She shakes her head, her eyes wide. "Usually we count ourselves lucky if we go home with five ringgit each in tips from a gig like this."

"It was all you," Kumar says. "You were the CEO of comedy."

"I don't watch stand-up, but even I could tell you were slaying. Respect!" Zee says.

Gina glows at the praise. "Thanks. You lot did well, too, especially mini Mrs. Maisel here!" She elbows me playfully. I blush.

"You were all great. Anyway, customarily, in my shows at least, headliner gets twenty-five percent of the total receipts, so—congrats, Gina!" says Bryan, who's the most experienced performer and the showrunner of today's bunch. The others murmur their assent. Sai and Milly offer to pass on their cut, and Kong is still gone, so too bad.

"I'm not going to dispute that," Gina says, grinning. She counts out her cut and divvies out the rest between the performers. I'm thrilled that my evening nets me actual money since I've been on hiatus from Seoul Hot. I straighten the bills and put it in my wallet, so I don't accidentally, I don't know, throw it out, although the chances of that happening is—nil.

"Here's your cut," Gina says, passing the last sixty ringgit to Royce.

"It's okay, I don't need it," he says quickly, not taking it. "It's yours."

Gina starts. "What do you mean?"

We're all watching Royce now. I know what he meant, of course, but the rest of them aren't sure. Sixty ringgit is chump change for Royce, only he's here as Ray, starving artist. Starving student artist.

He blinks. "I mean I don't deserve it, after that performance."

"Dude, just take it. Even Kumar took it, and he sucked," Gina said. She turns to him and says, "Sorry, doll. You know I love you."

Kumar nods. "I blew my five minutes."

"People were shell-shocked," Hamid said. "They regretted being born."

"Cut it out," Kumar says genially.

"I don't…" Royce's neck is flushing. He realizes he's made a faux pas and is wondering how to dig himself out of it. I was unnerved by the fact he thought sixty ringgit, sure, sixty Malaysian ringgit, wasn't a big deal to a teenager. "Um, okay, yeah, why not." He reaches out and awkwardly accepts the bills and, without even looking at them, slips them into a jean pocket in a crumpled mass. Zee raises an eyebrow at me, having clocked the entire exchange.

A hard knot forms in my stomach. I would have had to work in the Seoul Hot's kitchen for three hours for less. He's just seventeen, for crying out loud. What was his allowance like?

"I'm off," Kumar says. "Classes tomorrow, and it's almost bedtime for me. I'm a teaching assistant at a preschool," he explains to me.

"Us too, I guess," Hamid says, glancing at Vern, but Vern waves him off and says he'll stay.

"I have some stuff to clarify with Bryan about the new regional amateur stand-up comedy competition that I just found out about. Apparently, Bryan's friend is on the marketing team of JOGGCo, the cosponsor of the event, and he knows stuff," Vern says. He glances at me. "And if Ms. Chan here can linger a while, I'd like to catch up with an old friend."

I shrug. "Sure," I say. I can feel Zee's—and Royce's—eyes on me. "Erm, yeah, but you know, can Zee stay?"

Vern gives me a questioning look but nods. "Sure, why not."

"I can't, actually," Zee says, looking disappointed. "I told my parents I'd be home early."

"Next time, then," Vern says, not seeing the hope that flashes in Zee's eyes at his words. He turns to Bryan. "Okay, now spill! I want all the insider intel!"

"I don't know anything beyond what's out there, but sure, pump me for answers I don't have about the competition," Bryan says.

"What competition?" Milly says.

"That new one just for youngsters," Sai says.

"Here," Kumar says. "I've sent you a link."

The inaugural JOGGCo International Young Comedians Competition (with two legs for ASEAN and East Asia)

Calling all amateur comics from sixteen to twenty-one years old hailing from ASEAN and East Asia—the first leg of the JOGGCo International Young Comedians Competition (JIYCC) will be held for the first time ever in Kuala Lumpur; winner gets a chance to perform in legendary comedy club Comedy City in New York for five minutes opening the US tour for an exciting Netflix comedian and 10,000USD in cash!

"Holy shit, ten thousand US dollars in cash," I say as Royce says, "Comedy City, can you believe," in a tone I've never heard from him before.

"Man, what terrible acronyms," Milly says. "JIYCC, yiccck."

"I'd just call it the JOGGCo competition," Sai says.

"It's pretty exciting; I envy you guys," Gina says. "Wish I qualified."

"How old are you, Auntie?" Kumar asks.

"You bite your tongue, young man," Gina says amiably.

"It's cool that they're holding the qualifiers here instead of Bangkok. I can't wait," Vern says.

"Aren't you above the age limit?" I ask Vern.

"Are you trying, indirectly, to ask me how old I am?" he says, raising an eyebrow. He grins and leans closer. "Are you flirting with me?"

"Am not," I say hotly. Zee's face is directly in my field of vision, and she's watching this interaction like a shark.

Vern draws back, amused. "Just teasing you," he says. "I'm nineteen, Agnes. And you?"

"Seventeen," I say. Despite knowing better, I thought of him as being in his early twenties. I suppose it was his confidence, his surfer's tan, and slightly cynical air, all of which make him appear older than he is.

"Cool," he says, silkily, throwing a casual arm around my shoulders. "You should join us, compete."

Beside me, I hear, rather than see, Royce set his jaw. Urgh, he's so territorial about stand-up.

"It sounds fun," I say, "but I'm not sure if I can commit to the scene, or if I'm even good enough.…"

"You should, you're really talented," Bryan speaks up.

Sai nods and says, "He's right, you are a natural."

I flush, a mixture of pride and embarrassment. "Thanks, I'll consider it."

"I'll make sure she comes back," Zee says. "My girl has potential."

"Listen to your girl, Zee, she has good taste," Vern says.

Zee blushes. "Thanks." She stands up, reluctance etched in her movements. "Sorry but I've got to leave. My parents are expecting me, so I better dash.…"

"See you soon, love, and do come back, both of you!" Milly says. The comics nod and wave. I see Royce leaving the booth from the corner of my eye as I head to the door with Zee.

"Wow, I can see why you like this scene, there's a lot of talent," Zee says, waving as her ride pulls up. "Need a ride?"

"It's okay," I say. She always offers, and I usually decline. "I'll just bus back."

She blows me a kiss as she climbs into her Vellfire. I wave goodbye to her and am about to head to the bus stop when I notice Royce sitting a few steps down the curb, watching a video of a comic performing. He glances up and gives me a stiff wave, which I somehow interpret as "come over." I'm acting very weird tonight.

"Hey," he says as I approach. He puts his phone away and doesn't make a move to leave, so I wasn't reading the room wrong.

"Hey." I motion at the spot next to him. "Can I sit?"

"It's a free country," he says. I take it as a yes and sit beside him.

"So. No rats tonight," I say, because I'm clearly a conversationalist of the highest order.

"No," he says, a crinkle in his eyes. "Must be my cologne."

I snort-laugh. Who knew Taslim could banter?

"You were very good today, Chan."

"So were you."

He cocks his head at me. "Don't be polite, I was bang average."

Nothing about you is average, I think but don't say. Instead, I shrug. "It's okay. We all have off days, right?"

He gives me a small smile. "All these half compliments. It's almost as though we're getting to a stage where we can be friends."

"Yeah," I say. His eyes are very gold under the warm streetlights.

"So, are you going to join the competition?" he says after a beat where too many words were not said.

I ponder this. I've been searching for something to free myself from the dull fog of disappointment after my high school sporting career prematurely ended, and tonight's events, the natural ease of it, felt right. Maybe this was a sign. It had to be.

"Yes, yes, I am," I say, nodding. "Which means I'll have to do way more open mikes to get anywhere near polished. You'll see me all the time. Can you handle it?"

"It'll be a drag, but I suppose I can tolerate it," he says, and it's only because I catch the smallest quirk in his full lips that I know he's teasing me.

"I guess I'll be seeing you around, then, Lim," I say, trying to mask the hitch in my breath. Bacteria, I remind myself sternly.

He leans closer, so close I can smell his cologne, which smells like a distillation of Timothée Chalamet's and Timothy Olyphant's (the best Tims in Hollywood) blended essences. "Challenge accepted. By the way, um, if you're not…if you aren't already, um, are you sure you don't want to—"

"You need a ride, Agnes?" someone says.

It's Vern, pulling up in a vintage pale blue Volkswagen Beetle that makes dangerous guttering noises ever so often. I whip my head around. He waves. "We were supposed to catch up after drinks, but you pulled a Cinderella with your friend."

"Nice ride," I say, smiling. "Sorry, I spaced, I totally forgot. I guess I'm pretty tired after all."

"You guys know each other?" Royce says, an odd expression on his face.

"Yeah, we're old schoolmates before Dunia," I tell Royce.

"She was a superstar, everyone knew her," Vern says. "So, ride?"

"Which way you headed? I don't want to trouble you."

Vern shrugs. "No trouble at all. I enjoy driving. But if it matters, I'm headed to Damansara."

"Oh cool, I'm on the way, ish." I tell him which suburb I live in.

"Perfect. Let's go."

I slide through the door Vern opens for me, catching Royce's eye as we pull away from the curb. It's strange, but it almost looks like he's disappointed that I'm leaving.