25

AND THEN THE QUALIFIER FOR THE JOGGCO REGIONALS ARRIVE ON THEFriday before Christmas weekend, held in a small theater in the city. I arrive early and see the place is packed, a long queue snaking out of it. I duck in the much-shorter queue for comics and production crew. I wonder if Zee remembers the date. I miss her terribly.

I follow the signs to the holding room next to the stage and find it packed with new and familiar faces, and my pulse starts racing. I look for Vern, who's supposed to meet me here, and find Royce practicing in a corner, his face pale. He doesn't see me, and I don't go over to him. Instead, I find my own quiet space to practice behind the heavy velvet curtains, going over my set list, which I have scrawled key words of on my wrist in Sharpie, in case I blank onstage and need a prompt.

While it hadn't happened before, this week, during other open mikes, I've blanked onstage. Twice. Each time because I thought I saw Zee in the audience, but it was just another hijabi girl that the dim light and my longing have transmuted into Zee.

About thirty minutes before go time, Evans does a roll call of all the performers, noting Vern's absence (I say he's on the way and apologize on his behalf), and gives us the rundown of what to expect. Then there's a dimming of lights on the stage and an assistant tells us to wait in the holding room, where there's a screen for us to see what's happening on the stage and folding chairs have been set up in haphazard bunches. I take a seat and Vern bustles in, arresting in an all-black ensemble, and throws himself into a seat beside me.

"Hey, good-looking," he says, uncharacteristically grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze in front of the twenty or so other comics. "You ready?"

"Yeah," I say. "You?"

"As ready as can be."

"I thought we were meeting half an hour before call time?"

"Yeah, sorry I'm late." He nods toward the direction of the curtains. "I had to guide my aunt to her seat, she's small and there's so many people I was worried she'd be hurt. There's, like, only one usher on duty, and she's overwhelmed. Looks like the marketing for this event is really reaching the masses. It's a full house."

"Your aunt's here?" I say. Vern's aunt is his closest living relative—she raised him alone when his uncle died.

"Yeah, I try to include her in these things when I can. Even if she doesn't really understand English."

Evans bounds on the stage to get things started. He breaks the ice with a couple of formulaic jokes and does some crowd work to warm up the audience, before launching into a spiel about the rules, the format of the competition (ten minutes per contestant, eight semi-finalists progressing out of this round), and lays out the housekeeping rules before announcing, "Now let's get this party started with Nassir from Thailand!"

My phone buzzes.

Zee:Break a leg, Chan

Zee:But not the same one

Zee:

My heart explodes wide open. My lower lip trembles.

Me: Zee! I missed you so much

Zee:Me too

Zee:But I'm hurt. I'm still hurting. You've been holding back so much from me, when you know everything there is to know about me

Me:I know and I'm sorry. I wish I could redo everything. Please give me a chance

Zee:I want to, but I need time. I have my own stuff to process on top of your revelations

Me:Absolutely. Take your time

Zee:Let's talk later, OK? Now go kick some butt

I'm smiling. Suddenly, I know that everything will be all right. I would remember my sets. And I would have my friend back.

Royce catches me smiling. He gives me a hesitant thumbs-up, and I give him one, too.

Vern leans over and say, "How are you guys these days, you and Royce?"

"We're okay, I guess?" I say. "We're going through a weird patch, but I think it's fine."

"Interesting," Vern says, considering me.

Four more contestants blaze through their sets, then Vern goes on. I cheer and whoop, as do many of the Malaysian comics who know him. But not Royce.

I slip into the audience, taking a seat in the first two rows reserved for the comics. Nothing beats being in the audience for a live comedy set, and I wanted to be there for Vern's set. All the comics who have gone before Vern are scattered through the two rows, decompressing and supporting their fellow nationals.

Vern's set was new, a blistering, darkly comic one about his life. "These muscles, you like?" he says, striking a pose. The crowd cheers. "I'll tell you how to get them"—his voice turns jovial—"child labor!" He drops a weighted pause, peppered by the nervous laughter of the audience, then says, "Or as I was told, joining the family business."

He tells a story of how he started working as an electrician at age fourteen for his uncle's business after his aunt took him in when his parents passed—"By which I mean, they passed on me! Got up and left me one day!"—but at least he knew where he stood with his uncle and aunt. "Working with my uncle, there was less of that feel-good shit about being proud of you when you do well, and more of that do well, so we can feel good about having a place to shit tonight!"

Shocked laughter. Even though it was painful, the audience is lapping it up. I am lapping it up. His authenticity is inspiring on so many levels.

He finished to thunderous applause. Vern exits the stage and comes toward me, grinning. I hear Royce's name—well, Royce Lim—being announced as the next contender and as I lift my hand to give Vern a high five. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Royce waiting in the sidelines, watching us as he waits for his turn.

"You were brilliant," I say, buzzing with excitement as he takes his seat beside me, and Evans announces Royce as the next performer. "I was hanging on every word!"

"I'm glad," Vern says, brushing his hair off his forehead. "You're the only one in here that matters to me."

Then he says the strangest thing: "You trust me, right?"

"Yes, of course," I say.

"I'm testing out a theory," he says.

And then he kisses me.