29

Royce:Agnes, I don't know why we keep clashing when all I want is the opposite. Can we meet up, please?

Royce:I miss you

Royce:Agnes, please text me back

~

Vern:You up?

Me:Yeah. Gaming

Vern:All right. Not practicing for your semis in Singapore?

Me:I was, but I'm having trouble concentrating

Vern:What? Why?

Me:Ever since Stanley caught me, I still haven't come clean to my mom about comedy, and until I do, I'm not allowed to perform stand-up. Stanley's starting to lose his patience, and I'm distracted by all of it. I'm almost tempted not to go. Almost

There's also Royce, but I sense that I shouldn't bring him up, not to Vern.

Vern: You have to go, c'mon. Don't tell your mom and just do what you need to do. It won't be half as fun without you

I smile to myself; I'd been planning on forging my mom's signature and making my way to Singapore no matter what.

Me:One less person to beat, right?

Vern:You're my friend, I want you there…In fact, we should really work on all our sets together. Let me help you. That's what a friend would do

Me:Sure

Me:I don't know what I would do without you

Vern: Good, keep it that way

~

On Thursday, Vern and I meet for bubble tea after his work and my school at the same mall where I stalked—yes, I'll admit it now, I stalked them—my faux friends. We sit by the dead fountain in the open-air park that no one uses, because the equatorial humidity is no joke, and he runs his semifinal stand-up set with me.

"It's really good," I tell him after giving him a couple of minor notes.

"And now it's your turn," he says.

"Aw, I don't know." It hits a little differently when you're performing for just one person.

He nudges me. "Come on. It's only me."

I steel myself and deliver the set that I'd been working on.

He is really helpful with mine, taking notes and giving good feedback.

"Don't cross your eyes."

"Really enunciate your words, you mumble sometimes."

"Simplify the language there, it'll get you to the punch line faster."

"Oh my God!" I say, but only half in annoyance. "Were you actually taking notes?"

"Yes, the whole time, and I've been recording you, too." He gestures at a second phone that has been filming me beside his backpack. I shriek and try to dive at him, but he's much taller than me and holds the phone out of my reach to my great annoyance. I try to be strategic and wait for his energy to flag, but he doesn't drop an inch. "This is why I wasn't going to tell you until you were done. Trust me, you need to see yourself on video to improve. You know I record all my performances, even the practice sessions."

"Ew, I hate recording myself."

"Why?"

"I'm so gangly. Like a large spider."

"Do you want to improve or not?"

"Yeah," I grunt. "Send them to me, I guess."

"Excellent. Now I'm going to lower my arm, and you're going to promise me you'll refrain from snatching my phone, yes?"

"Yes," I say sulkily.

He cautiously drops his phone arm, but I don't attack. I keep my word. He makes approving noises as he goes through my set. "You know, if you want, you should write bits about the money sponges at your school—and the kids they send there."

I giggle. "I'm not a mean comic, though."

"Maybe you should be. Self-deprecating doesn't work for everyone in comedy. You're allowed to explore the darker side of comedy, too, you know." He points at a particular bit. "Like this. The punch line would land so much harder if you go low, out of nowhere. I mean, you have such a nice, sunshiny personality, and sweet, pretty face, that if you contrast that with a hard-hitting no-holds-barred material—" He mimics an explosion.

I bite my lip, flushing at his wedged-in compliment. "I don't know, it feels ... not me."

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Vern says. "Anyway, you feeling better about your friend situation?"

I bite my lip. "What do you mean?"

"I meant how you shed what I like to call Baggage Friends. Your so-called track teamsters? Hot Flushes? Flashers?"

"Flashes," I correct automatically. I thought about this. On the one hand, I did think what they said about me held some water. I'd expected them to be friends with me when I never opened up about myself. Clearly, I wanted connection with them. On the other hand, I don't think they ever extended a real attempt at friendship at me either. Vern had helped me see that. That I'm not one of them, and it's okay—and what's more, I don't need them.

"It hurt at first," I admit. "I did think we were friends and not just teammates. But I'm better off without faux friends."

"Be like me, Ags. I'm focused on the goal, and I keep my support systems lean," Vern says. "I have people in my life who I can support and who support me." He grins. "My clan. My people. My wolf pack."

"You mean, friends?"

His eyes are mocking. "Friends. That word means nothing to some people. What's a friend to girls like your Flashes? The people they hang with? Party and trade gossip? I don't need ‘friends' like those."

It didn't sound too bad, what he was talking about. Belonging. "So, what do you need, then, Vern?"

"I'll put it simply: Anyone who can't enrich my experience here on Earth, anyone who doesn't have the potential to make a real difference, is not worth me opening up to or having in my life."

"Seems a bit…transactional."

He scoffs. "All relationships have a transactional element to them. As you grow up, you'll see that. We all give and we all take from the people in our lives. The difference is some people take more than they give. I believe in giving as much as I'm taking. Quid pro quo."

I keep quiet. I don't disagree, I suppose, but it sounds so bleak when you put it that way. But he's older, so he must know what he's talking about.

"So what happens when you don't see utility in a pack member?"

"We part ways, no harm, no foul."

I shrug. "I don't think…Well, that sounds so cold."

He laughs. "It's not. If I've admitted you into my pack, it's because I know we won't easily part ways. It would be for life."

"So, am I in your pack?"

He squints at me and I squint back. "What do you think?"

"I hope so." I really do. I've come to value Vern's friendship, whatchamacallit.

"Of course you are, then," he says, a small smile on his lips.

"Cool, cool. You and Zee are part of the Chan pack."

Vern turns to me, something I couldn't decipher in his face. "Do you think Zee's really someone you want as a pack member?"

I flinch, sensing the undercurrents of hostility in his question. "Absolutely. She's great." I say this with a bite of vehemence.

Vern regards me. "She's very different from you."

"What's wrong with having friends who are different from you? Doesn't it enrich your life?"

"What are Zee's hobbies and interests? Her goals or"—his voice takes on a sarcastic inflection—"ambition?"

"Zee loves reality TV and makeup and making makeup tutorials. I think she wants to go to USC for film studies."

"Film studies? Is she planning to make that her career? Why California?"

I laugh. "I think she just wants to be in California."

"There you go. She's going to distract you from your goals. People like her, and Royce, they're made no matter what they do or don't. You and I, we need hungry people to help motivate us, keep our eyes on the prize. Zee is a liability."

I instinctively want to protest this matter-of-fact statement, but then I run through the times Zee distracts me during classes with whispered gossip, at our study sessions, disrupts our study sessions by asking me to be her model or enticing me to watch TV. She can afford to goof off. "She's not," I say with less conviction,

Vern shrugs. "Look, I'm trying to help you succeed in life. Do what you want with my advice."

We sit at the fountain without speaking for a few tense beats. "I have to get back to work," Vern says after a while. "BTW, how are you doing with money? All that travel across town to the stand-up comedy sets, and the fact that you no longer have a part-time job. And how about your future expenses when you make it all the way to the finals?"

I rap on a twig I find in a panic, Vern watching me with a knowing gleam. "I guess..." I hesitate, and swallow. "I guess I'm a little low on resources."

"I can get you a job at the skating rink."

"You would?"

"Yeah. They always need people at the skate counter."

The idea of seeing my teammates, handing them their skates and deodorizing the used ones after all that had happened—

Vern nods. "Okay, gotcha, no skates. You good with working at the Grub Hub? They are looking for someone to start right away, evening shifts."

The Grub Hub was a tiny refreshments corner in the skating rink's space, selling ancient hot dogs, greasy, floury burgers, and soft drinks. No one from my squad would ever eat there, even on their cheat days. I square my shoulders. "Yeah, I guess."

"Great. You could sit down all shift, rest your leg. Work on your sets. Easy-peasy, plus you'll get paid." He winks. "We'll have more time to brainstorm on bits."

And it'll be the perfect cover….I could tell Stanley I'm done with stand-up and use my Grub Hub shifts as a deflection. I'd never have to come clean to my mother, saving her all the grief of finding out about my double life.

I break into a sly grin. "You are the best."

"Listen," Vern says, looking hesitant. "You know how we've been friends for such a long while? And we're always meeting at this shitty, hot fountain park?"

"Yeahhhh, I know it sucks, but it's free and quiet."

"Well, I was wondering, if"—his face flushes—"you know, to save money and stuff, but not like, die in the heat, you'd like to have lunch at my aunt's place, this Saturday, to work on our semifinals set? A late tropical Christmas lunch, if you wish. No big deal."

"I get to see where you live?" I say, touched.

"I mean, it's a casual hang, don't get excited," he mumbles.

I put a hand on his. "Vern," I say, "this is an effing big deal to me. Before last week I'd never even invited Zee over to mine. I know how sacred it is to invite someone into your sanctum." The other thing that was unsaid—Vern had always been up front about how he'd grown up in poverty, and as someone who'd been through that, I understand how hard it is to show a person who'd never experienced it the limits of your existence. It takes guts, a lot of guts.

"You'll come over, then?" he asks.

"Yes," I say gently. "Yes, of course."