31

NEW YEAR'S COMES AND GOES IN A BLUR OF MUTED CELEbrATIONS.I get the part-time job, which is a relief. It's just as Vern said—there are so few customers that I have time to work on my set, and they pay me in cash with a little slip at the end of the day, which I can wave in front of a visibly suspicious Stanley and my mother.

About a week into the job, Stanley corners me before I leave for my fourth "evening shift" in a row, which was in actuality another comedy open-mike night. "Have you told your mother about the gigs?" he asks without segue.

I can see Vern's car waiting in the shadow of the neighbor's mango tree. He'd offered to drive me to our gig, and I'm anxious to leave—it will be our last chance to finesse our sets before the qualifiers.

"Why?" I say, shrugging. "I have no intention of heading to the semi-finals in Singapore this weekend." That was a lie: I had already handed in my permission slip, my mom's signature carefully forged, over the new year. But, like Vern always said, sometimes the ends justify the means.

Stanley looks taken aback. "Why not? Don't you think she might support you?"

"It's okay. It was a stupid hobby; I need to focus on senior year. I'm over it," I say dismissively.

Stanley's eyes cloud over and he bites his lip. "Agnes, I don't think—"

I cut Stanley off with a sharp shake of my head. "Look, just…just please don't tell Mom I've been lying to her the whole time. She doesn't need to hear how I've failed her."

He flinches. "Agnes, you haven't failed her. You've never failed her. Ever. That's why she needs to know. Why don't we just go to her, now? She's in the study, reading—"

I catch sight of the time—at this rate, we're going to be late. I panic. "Please, just don't tell her yet—Dad. Please."

It slipped out. How much of it is calculated, I don't know. We look at each other, and to my great horror, Stanley's eyes are tearing up. "Agnes, I—I…You don't know how much..."

"It's no big deal, I'm going to be late, bye!" I say; then I'm moving as fast as I can without hurting myself out the door to Vern's car, willing myself not to think about how I've just manipulated Stanley. I had a good reason, I remind myself. Vern was always telling me I needed to be more strategic—well, I did that. I got myself out of telling my mother and out of Stanley's lecture. I'm evolving.

Vern's car rattles all the way to the venue, but he cranks up his sound system and we sing along to our favorite pregame Spotify mix. I tumble out before he leaves to park behind the restaurant we'd be performing at, grinning from the endorphins of yelling out lyrics at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down, people staring. It felt so freeing to be so authentically me while not caring how I appeared to others.

And standing there on the hot curb, still giggling as I watch Vern nose his car into an empty spot down the street, I realize that was probably what I like about stand-up. Sure, I like the craft, always have, the competition. I like the scene, with its oddball crew of misfits. Even at the most conventional end of the spectrum of comics, these are people who don't really fit square in square pegs. But really, I guess what I like most is how onstage, I have the freedom to be absolutely, imperfectly me.

I turn around and see Royce, standing by the entrance, watching me, fresh as a pop star in his red plaid shirt and dark blue jeans. My stomach nosedives when I realize he saw me with Vern. I lift my chin at him. "Royce."

A pause. "Chan."

He opens his mouth as if to say something but changes his mind in the end. He turns away and walks into the café. I wait on the curb till he disappears, and Vern joins me, fluid as a shadow. We go in together.

~

That night, whatever destabilizing effect I ever had on Royce is gone. He does his set and kills it, and I understood why he was called Golden Ray before. Conversely, I was starting to struggle. The direction that Vern had given me over the last few sessions pressed on my delivery, making it less natural than it was before. Or maybe—

I shake my head. It wasn't because Royce barely looked at me. Not at all.

Vern came up to me after my shaky set. "You okay?"

"Great," I say hollowly.

"I felt your new direction was so exciting."

I start. "Really?"

"Absolutely. The delivery was edgier and I like your new eyeliner look, too. And I liked that new bit you threw into the mix about how hard it is to be a girl even in the gaming space."

"I don't know.…"

"You just need to work on the setup a bit more and I'm sure it'll work out."

"Okay." I nod. Vern had more experience, after all.

"That's the spirit." Vern claps me on my back. "Now let me give you a ride home. I have to protect my fam from the likes of him." He jerks his head at Royce, who's looking our way from the other side of the restaurant. Vern leans close and says, "You just can't trust people like Taslim. They have nothing real to lose."