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33

WE ARRIVE AND CLEAR CUSTOMS WITH LITTLE ISSUE BY 2 P.M. MYstomach hasn't stop churning since Royce and I spoke, and Rosie's cheerful texts telling me during the bus ride that I had just received "some kind of crest-y college letter" didn't help. And now we've arrived at our destination—a run-down mall with a large parking lot that serves as a bus terminal—and we have four hours to kill before showtime.

"Where should we go?" Vern says as we collect our bags from the bus conductor, who's offloading them from the belly of the bus. "We have time. We can sightsee, visit a museum, watch a movie…"

"You decide," I say to Vern. "I don't know Singapore at all." Vern had already done the Singapore comedy scene twice last year.

"Cool, I'll show you around," Vern says, grinning.

"Royce?" I venture tentatively, since he's also waiting for his luggage and within hearing distance.

"Why don't I meet you all at the comedy club?" Royce says curtly.

"Where are you going?" I ask.

"To my hotel, which is just across the street where our competition will be. Where are you guys staying?"

I blush. Because I hadn't planned on staying overnight in Singapore (#Skint); Vern and I had decided we'd take the midnight bus back to Kuala Lumpur, where I'd crash at Zee's and Vern would head home. "We're headed back after the event," I say.

Vern nods. "We were planning on taking the last bus out to Kuala Lumpur after the show. Did Agnes not tell you that?"

Royce keeps his voice neutral. "No, she didn't. Well, see you at the venue." He walks away.

"Bye, Royce!" Vern says cheerily, waving with a bit too much enthusiasm and slinging another arm around me. "I'll take very good care of Agnes, don't you worry."

Royce doesn't respond. My insides contract with pain—maybe I'm more hungry than I thought. "Let's find somewhere to eat," I say roughly.

We grab a quick lunch of chicken rice and walk around the National Gallery to pass time checking out the permanent exhibition (and taking advantage of the air-conditioning) before getting to Capitol Theatre, a white, four-story neoclassical building where the competition is being held. That's when the nervous sweats really start.

More than ever, winning is important. I can feel like myself again. I won't feel so lost, like I don't have a purpose in life. I'll feel like I matter.

I enter and see Lai milling about at the reception, checking tickets and laughing with a burly man. I run to hug them. "Hey! What are you doing here?"

"The organizer is my best friend," they say, breaking apart with a grin. They introduce me to the burly man, whose name is Nigel. "Nigel here owns a big events company, and they bring in many of the touring big-name comics. I'm just here to support him."

"I'm glad." The way Lai and Nigel are making eyes indicate there's more to the story. I grin. "So, where do I go?"

"The holding room is beside the stage. Royce is already there."

They bring us to the comic green room, which is basically a sort of storeroom/dressing room hybrid, where I counted eight other comics, pacing and muttering lines, standing alone in corners going through their set and scribbling in notepads, or chatting with other comics in English, with a smattering of other languages and dialects.

Royce, predictably, is alone.

"Hey, Ray, where's Shadow Man?" Vern calls out to Royce. I realize he's referring to the bodyguard.

Royce presses his lips together before replying, "It's Royce. Anyway, run out of easy targets to kick, Vern?"

Vern laughs. "Always a pleasure, Ray—I mean, Royce." He winks and walks to the other end of the room. "Hey, Ags, come here, we can practice here."

I hesitate. I don't want to go to Vern with Royce staring at me like this, but I also don't want Vern to think I'm going to ditch him to be with Royce, which is a lousy friend move, so I say, "I think I'm just going to go over my lines over—" I glance around the room. The only empty spot was by a pile of moldy costumes in a box in a cobwebby corner. "There." A good spot, in case I faint.

A showrunner comes to the room and gives us the rundown—Vern's fifth in the first half, with a fifteen-minute intermission, and I'm opening the second half, followed by Royce. My heart beats so fast I feel light-headed, but the adrenaline is exhilarating. It's a similar rush to how I feel before I run competitively, only with lashings of dread, because with comedy, so many more things can go wrong.

I wish Zee could be here. And my parents.

We can hear everyone that goes onstage, and the energy is electric. The first half goes quickly. I'm too nervous to pay much attention to the other contestants' sets, even Vern's, immersed as I am in rehearsing my lines. I'm so distracted that I barely noticed when he's back in the holding room until he taps me on the shoulder and I turn to see his smiling face.

"How was it?" I ask him. Royce looks up from his perch on a seat nearby, his eyes following our interaction.

"Magical," Vern says, his eyes blazing. "I hit every note." Then he pulls me into a hug. "And I owe it all to you, Agnes. Your support means everything to me."

It's just like any other time we've hugged, but also not. He holds me closer, longer, possessively. It doesn't feel platonic.

"Stop," I say weakly, trying to wriggle free, but Vern's hold only tightens.

"Let her go," Royce growls from behind me. I feel Royce wrench Vern's arms off me and give him a shove. Vern wheels back, a look of surprise in his face. I stand there, shell-shocked at the turn of events. Royce steps between me and Vern, shielding me.

"What's your problem, Royce?" Vern drawls. "Jealous?"

"She told you to back the hell off," Royce says in a voice so low, I almost can't hear him over the comic performing onstage; my eyes drop to his fists, balled so tight I can see the veins pulsing.

Vern looks at me, his eyes now full of concern, and says, "I'm sorry, Agnes, but what's wrong?"

"I—I…" I say, still shivering. I'm not sure why my body is having this reaction. He hasn't done anything wrong—has he?

Royce takes a step in Vern's direction. "Touch her again and I'll tear you apart."

"A direct threat! I should call security," Vern says, smiling, although his eyes are hard. "I should call security and get them to throw you out of the competition."

The other comics are whispering behind us, and I hear, "Yeah, get security." I take a deep breath and say, in a false cheery voice, "Guys, honestly, please, let's all tone down on the toxic masculinity, okay? Geez." I didn't want either of them getting into trouble.

A couple of guys chuckle and the situation diffuses. One of the organizing crew pokes their head around and calls to Vern, needing his details. Vern leaves with a casual nod at me, as though nothing had happened. As though it had all been in my head.

My head is throbbing. I sit down on one of the boxes of costumes, Royce next to me, not touching, an intense energy radiating off him as he scrutinizes me, asking me what I need, and I keep shaking my head that's filled with cotton.

I hear my name being called from a distance to get ready to go onstage. I blink and take the cup of water that Royce is handing me.

His eyes meet mine and my fugue state breaks. "I don't know what that was about, but Agnes, it's going to be your turn in five minutes. I need you to go out there and crush the competition."

I shake my head, hugging myself. "I—I don't know if I'm in the right headspace…if I can even perform…"

"Yes, you can, Agnes. You're the strongest, bravest person I know. You can do anything. Just shut all the noise out, Agnes. Close your eyes."

"I—I—"

"Look, I'll do it." He closes his eyes, and after some hesitation I follow suit. "Go into your pregame headspace."

I close my eyes. My ritual of visualizing the things that give me strength, power, hope. I picture myself running, I picture my parents, Rosie. I picture Zee.

I picture Royce.

Royce places his hand on mine and squeezes. "I'm here for you whenever you need me," he says. "Always."

My throat tightens with emotion. I open my eyes and look into his hazel eyes, brimming with tenderness, not pity, as I'd always assumed. My head is clear. "I'm ready."

Then, finally, it's my turn. I go onstage ready to show the world who I am.

I talk about my mother. I talk about my blended family. I talk about my school, and what success looks like to me versus my classmates. About losing and making new identities as a chronic overachiever.

Every line flies off me like it's nothing, like arrows from a bow. The audience laps them up. When I'm done with my set, the applause is thunderous.

I walk off the set and see Royce, who's clapping so hard, smiling so brightly for me, and my insides twist, my knees wobble. Big Bird himself could have been in the room and I wouldn't have noticed; all I see is Royce, who's wrapped in sunlight.

Royce has always been there for me—I just hadn't seen it because I'd been afraid of what that could mean. But now I do.

I see the truth: Royce likes me for who I am.

I don't care about our differences anymore. Not after tonight. Not if he'll have me the way I want him to.

I want to—

My face flushes. Nah, I should calm down. Jit, his bodyguard, will no doubt be there to, as they say, cockblock. He'd probably be there, watching. Disapprovingly. Not a bogeyman as in Royce's bit, but some kind of weird custodial/guardian hybrid who knows Krav Maga and defensive CSI, aka the art of hiding bodies.

The last comic performs, and the judges go to a room to deliberate on the two comics who will go to the finals in New York.

I close my eyes and try to calmly take breaths. Beside me, Royce is doing some kind of breathing exercise, saying, under his breath, "You've got this, Agnes. No matter what, you're already a winner. You were fire."

I don't know how it happens, but suddenly we're holding hands—and I'm having an out-of-body experience, every cell in me is in first place, doing laps around the freaking moon.

The judging takes longer than the allotted half hour. By now, it's almost nine thirty, and despite the adrenaline, the early day and the stressful competition quietens the holding room. Then a crew member calls us to the stage, and we file quietly to the stage before a full house of people. I see Vern slip out of a dark nook backstage just outside our holding room and join the comics onstage. At first it looks as though he's heading toward me, but when he sees me standing next to Royce, holding hands, he scoffs quietly and walks to the other end of the lineup.

I blink under the hard lights and stare unseeingly at the crowded room.

The head judge, Lola Hashim, a well-known comic in her fifties from Malaysia, goes onstage at last, clears her throat and gives the standard spiel about the quality of the contestants. Then she says, "We have ourselves the first person through to the finals, and this was a unanimous decision, and our first pick is—"

Royce's hand tightens around mine. I know that this is the culmination of two years of stand-up for him, and all he has ever wanted.

"Vern Goh!"

I gasp. Vern steps into the limelight, smiling beatifically. Vern, the so-called underdog, is the best one tonight. I don't know how I feel about this, about Vern, even. I still haven't properly processed everything that happened earlier.

Lola looks a little discomfited. "We do have a slight situation—"

Both Royce and I are gripping each other's hands tightly now. A thought enters my hear, unbidden: If I win, will Royce still like me? We are both competitive people.

"We have a tie between two comics, and we're going to do something unusual."

I look at Royce, whose face is ashen. My heart thuds.

The judge hesitates before saying, "Royce Taslim—and Agnes Chan!"

The room around us erupts in a spectrum of responses, ranging from dismay to congratulations. Next to me, Royce is silent, and I don't know how to construe his response. Every muscle in my gut knots.

The judge says, "We're going to need the audience to decide for us tonight. Royce and Agnes, please come to the front of the stage."

We do that and the judge says to the crowd, "Now, you're going to decide who goes with a final clap-out! The performer with the loudest clap goes through."

My stomach drops and I freeze. A popularity contest. I'm a goner.

The judge waves at Royce. "Let's hear it for Royce!"

The audience shouts and screams so loud it is like we're swimming in it. My heart lifts for him.

Then at me. "Let's hear it for Agnes!"

I am overwhelmed by the sheer force of the noise. Next to me, Royce is clapping and cheering for me.

"Great! Great! Wonderful!" She frowns. The other judges, who are facing the stage, shrug. "Er. Let's do the exercise again!"

They go through three rounds without a clear winner. People are filming us with their phones now. It's a tie. Lola excuses herself and joins the judges offstage. They consult among themselves, looking unsure.

There's a break in the noise when Vern waves at the audience and flashes that lopsided, disarming grin of his. He raises his arm to signal he needs to speak, and a hush descends.

Vern starts pacing onstage.

"Now, folks, we know that a female comic is a minority in this business, right? How many of such comics did you see onstage today, including Agnes? Three out of ten?"

The audience murmurs.

He stops. "That's right, it's tough being a woman in this space. They have to deal with so much more crap as performers. So how about we give Agnes Chan a little more support? Come on, she deserves it. Let's do this again, Royce versus Agnes, tiebreaker! For Royce!"

The clapping dims a little.

"For Agnes!"

This time, there is a clear winner.

Lola trots up stage, relief visible on her face. "All right, everyone, it seems we do have our second winner. Let's give it up for Agnes Chan! The crowd has spoken. Agnes Chan wins second place!"

The applause crashes on us again.

I fall to my knees onstage, tears in my eyes. I can't believe it: I am going to New York.

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