47

I GO ONSTAGE THE NEXT DAY, THE OPENING ACT AFTER THE EMCEEannounces the lineup—the hardest spot, to be honest, but I grin and bear it, no worries, what's the worst that can happen, I break my other leg? ha-ha!—and do my set with gusto. With passion. Giving it my all even if I don't expect to be able to win.

I even switch up one of the bits and do a really random one about what makes people choose a specific medical specialization, especially proctology, and how even an Asian parent, when asked if their child was a proctologist, might just say no, they are just a regular doctor, and oh my lord, is that or is that not Chow Yun Fat walking through the door of this very dim sum palace?

A very, very risky joke, but I don't care. I love it, and I want to share it with the one person in the audience who gets it.

Because life isn't about that. I mean, yes, winning is important. It feels good. But it shouldn't be the only thing that makes you feel good.

Life's too big for that.

I do my set just for me (and maybe the three hundred people watching me, and the people who might one day watch this…yikes).

It feels great to make people laugh, all these people older than me. What I'd gleaned about life from older people is how we get so bogged down with figuring out the day-to-day stuff of existence that we forget to laugh at the small things, like—

Pufferfish after a fright.

A toddler thinking it's walking.

The word poot, which is a Scrabble word. And onomatopoeias in general.

And maybe when you forget to laugh at the small things, you stop experiencing all the wonders around you after a while. You don't wake up and think to yourself: Damn, who's the genius who taught to pair peanut butter and jelly? Or soy sauce and sesame oil? Or fish sauce with sugar?

Okay, so maybe I'm a little hungry.

All to say that I go up there, and I slay. I slay as hard as Vern and Royce. And the other three finalists.

And then the judges go into deliberations, and I sink into a seat back in the holding room next to the stage, sandwiched between Royce and Satoshi. Vern sits at the far end of the room in a single folding chair, occasionally our gazes would meet and break apart. I wish him well, I do.

I wish all these people well.

When it comes to announcing the results, I'm calm. I've done all I can, and I had a great time doing it.

That's more important than winning.

The chief judge is Margaret Zhou, the legendary badass Asian American comic herself. She flounces onstage, all sequins and rage and Dr. Martens, and thanks everyone for supporting new comics. "Now let's break some of these fragile little Gen Z hearts!"

"In third place—Kitty Graham!"

My heart thuds. Okay, maybe I had harbored a secret hope that I could still place third, if not second.

"In second place—Vern Goh!"

I clap. I do.

Beside me, Royce is breathing hard. I cross my fingers for him.

Margaret Zhou wiggles her eyebrows.

"And this is the big one. Drumroll, please: The first prize goes to—ROYCE TASLIM!"

I whoop. I scream. I cry.

Royce staggers onto the stage, and from the holding room we see him go onstage, smiling and waving at people. He stares at the audience, where my parents and Rosie sit in the second row, and Jit in the third, and I know he's looking for his own miracle but doesn't see it. They aren't there of course, his family. A hobby is not important enough when you have empires to maintain, territories to expand into.

I wonder if, by now, Royce understands that even if the people he cares for most do not take his passion seriously, what matters is how he feels about it, not others.

In the end, the only person who can decide what pieces make up your identity is you.

A shadow passes across Royce's face. Then he composes himself and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, folks, I am pleased to be your winner tonight—"

The crowd starts chanting, "Royce! Royce! Royce!"

"But sadly. I won't be accepting this award. I forfeit." Without another word he walks off the stage toward the holding room.

The audience gasps. There is a swell of shocked silence; then the noise breaks upon us in a crash of chatter.

"Hey! You're supposed to be out there! There's a prize-giving ceremony after," one of the miked assistants says as Royce sweeps back in. He's trailed by the three judges, who do not look pleased.

"Someone please explain what he just did?" says Libby Kelk, one of the judges.

"I'm bowing out," Royce says calmly. "I'm sorry for any inconvenience caused."

"What's going on, Taslim?" asks Mike D'Arcy, another one of the judges. "You won."

"And I don't want it," Royce says. He addresses the judges, but I know he's really speaking to me. "My whole life has been about what other people want for me. This was the first thing I ever wanted for myself, the only thing I did solely on my own merit, and I just needed to know if I was good enough to fight for it. The money and the title, it can go to someone else.…"

He glances at Vern and says to him quietly, "It can go to the second-place winner."

Vern's eyes flash. "I don't want your pity money, Taslim."

"Vern, it's not. I'm forfeiting. Under the rules, the second-place winner should be promoted. You all get promoted a rank."

"So I'm second?" Kitty says. "Great!"

"Who's fourth? Don't they get promoted to third?" Satoshi says.

Margaret says, "Satoshi was fourth."

"Woo-hoo," he says, pumping his fist. "Excite!"

Royce is close enough to me that I hear him when he whispers to Vern, "You got here, fair and square. I'm merely leveling the playing field. Just take the money and use it for your aunt."

There's a stare-off as I watch Vern debate this turn of events. For as long as I've known Vern, he'd always placed winning as his ultimate goal, yet I don't think even he could have envisaged coming up tops this way, even if ironically this had been as clean a win as it could be. Vern's face clouds over and he gives Royce a terse nod, which the judges take as acquiescence.

Libby rolls her eyes, sighs, and says, "Okay, well, we'll announce the winners again with the corrected lineup and make a note to production to cut out the entire part about Royce forfeiting." Then, not entirely under her breath, she says, "Kids."