6

FROM THE GET-GO, TASLIM LOOKS ILL AT EASE ONSTAGE. HIS GAZEkeeps flicking over to where I sit, uncertain. I'm not sure if this is his Ray persona, or if this nervousness is brought about by my unexpected presence.

And then there's the question of his set. From what I'd gathered from Kieren's introduction, this isn't Ray's first rodeo—in fact, he must have been coming here pretty often and doing well enough to be promoted to a headliner, even on an open-mike night. Still, I can tell that nothing is landing right.

To start with, he keeps saying Er.

"As I was saying, er."

Oh yeah, he is also saying a lot of As I was sayings.

And then he's swallowing. Loudly. Over the mike.

Ray/Taslim flops through a bit about schoolwork. When no one laughs, I wait for him to switch up the material, but he belabors his point. Nothing. And he's still doggedly going on about life as a student. And then I realize why he's sticking with his lines—he only has that one set of jokes. And he can't think fast enough on his feet to react to his audience.

The audience's hostility is palpable. A low hum of discontent grows. Someone boos him.

Taslim ends with a bit about TikTok and no one, absolutely no one, laughs. The booing gets louder. Taslim freezes onstage even as Lai flashes a torchlight with a red filter over its lens three times in quick succession. I see the same look of panic I felt at the beginning of my set dawn on his face, and I decide, there and then, to stop booing him. I must admit it's a little gauche of me to have done that in the first place. I don't know what it is, but competition brings out the worst in me.

Kieren hops onstage and grabs the mike from Taslim's motionless hands, breaking his spell. He shuffles offstage, ending his misery. "All right folks, that's the end of our open-mike night, give it up for our fearless performers—and someone buy Ray a diaper. Remember—every Thursday, KL laughs…well, most of the time. Have a good night!"

The crowd disperses, although some stay behind to order more drinks, taking advantage of the two-for-one bottled beer offer that's still running. The bar gets busy, so I shuffle off to a corner, unsure of what I should do next—hang around till someone speaks to me? Go home? I don't want to leave yet. Adrenaline's still coursing through my veins. Taslim is nowhere to be seen, not that I'm looking for him.

A few of the comics have come out of the holding room and surround me. "Hey there," Gina says, sticking her hand out. I shake it with care, balancing on my crutches. "Agnes, right? You were amazing! That was your first time? I'm so jealous. Also, I'm Gina."

"Vern, Vern Goh," says the floppy-haired, deeply tanned guy next to her. We shake hands, and I am struck by the feeling that I know him, even though I can't place him. "Good start, Ags—can I call you Ags?" I make a face and he laughs. "Noted. Anyways, took me four tries before I got a single laugh that wasn't clothes-related."

"Yeah, he relied on cheap tricks for the longest time, wearing Hawaiian shirts in clashing colors and joke socks," Hamid says.

I'm surprised that Vern has to resort to dressing in any way to command attention. He has an easy, knowing charm that must draw people to him as hummingbirds to nectar. And he's not hard on the eyes, either.

Vern sticks out his tongue. "Better than you, Hamid, you can't even write a joke," he replies in a good-natured way.

"Hey, Kumar's the weakest link: He can't even speak onstage," Hamid says between sips of his drink.

Kumar shrugs it off. "I know I'm not the best comic, but I keep coming back because I love this," he says to me shyly.

I nod. "I get it. I feel that way when I run…ran." I grimace. It's true that the joy I get from running is wholly distinct from the high I get from winning in a race. When I'm running, it's as though nothing can touch me. Hurt me. And then of course there's the fact that I'm—was—so good at it. Everyone at Dunia knows who I am because of my achievements, and I can't lie—it's intoxicating to be known for one's talents. I got some of that tonight while performing. That same jolt of electricity.

Like I matter.

Vern snaps his finger. "I know who you are," he says suddenly. "You're that super runner kid. I was a couple years ahead of you at SMK Taman Sentosa." That was my old school before I got transferred to Dunia.

I do a double take as a memory surfaces and clicks into place. Vern, sitting on the sun-bleached wooden tables by the football field, surrounded by his lazily confident ilk, playing hooky. The kind of guy who would make you feel like you belonged or not with a look. I remember chatting alone with him one long afternoon the week before I left my former school—when my mom, after months of progress, had gone into a dark place and I was hiding from Stanley, who'd come to pick me up from school. "Oh, er, hi?" I say, as though I wasn't sure we'd already met. "I don't go there anymore. Haven't for four years or so."

"I figured," he says, a lopsided smile creasing his face. "We stopped making those annoying announcements about your wins during morning assembly soon after that."

"Sorry," I say, shrugging. "Those were annoying."

"Agnes this and Agnes that," Vern says, rolling his eyes. "Man, it was like you were the entire athletics program or something. Oh, wait"—he snaps his fingers, his eyes faux surprised—"you were! I mean, we did go to an underfunded public school, after all."

We laugh till I'm gasping for air. For some reason, this observation hit me hard. Even though I've found some sense of belonging at Dunia, what with sports, the Hot Flashes, and Zee, there's still some part of me that understands, bone-deep, that I'm different.

"So, who's the best comic of the bunch?" I ask to change the topic, not wanting to exclude the others.

"Ray," Gina says. She grins. "After me, of course. I know it doesn't look like it from tonight's performance, but Ray's got serious comedic chops."

"Well, Vern's actually pretty good, too," Kumar says. "They came up around the same time, come to think of it, though personally, I prefer Vern's humor. It's darker, dryer."

Vern grins and pats Kumar's back. "You're backing the right horse, my friend."

"Ray and Vern are so competitive," Gina says, rolling her eyes.

"Maybe you should give us your number so we can add you to the group chat," Kumar says. "We use it for sign-ups, then leave a few slots for walk-ins and ad hoc visiting comics, etc."

"Sure," I say. I pass him my number.

"Want a drink?" Gina asks. "Lai won't serve you, but I can slip you a beer."

I shake my head. "No thanks, I'm going home soon."

"Suit yourself," she says, stretching. "Just thought part of the lure of performing for most of you teenagers is the fact you can drink and smoke joints with us oldies." Her eyes cut meaningly to the direction of the holding room. Did she mean Taslim? Golden Boy Taslim involved in underage drinking—or worse?

"I'll be back," I say. I head toward the room, the entrance that's behind the velvet curtain backdrop of the stage, my heart pounding. From the thrill of catching him doing something illicit, of course. "Hey, Roy—Ray?" I call out, tentatively, pushing open the rickety wooden door.

"What?" he croaks.

I see Taslim immediately, even in the dark. He is seated on the couch, head between his knees.

"Are you okay?"

His head jerks up with a snap. In the dark it's hard to tell if he has been crying. "You," he says hoarsely, getting to his feet.

"Sorry about the booing," I say, genuine.

He stomps up to me, and in the sliver of light from the doorway I can see his face. He has not been crying—far from it.

He glares at me, and I meet his gaze squarely. We don't say anything for some time. We are so close I can feel every exhalation of his, see every pulse of the vein of his forehead, the tension in his lips. I can almost reach out and—

Yank his beanie over his face.

"Meet me in the alley, Chan," he growls before stomping away.