Free Cuba 15 by Nancy Osa Page B

student desk next to me. “I just want you to learn from their mistakes. Now, forget about the delivery and concentrate on how the sketches are written.”
    Onscreen, a tall boy in a suit and tie droned on about a marine expedition to find the elusive “sea ostrich.” I giggled once, when he first gave an odd rooster-sounding call to summon the bird, but by the fifteenth bellow I felt nauseated.
    “Pretty awful, huh?” said Mr. Soloman, nodding. He stopped the tape with the remote. “What’s wrong with this picture?”
    We both agreed that the repetitive crowing overshadowed anything that might have been funny about the piece.
    “Which parts do you think
could
have been funny?” he pressed.
    “Well, maybe if he had used the characters’ own words, instead of just narrating, telling us blah blah blah, here’s how we caught the sea ostrich. Who cares?”
    Mr. Soloman threw me a grin and said, “Exactly! You have just asked the fundamental question of all great writing: Who cares?” He plugged in another video. “That is your job—to make the audience care. Once they care, you’ve got them in the palm of your hand. You can make them laugh, cry, or wet themselves.”
    “Or all three at once?”
    “If you so choose.”
    “So how do I make them care?”
    He nodded at the monitor.
    Another boy in a suit and tie began his routine from his seat. When the coach said “Begin,” he hesitated a moment, then jumped up from his chair with a loud baby cry and ran to the stage like someone was chasing him.
    Once at his mark, he looked both ways and sighed with relief. “If you have a brother or sister—or just know someone who does—be on the lookout.” Again, he checked both ways. “Be on the lookout for Superbaby: faster than a speeding tricycle . . . stronger than the family dog . . . able to leap tall playpens in a single bound . . . it’s Superbaby!”
    The routine had both Mr. Soloman and me cracking up by the end. Superbaby did terrible things to bedrooms, computers, Walkmans. Mark was eleven and still like that. I could totally relate.
    “Got you right here”—Mr. Soloman mimed a punch to his gut—“didn’t it?”
    I nodded.
    “Why?”
    I shrugged.
    “Two words.” Mr. Soloman squinted and leaned over conspiratorially. “Universal humor,” he said, settling back. “Everybody has experienced a willful baby—or knows someone who has.
That’s
what you’re going for. That common denominator.”
    I particularly liked this boy’s style. “What about that entrance, screaming and running?” I said.
    “Never mind that for now,” my coach said. “You have an instinct for performing or you wouldn’t be here. That will take care of itself. In O.C., writing comes first, theater comes second.”
    He got up and began putting videos in boxes. “I’m giving you until next Tuesday to come up with a draft. It doesn’t have to be complete, but at least get a concept on paper.”
    “Like what kind of concept?”
    He wagged a finger at me. “
Original
comedy. Not your speech coach’s idea of a joke.”
    I pouted.
    “Ah, ah, chin up. Give it a try. You’ll be surprised what you come up with.”
    “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said, sticking the information sheets he’d given me into my folder.
    “Fear can be funny,” Mr. Soloman insisted. “Make me laugh.”
    “I’ll try.”
    “If you don’t, I’ll just get the hook.”
    Or The Ax, I thought. He’d probably be glad to get rid of me. “Okay, okay. See you next Tuesday, Mr. Soloman.”

12
    I figured I’d spend the rest of the school week waiting for ideas to hit, then write the speech on the weekend. The fact sheet said I had to fill eight minutes, tops. No “inappropriate” subject matter. No swearing.
    It would never make an HBO special, but I was sure I could come up with something better than that sea ostrich sketch. I kept my ears peeled for comedy all week. On Wednesday, my piano teacher’s dog started howling during my