Free Stepping Out by Laura Langston Page B

routine, my panic reaches epic proportions. These guys are good. Very, very good. Their material, their delivery, everything.
    I don’t measure up.
    You’re here. You’re prepared. You need to give it your best shot.
    I turn away from the monitor, lean back in my chair and mentally review my first routine. I changed it up last night when I realized Brooke would be in the audience. I needed to take out some of the stuff about her. So after meeting Carly and Hunter for dinner, I put in some fresh bits, smoothed out the transitions and practised until I was sure I’d memorized the changes. It’s too bad, because Brooke is a great source of material. But as much as she pisses me off, there’s no way I’ll embarrass her in such a public way.
    That’s her style, not mine.
    “Paige Larsson,” a voice calls out.
    My eyes fly open.
    An usher with a belly the size of a small suitcase is standing in the doorway. “Paige Larsson,” he repeats, glancing around the room. “You’re up next.”
    I swallow the lump in my throat and stand.

Thirteen
    I feel weirdly detached as I follow the guy down the hall. Like I’m floating above my body. I hear talking off in the distance, but it only vaguely registers. I see the girl from Chicago coming toward us, her face flushed, looking like she’s going to cry.
    I want to tell her it’s okay, that she did her best, that whatever happens, happens. That there’s not a thing we can do because the results are out of our control anyway.
    Of course, I say nothing. I hold the words inside me instead, silently repeating them over and over like a mantra.
    You’ve done your best. Whatever happens, happens. There’s nothing you can do about it now.
    I feel all floaty and Zen-like as I follow that usher. But when he stops beside the door marked Stage , my heart leaves the Zen zone for panic city.
    OhGodohGodohGod. It’s happening.
    Holding a finger to his lips, he opens the door and motions me inside.
    Like last night, the lights backstage are dim. But unlike last night, the place is crawling with crew. They move silently between the cables and under the scaffolding, an army of black T-shirts focused on one thing only: doing whatever they need to do to support the performer onstage.
    We stop at the edge of the wings. I stare at the guy in the spotlight. Andrew somebody or other. From Boston. He’s good, and he’s getting lots of laughs. But his words don’t register. I peer into the audience. It’s dark. I can’t see them. But I know they’re there. Hundreds of people who will watch me walk across the stage. Who’ll listen to my routine. Who will laugh. Or not.
    Hundreds of people who can make or break me.
    At least Hunter and Carly are here. They’ll laugh. My parents and Grandpa will too. I’m suddenly grateful they’ve come.
    It seems like only seconds later that Andrew is finished. There’s a roar of white noise in my head as I hear the announcer say the next contestant is from Seattle. He mentions the name of my school and my YouTube channel. And then he says, “Please welcome Paige Larsson!”
    I freeze.
    The usher gives me a gentle shove. “Go!”
    Knees knocking, I’m suddenly walking across the stage. My breath is coming so hard and fast I’m pretty sure it could power a small city. It takes me a century to reach that damned microphone. By the time I get there, I’m already sweating.
    “You think that walk across the stage was slow…” My voice booms. I jerk back from the microphone. The spotlight hurts my eyes. “At least I didn’t walk out here in stilettos. I might have killed myself. Or maimed my good leg.”
    There’s a smattering of laughter. The relief I feel is almost palpable. I have the audience on side. Or part of it, at least. And that’s the first thing any comedian needs to do.
    “And what’s up with stilettos anyway?” I need to slow down—I’m talking too fast. “Did you know there’s a gym in New York that offers a stiletto workout?”