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Especially since you need three stand-up routines.”
    My stomach flutters.
    “And doing stand-up isn’t like taping a YouTube video in your room. You can do those over and over until you’re happy with them. In stand-up, you get one shot. You need to make sure you’re on the mark with timing and transitions and delivery and stage presence. It’s a lot to manage.”
    The flutter turns to a nauseous roll. Like I need the reminder? “I can do it.” I have to do it.
    “I believe you can, and I’ve arranged to have you excused from gym so you’ll have extra time to work on your material.”
    “Oh wow. That’s great. Thanks.” Anything to miss gym. I hate that class.
    “There’s a lot at stake here, Paige. It’s a huge opportunity for you and for the school.”
    Yeah, ten thousand dollars’ worth of huge.
    “Having a live audience is an important part of this,” he adds.
    Don’t remind me . “I understand that. And I need to include them.” I’ve studied enough comedians to know this. “If I exclude them, I’m dead.”
    He nods. “Right. But the good thing is that the audience can do half the work for you.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Live comedy is participatory,” he says. “It relies on audience interaction. Their laughs dictate your timing. You use them to get into the flow.” He lets that sink in, and then he adds, “In the meantime, I want you to use the time you’d spend in gym to develop four stand-up routines.”
    “I only need three.”
    “You need three good ones.” He emphasizes the word good . “And because you can’t always tell what will work with a given audience, you need backup material in case you need to switch gears mid-act.”
    That makes sense. “Okay.”
    “Once you get your routines down, we’ll hold a trial performance here in drama. We’ll do it next Monday. We’ll invite some of the classes who won’t be able to get to the actual competition in Portland. I’ll tape you too, so you can play it back afterward, analyze your performance and see how you did.”
    My insides drain away. “I don’t need to rehearse in drama.” In front of my friends . “I’ll be fine.”
    “Of course you’ll rehearse.” He stares at me, his buggy eyes bulging even more than usual. “Fine isn’t good enough, Paige. You need to be spectacular.”
    Bad choice of words. I open my mouth to explain, but Mr. Roskinski isn’t finished. “Think of this as an opportunity to get on top of your stage fright.” He smiles. “And what better place to learn to handle it than in front of your friends.”

Six
    P aige Notes Wednesday: The problem with having a limp isn’t so much that I limp; it’s the fact that perfect strangers take it upon themselves to point this out to me. Like, after fifteen years I am somehow surprised by this? They also yell when they talk. Like I am deaf. HEY, YOU ARE LIMPING—DID YOU KNOW THAT? No, I didn’t. And now that you’ve pointed it out and permanently damaged my eardrum, where’s my hearing aid and crutch? Tell me that, oh wise one.
    I know Mr. Roskinski is trying to help, but he’s increased my stress level by about 200 percent. Doing stand-up is like auditioning in front of a bunch of strangers. But next week in drama, I’ll be doing it in front of friends. In some ways, that’s worse.
    Over the next couple of days, I study comedians I admire: Sarah Silverman, Amy Poehler and Margaret Cho. And in my spare time, I go to the ITCF website and check out the other nominees.
    It’s a big-time dumb move. I’m so shocked at how good they are, I don’t have the guts to comment on a single one of their videos. So when Carly reminds me after school on Wednesday that I need something to wear onstage, I agree to go shopping with her. I’m desperate for a distraction. Anything to forget who I’m up against. But three hours of following Carly through a pile of stores is not a feel-good experience.
    “Don’t get discouraged,” Carly says as we leave