“I’m okay.”Breathe in. Breathe out. I just want to get through this show, find someplace to sleep where not every adult in the house is furious with me, and wake up yesterday before any of this happened.
“Right on. I trust you to judge your own energy. But glue yourself to the wall if that’s what you need.”
I follow him onstage. A quick glance reveals our group is the loser group.
The ten members of the Tuesday Teals wear bright blue shirts with their name done in The Second City’s font. They’re hugging each other and throwing themselves into silly stunts with abandon.
Across the stage, the Saturday Night Specials do a group cheerbased on a Nickelback cover, showing a scary amount of teeth while screaming, “Saturday! Saturday! Saturday night’s all right!” They have custom T-shirts, too, in gunmetal with acid-green lettering.
The Friday Night No-Names didn’t get the wardrobe memo. At least we agreed to wear black. Like mimes, now that I think of it. The stage is backed by a plain black wall where the players stand when they’re not in the game. We’re going to look like disembodied heads up there.
Time to lean into the suck, I guess. Fail joyfully.
Or just fail.
David doesn’t look happy to see me, but Sharon and Béa open a place in the warm-up circle. We’re playing Zoom, the improv equivalent of full-body exercise: engage your physicality, pay attention to your fellow players, stay in the moment.
“Youuuuu,” Jason drawls, throwing an imaginary ball to Béa. She catches it, then chucks it to David with perfect form, repeating, “Yyyouuuuu,” in the slow, exaggerated way of the game.
My heart pulls tight, fibers frayed to breaking. If Tobin and I had played this game, he would’ve thrown to me every time, and I would’ve dropped it at least half those times.
I thought I was so smart. I thought improv was the secret to becoming, or at least faking, the person I wanted to be.
Instead, I learned nothing that improv tried to teach me. I left my heart in the past, jammed my head into the future, and didn’t see what I had in the present.
“Liz!” David snaps his fingers. “You!” He points to the imaginary ball, which has fallen at my feet.
I’ve abandoned the present yet again. “Oh! Uh… oh. Sorry. Yyyouuuu,” I say, picking it up and serving a soft underhand to Sharon.
It’s time to stop making excuses and start living right here, right now.
I’ve messed up my marriage, probably beyond repair. I got promoted by a boss who doesn’t see me any more clearly now than he did eight weeks ago. I’m at the beginning of a long, difficult, expensive path to seeking a formal autism diagnosis.
I don’t even know where I’m sleeping tonight.
If ever there was a time when the past is over and the future is a blank, it’s now. There’s no contest tonight, and no prizes. I’m not doing this so someone else will want me.
I’m doing it for me. Speaking up and taking social risks are harder for me than for some, but I can’t let fear of failure run my life. Maybe I’ll always want to go home early from the party, but for me the victory is wanting to be at the party.
It’s a win if I want to be myself.
“All right, kids. Audience is here. Time to head backstage.” McHuge has special fancy braids in his beard tonight, styled like Celtic knotwork and fastened with soft twine. This might be his professional performance look. If so, he’s rocking it.
“Remember, these are your people and they love yo—” McHuge breaks off, a look of shock and longing transforming his easygoing demeanor. He clears his throat, his face flushing an adorable pink under the freckles. “We’d better go.”
I look around McHuge’s shoulders, curious to see whether Tina Fey has walked in or something.
It’s ten times better than that. Stellar’s marching down the aisle, right to the front row.
New friends are great. But when you’ve just flushed your entire life, you need someone who’s loved you for a long time to catch you as you fling yourself off the stage.
“Stellar,” I whisper. “You came. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You don’t know how much I needed you.”
She hugs me tight with her tiny ripped arms. “Jesus, you’re shaking. Are you all right? We can pull the rip cord right now.”
“No, I need to do it. I’ll tell you everything after the show. Just, thank you. I can’t believe you flew back for this.”
She makes our squished-up face. “I would totally fly in for your show, babe, but I’m mostly here because I quit my job.”
