Oddest of All Read Online Free Page B

bad we can’t go on right away!
    Unfortunately, we have to wait for the third skit, which turns out to be brilliant, which makes me want to kill the people who are in it. Now we’ll be compared to them instead of the dead fish of that second skit.
    The curtain closes.
    â€œOur turn,” whispers Tiffany. “Break a leg, Murphy.”
    â€œBreak a leg,” I murmur back. Then, so Laurel won’t feel left out, I say the same thing to her as we pick up the table, which is our main prop, and move it onto the stage. Tiffany is right behind us with a pair of chairs. Once they’re in place, we scurry to our positions, Tiffany and me stage right, Laurel stage left.
    My stomach clenches. Cold sweat starts out on my brow.
    â€œMurphy!” hisses Tiffany. “Your shoelace!”
    I glance down. I have forgotten to untie it, which is the key to one of my first funny bits. Out of habit, I lift my foot to take care of the lace. At that instant the curtain opens, which startles me so much that I lose my balance and fall over, landing onstage in full view of the audience.
    There they are. The enemy. The people who are going to stare at me, judge me, whisper about me tomorrow. I am so frozen with terror I cannot move. I just lie there looking at them.
    And then the laugh begins. My temperature goes in two directions, my blood turning to ice at the same time that the heat rises in my face. I have a long moment of terror—well, it feels like a long moment; according to Mikey, it was less than two seconds—while I think that this is it, I will never stand up again, never come to school again, never leave my house again. I will ask whoever finally picks me up to carry me home and put me in the attic. My parents will have to shove my meals through a slot in the door, because I will never be able to face another living human being.
    Love saves the day. “Murphy, are you all right?” hisses Tiffany.
    For the sound of that voice I would do anything—even get back on my feet.
    And then, the second miracle. Some brilliant portion of my brain realizes that this is a comedy, and I have just started us off with a big laugh. I stand at the edge of the stage to do a fake knock. In rehearsal, I only mimed it. Now, for some reason, I say loudly,
“Knock knock. Knockity-knock-knock. ”
    For some reason the audience finds this funny. Another laugh.
    Tiffany comes to the door, and we go through our opening business, which establishes that she is prim and proper and I am a total idiot, which doesn’t take much acting because it is pretty much real life anyway. But something is happening. I’m not making up lines, but I am making bigger gestures, broader moves, weirder voices than I did in rehearsal. People are howling. Tiffany’s eyes are dancing, and I can see that she is trying not to laugh. I am feeling like a genius.
    We get to the imaginary restaurant. Laurel comes out to take our order, and I have the same effect on her.
    I am starting to feel as if I’m having an out-of-body experience. Who is this funny person making everyone laugh? How long can it go on? Can I keep it going, keep cranking up the jokes, hold on to this glorious lightning bolt I’m riding?
    Laurel disappears to get our order. I fake blowing my nose on the cloth napkin, then inspecting it to see the results. I act as if I am fascinated by my imaginary boogers. Tiffany acts as if she is repulsed, but I can see she is hardly able to keep from bursting into laughter—especially when I hand the napkin across the table so she can examine it, too.
    The audience is just about screaming. I am beginning to think that this kind of laughter is even better than the sound of Tiffany’s voice.
    Laurel comes back with our “order,” which, because this is a skit and we are on a low budget, is a plate of Hostess cupcakes. Chocolate.
    I am supposed to eat in a disgusting way. The script does not specify how.