“Oh God, I forgot it’s assembly today. Who’s doing it?” she says in her gently accented voice. Oh yeah, she’s also Polish and lived in Poland until she was, like, five and although most of it’s gone you can still hear the twang of a distant land in her speech. So she’s got that sultry foreign accent thing working for her too. It’s so unfair. I mean, would it have been too much to ask that Mum could have made me live in an Eastern European country for a few years when I was younger until I picked up a sexy accent?
“Oh, please say it’s not Mr. Jacobs talking about the war again,” says Chloe to her reflection in the mirror.
I immediately do my best Mr. Jacobs impression—low-voiced, mumbling, wide-eyed, and Scottish. “Imagine yourself there…in a trench…knee-deep in poop…and mud…and more POOP… You don’t know what day it is… You can’t think straight… You can’t hear anything above the great rumbling sounds of death and destruction all around you… You haven’t slept in days… That was one hell of a weekend at Coachella, I can tell you.”
Kas and Chloe both laugh which makes me smile and twinkle a little bit inside.
“Come on, we’d better go,” says Chloe.
In the hall, we’re all relieved when Mr. Humphrey, our head of house (who tries to make up for his lack of personality with the loudness of his ties), announces that it’s the annual house talent show. Basically, each of the school houses picks some idiot to go through to the whole school “Castle Park’s Got Talent” (apparently, not an ironic title) competition at the end of term. And if you’re thinking, Oooh, “houses”—how la-di-da, believe me, it’s not. It’s just a random splitting of the whole school into three clumps and then calling them “houses” as if that’s going to fool people into thinking this is a magical school like Hogwarts, rather than a trashy comprehensive school in an underprivileged arse end of Suffolk.
To make matters worse, the houses are named after famous people who lived here, which is fine if you’re in Orwell House or Britten House, but they decided to name the third house after a woman and the best they could come up with was Elisabeth Frink, who was some sort of sculptor. Problem is no one’s ever heard of her and Frink is just a naturally funny word. “Did you get into Frink House?” has now turned into a gross, euphemistic way of guys asking how far their friends got with their girlfriends the night before. So everyone wants to be in Orwell or Britten. Obviously, I’m in Frink.
The competition is all a big embarrassment really. Still, it’s better to sit through this than have Mr. Jacobs trying to get us to imagine all our friends being shot or disfigured by shrapnel.
First up is Henry from Year Eight, who’s a fellow Frinker and was chosen simply because he was the only one of us who volunteered. If you’re wondering why I didn’t, well, in my dreams is one thing, but I could no more get up onstage in front of a room full of people than I could get Noah to eat a plate of broccoli. Both would end up with me crying in a humiliated heap on the floor while being pelted with vegetables.
Henry from Year Eight, on the other hand, was happy to volunteer as he confidently believes he’s a great magician. And to be fair he probably would be a great magician if he had normal social skills, a voice that could be heard from more than a foot away, decent props, and some actual talent for performing magic tricks. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any of those things.
Words are mumbled, props are broken—and at one point his belt buckle gets caught on the black tablecloth and reveals the stuffed rabbit that’s supposed to appear out of a baseball cap in the finale. Instead, he changes the ending to reveal a folded, oversized playing card from his pocket that’s supposed to match the card Mr. Humphrey randomly chose from a pack earlier. Only when Henry produces the card it turns out it isn’t the right one.
He stares at the card.
We stare at the card.
For a moment, it looks like he’s going to cry, so I start clapping loudly which luckily starts everyone else off and prompts Mr. Humphrey to shuffle him offstage saying, “Well, thank you, Henry, or should I say the Amazing Henry!”
No, everyone thinks, you really shouldn’t.
Next up is Jinny, a Britten House girl from Year Ten who sings an Adele tune to a karaoke backing track, and it isn’t too bad. Not great either, but after the Amazing Henry even a Mediocre Jinny manages to impress.
And then lastly there’s Orwell House’s offering which, to everyone’s surprise, isn’t one of the geeks or princesses—it’s Leo. A murmuring of wonder and admiration swells around the room as he stands at the side of the stage, waiting to be called on.
Ah, Leo. Everyone knows Leo. He’s two years above us and he’s just this big, easy-going, cool dude who has a smile that could bring about world peace and a smooth voice you could spread on a bagel. Ahhh, Leo.
“Oooh, it’s lovely Leo!” whispers Chloe.
“He’s sooo yummy,” purrs Kas.
“Ugh, please—you guys sound like the voiceover for a yogurt advert. Just stop it now,” I say. I mean, sure, I like him too, but I’m not going to humiliate myself by owning up to such a hopeless crush. “What do you think he’s doing?”
“Oh God, I hope it’s dancing,” says Kas.
“As long as it’s Magic Mike-style dancing,” says Chloe.
“Of course,” giggles Kas.
“Seriously, ladies? I mean, how would you like it if boys talked about you in that way?” I say.
“Oh God, I hope they do,” says Chloe, with a smile that says she knows she’s winding me up.
“Oooh, me too,” says Kas with an equally evil grin. “I’d love to be objectified.”
I play along. “Well, it’s good to know Emmeline Pankhurst’s efforts weren’t wasted on you two,” I say in my most over-the-top, sarcastic voice.
“Emmeline who?” says Chloe.
“Pankhurst! Suffragette! Women’s Lib!” I whisper-shout. Then, as she and Kas giggle, I realize they’re still winding me up.
“Oh, ha ha, very funny,” I say, before we all have to stifle our laughter as Mr. Humphrey introduces Leo.
I bet he’s going to sing too, I think. I mean, a popular guy like that doesn’t even need actual talent. He only needs to open his mouth and bark and most of the audience in here will melt.
“And next up we have Leo Jackson, who’s going to perform some stand-up comedy for us this morning.”
Wait, what? I sit bolt upright, like I’ve just been fully inflated, my eyes wide and fixed on Leo.
“Looks like this is more a show for you then, Pig!” whispers Chloe.
“Shh!” I say as I edge to the front of my chair, eyes never straying from their target.
And yes, partly it’s because it’s nice to have an excuse to stare uninterrupted at Leo Jackson who is undeniably (amazingly) good-looking, but mostly it’s because I’ve never seen anyone actually do stand-up comedy live. I’ve only ever watched it—a lot of it—on TV and online before now.
Truth is, I’m kind of obsessed with the funny. I spend hours and hours with comedy and comedians every day. Watching their stand-up acts on the internet, listening to their podcasts, and reading any book on comedy and comedians I can get my hands on. And, when I’m not watching and listening to comedy, I’m secretly writing my own material, and (even more secretly) dreaming that one day I might have the courage to actually perform it. Which I probably never will, but I’m hoping that, maybe in a decade or so, I’ll have had a complete personality overhaul and be able to stomach the idea of publicly baring my soul onstage only to have it potentially shattered and rejected. And funny is my soul—it’s the core of me. I look for it in everything around me, listen out for it in every conversation. And, when you find the funny in this serious world so often full of pain and cruelty, it’s like discovering a diamond in a cave of crap. It’s precious. Maybe more precious than anything.