Chapter 1: Sunny and Ahmed
The Just-Say-So Comedy Club
To my readers: this is a first draft. I don’t know how long it will end up being. I think it is a novella, but sometimes things change when I am writing. It could end up being longer than I think. I won’t record these chapters, because things probably will change along the way, and I prefer to record when it is finished. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this story as it progresses! What do you want to know that I haven’t said? What annoys you? What would make it a better story from your perspective? Crossing my fingers that you like it.
I know I’m sinning when I step on the stage at the Just-Say-So Comedy Club. Shivers crawl over me and every hair stands up like an electric storm’s comin’. Lightning bolts will surely strike me dead as soon as I take my place behind the microphone. I step up to it and look at the crowd—mostly people close to my own age, some sipping on beers, and others on sodas. People talk like everything is normal; they aren’t even paying attention. I spot Brit at the table where I just left her. She smiles, expectant, encouraging. I know what she’s really thinking. She wants me to bomb big, and I probably will. I don’t know another soul in the audience, praise Jesus.
You may wonder how I ended up in this den of sin. It happened because Daddy and Mommy sent me to spend a few nights at Brit’s, ‘cause Daddy’s guest preaching in some towns in Nevada, and Mommy’s goin’ with him.
“I think I’m old enough to stay home alone,” I say. “Not like I’m gonna have a party or burn the house down.”
“Sweet Sunny Day,” Daddy says, “it isn’t you I don’t trust; it’s all those sinners out there who might take advantage of you.”
“I have no idea what that means, Daddy,” I say. “It’s not like Brit’s gonna save me from sinnin’.” That last part blasts right past him. Brit is the worst kind of sinner.
“Mommy, tell Daddy how responsible I am.” She never stands up for me. “I don’t need a babysitter—especially not Brittany Larson. I’m an adult!” I keep tellin’ them that, but they’ll never see me that way. You’re special, they say.
Mommy just stands there like always, with a confused expression on her face. She never stands up to anyone—or, for anyone—especially not herself.
“Brit and you’ll have fun, sweet girl,” Mommy says. “It isn’t a choice.” She always uses a tone with me, like I’m a little child.
Me and Brit have known each other our whole lives—we grew up together in Daddy’s church—the Lighthouse—but were never exactly friends. At school, Brit was one of the “in” girls—an untouchable that all of us wanna-be’s wanted to be.
At church, under the watchful eyes of parents, Brit was kind and sweet. At school, she was mean as a hornet. I, who’d do anything to blend in with the kids, was easy pickings for Brit’s amusement. One time at school, she told me one of the popular boys had a crush on me, and convinced me to send him a note tellin’ him I liked him. You can guess how that went. It was always somethin’ with her. Think I’d learn.
Rachael, my cousin—a true friend—was in the same year as me. She came to my rescue more than one time. She weren’t popular, but she knew what a snake Brit was. She told Brit, “You’re an awful person, and you’ll go to hell for your mean spirit.” Brit laughed. Evil, she is.
Afterward, Rachael said, “Sunny, you need to quit being so gullible. You trust people way too much.”
That’s probably true.
Mommy said, “Honey, it’s not your fault. People take advantage of you ‘cause you’re slow.”
Slow—what does that even mean?
How I wish Rachael were here now instead of Brit. I wouldn’t be in this mess, standing up here on this stage. But she’s not—she’s in college at Grace Haven, a college started by the founders of the Lighthouse.
All our lives, Brit and I were forced to pretend we was friends, owing to being the same age, going to the same church, and the fact that our parents was such good friends.
Then, after high school, somehow Brit landed herself a nice job as Daddy’s assistant. Mommy did the job up ’til then but said she was done. Not sure what happened that made her up and quit, but Daddy must’ve done somethin’ that made her mad, mad enough to get Brit hired on. That was a couple years ago, and now Brit acts like she’s the boss of everything—including me.
After Daddy and Mommy leave, I pack up my stuff for the night—a little backpack with a change of clothes and my ukulele. If I’m lucky, Brit’ll have a date and’ll leave me alone tonight—that’s what usually happens. I’ll strum and sing a made-up song.
She lives just four blocks away. The evening is warm, and the breeze carries the smell of orange blossoms. Citrus Grove is heaven on earth in April.
Brit’s house is cute—a small bungalow with a white picket fence. I’m ashamed to say, it fills me with envy. Her parents gave her the money for the down payment. Mine’ll never do somethin’ like that for me.
I turn up her walk. She’s sittin’ in the sun on a towel on the lawn. Her tanned legs glisten.
“Hey, Sunny,” she says. “Glad you finally got your sorry ass over here.”
“Didn’t think to hurry,” I say.
“You never do.”
I ignore her insult. “I’m just gonna take my stuff inside.”
“Suit yourself,” Brit says.
A few minutes after I’ve gone in and taken my stuff to her extra bedroom, the screen door slams.
“Hey, Sunny,” Brit says, “I’m going to a comedy club tonight to meet up with some friends. You wanna come?”
“Um,” I say, “not sure I should.” I know if Daddy knew, he’d be real mad.
“Should doesn’t have anything to do with it,” Brit says. “Your mom and dad are in a different state! I won’t tell. Come on. It’ll be fun. Some of my friends’ll be there—one of them is a cute guy who’s gonna perform—yer gonna love him.”
The bells and whistles should’ve gone off, but they didn’t. “Well, okay, I guess it sounds kind a fun.”
“Why don’t you bring your uke too?” Brit says. “We’re gonna build a bonfire at the lake and sit around, it would be nice to have some entertainment.”
We ride in the Toyota Corolla Brit got for her high school graduation—it’s real nice, and she keeps it clean. I wish I knew how to drive, but I never will. Daddy said it would be a disaster. When we get in the car she puts on some music I never heard—a country song.
“What’s this?” I say.
“You don’t know?” Brit says. “Good Girl” by Carrie Underwood—a song about you.”
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“You’re pretty good,” she says.
She’s makin’ fun of me, so I don’t say anything. I like the song. It’s got a good beat.
Daddy says most music is the work of the devil. We only listen to hymns and Christian radio. I like making up my own songs. Sad songs. Happy songs. Songs about love.
The Just-Say-So Comedy Club is on the outskirts of San Diego, not too far from Citrus Grove. I’ve never been in a club, let alone a comedy club—no idea what to expect.
When we go in, it’s real dark inside, except the stage area that’s all lit up. Brit stops and signs a paper by the entry.
“You a member of this club?” I ask.
“Yeah, right, that’s it,” she says.
I follow her to a table where some people are already sitting.
“Hey guys, I’m here!” Brit says, like they’ve been holding their breath waiting for her to arrive.
“Oh, hey,” one of the guys says. “Have a seat. Who’s your friend?”
“Oh, this is Sunny, the girl I told you about.” She winks.
That wink doesn’t go by me. I’ve seen Brit do that too many times not to know it means she has somethin’ nasty up her sleeve.
“Nice to meet you, Sunny. My name’s Ahmed,” he says, reaching out his hand to shake. I reach out and shake it back. He’s grinning. I’ve never seen someone with skin as black as his, or teeth so white. He wears his hair in tiny little braids against his head.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. Is this the guy Brit was talking about? Daddy wouldn’t like him. He don’t like Black people. Says they’re lazy do-nothings. I wouldn’t know. Ahmed seems nice.
I sit down between him and Brit. I can’t take my eyes off Ahmed. We don’t have any Blacks in Citrus Grove, just a bunch of Mexicans who pick fruit. He’s handsome. I doubt he’ll like me.
A guy is up on stage talking. He’s not even a little funny, but everybody’s laughing. Every other word that comes out of his mouth is a swear word, and he’s saying a lot of dirty stuff too. I kind of like that part. He talks for about five minutes, then walks off the stage.
The announcer comes up. “Next up, we would like to welcome Sunny Day! Come on up and give us what you got.”
“Get on up there, girl,” Ahmed says. “Brit says you’re funny as hell.”
I should’ve seen this coming.