After that audience had treated me like a Mickey Larynx apologist, I could’ve gone the DIY route, filming myself doing micro-impersonations and posting them on social media. And if that felt too overwhelming, I could’ve kept writing down every funny thing the twins ever did or said, just to keep my creative muscles strong. Just to tell my inner artist child I hadn’t given up. After all, success wasn’t just doing stand-up to a packed theater of adoring fans. Success was continuing to tend to the little fire of my creativity, no matter what.
Taking downtime to recalibrate after my mom died made sense—the rawness of my grief demanded a fallow period. But that time of composting didn’t have to be the end of my creative life. I could see that now!Even if the gatekeepers of comedy never allowed me to have a stand-up special, I could still make my art. I could still write jokes. And if jokes weren’t available to me, I could watch great comedy. I could pay attention to the funny grandpa cliques at Dawson Taylor or hilarious kids at the roller rink. I could go to pole dancing class. I could fill the well.
And it wasn’t just that I’d let my career go. When I moved to Boise, I dug into isolation. But did my parenting life have to be so solitary? I could check in with my LA friends—who’d called for months before finally giving up on me. And if I ran into someone I knew, I could say hello instead of hiding. Maybe the first Stop-and-Chat after I hadn’t seen someone in years would involve questions about Mickey Larynx and my tanked career, but the second one certainly wouldn’t. Hell, I could even chat with other moms at soccer practice.
During my big fight with Emmylou, she said my mom wouldn’t’ve wanted me to use grieving as an excuse to quit comedy. That had made me volcanically furious because Emmylou was right. I’d felt so guilty since my mom died because I’d taken all that money she’d sent me. Money she’d needed for herself! But she sent it because she believed in me and my dreams. Continuing to follow those dreams was a way to honor her.
Grief was like a Boise winter. A grayscale, seemingly endless time when the earth and sky looked like concrete. But suddenly I could hear my mother’s voice saying, “Winter seems like it will last forever, but that spring thaw is coming, girls.”
There would be risks with thawing out, trying again, being vulnerable. But Emmylou was right: It was time. I’d loved my mom—God, how I loved her. Losing her sucked beyond all imagining. But it didn’t mean I had to lay down in the snowbank and die. I had to keep slogging toward happiness. The only way to be the sort of woman and mother I wanted to be was to keep reaching for my creative potential and for the life my kids deserved.
Making things right wouldn’t happen overnight. But I’d start bytaking the tiniest, most obvious step. I’d make my first attempt at a comedy comeback. It didn’t matter if it was at an event that wouldn’t register a blip on the coastal comedy scenes. I had to start somewhere.
But I couldn’t start afresh as an extrovert and public performer with Ralphie and Errol cruising the streets of Boise hoping to dismember me—or worse. Boise was a small enough town that they’d find me eventually. Or, more likely, they’d grab Miranda on her way out for a grocery run and she’d tell them everything. I had to move fast—and control how and when they came for me. Ralphie and Errol needed to go to prison for all they’d done. They still had the plans for Day of the Rope and probably more explosives. They had to be stopped before they and their IDIOT buddies attacked the capitol—in eleven days. I’d never met Baylee, but I was partially responsible for Errol chopping off her finger—where was she now? She might still need help.
It was time to put this dark chapter of my life behind me. But I couldn’t do it alone. I needed help too. Now that I knew I was innocent, it might be time to open up to Nate, at least a little bit.
“Hold tight,” I told the girls as I rose to my feet. “I’ll be right back.”
I stood outside the Library!, watching the twins through the glass front window, breath fogging as I dialed. But I wasn’t calling Nate. Not yet.
“Tilly! My friend!” Miley O’Riley answered, sounding genuinely happy to hear from me.
“Hey, Miley. You know that comedy set you’ve been trying to get me to do?”
“At the festival tomorrow! Of course. I talked to your girl Layna. We’ve got your friend Shade on the books to do a quick number for us.”
“Oh, awesome!” I said. I’d forgotten all about that. “Is it too late for me to join the lineup?” I was talking fast. “I’d have to perform as my alter ego, Nikita. I don’t want my real name on the advertising. I’m trying out some new material.”
“We can squeeze you in! This is going to be more epic than your talent show.”
“Don’t remind me.” I laughed. Junior year, I’d done a skit dressed up as Pat fromSaturday Night Live. “Though I’m glad Pat’s been reclaimed as an icon. But I have one other request.” Through the window, I could see Alice’s lips moving toAmelia Bedelia. Meanwhile, Phoebe was rubbing the page as if trying to actually pat the Narwhal.Screw the iPad, I thought.
“For you? Anything,” Miley said.
“Could you make a flyer? One with my photo and stage name on it? One I could blow up to poster size?”
“Tilly, the festival is tomorrow.”
“It’s important. I’d do it myself but I do not have the requisite design skills.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ve got a bored intern here,” Miley said. “I’ll get him right on it. Send me your headshot and stage name now, okay? He’ll turn it around quick.”
“Thank you! Thank you so much. And not to be pushy, but are there other ways to get the word out this late in the game?”
“I’ll put it on all our socials,” Miley said. “It’ll be tight but I can probably push for my pals atBoise Weeklyand theStatesmanto add your stage name to morning announcements on their websites too.”
“You’re a rock star,” I gushed. “An MVP. A total she-beast!”
Now I had less than twenty-four hours to get the ATF on board, make sure Ralphie and Errol would know where to find me, and put together a comeback-worthy comedy set.
Forty-Three
Holding each twin by a hand, I marched to the entrance of Huckleberry’s. Inside the foyer, a bouncer I didn’t recognize gave us the once-over.
“Aren’t they a little young to be auditioning?” he asked. He looked at Phoebe. “It’s gonna be real sad to see you on the pole.” To Alice, who was sporting her Betty White face mask, he said, “Hey, why don’t you and me go rob a bank?”
“Very funny,” I said. “I just need to duck in for a minute and talk to Cheyenne.”
