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OUR PRELIMINARY ROUND IS SUPPOSED TO BE A CASUAL THING, NOTtelevised but judged in front of a live audience, as in the previous rounds, so I was expecting to perform before, like, twenty, maybe thirty people.

Imagine my horror when I saw the queue stretched around the block and being told the “smaller lounge” in Comedy City, where our prelims would be judged, could hold a hundred people. Apparently, watching young, newish comics is considered a fun outing for New Yorkers?

What’s more: Our main event the next day, which will be held in the main showroom, can hold three hundred nine people! (A very specific number.)

I meet Vern, Royce (both of them ignoring each other), and the other finalists milling about the front of the stage. The showrunner, a lanky man in his thirties, introduces himself as Andy, and gives us a briefing on the proceedings to come. I glance out at the empty lounge and swallow, thinking about the crowd outside waiting to be let in, and my anxiety shoots through the roof in spite of my efforts to control my breathing.

After we’re dismissed from the briefing and directed to head to the holding room, I spy Andy staying back to converse with Vern offstage. Maybe Vern had very specific lighting instructions or whatever. Under the harsh stage lights, I realize he looks unwell, like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Hey you,” a voice says, and I spin around to find Royce smiling at me.

“Royce!” I hug him, breathing in the warm, soapy clean scent that’s his. I think it helps, although I’m not sure it’s done anything to calm my galloping heart.

“I thought you might need some coffee, if you’ve had a night like mine.” He hands me a coffee in one of his collapsible coffee cups. “I got you a flat white on the way here, not sure if it’s still hot.”

“Fancy,” I murmur before downing the coffee in three gulps. Bad idea, since I’ve already had two energy drinks so far today. My stomach clenches and I start to sweat even more. Everything becomes hyper sharp and saturated.

“Whoa, your pupils are dilated,” Royce observes. “Would you like a banana?”

I wave his concern away. “I’m good,” I insist, blinking to moisturize my suddenly dry eyeballs.

Andy comes to check attendance and give us our order of appearance. A comic named Satoshi will open. I’m last.

Last is good. Last is especially good if you end strong.

“Erm, good luck and/or break a leg, and may the wind under your wings bear you and all that,” Royce says.

“Likewise,” I reply.

I head to a secluded corner and avoid everyone else, muttering calming chants like “YOU CAN DO THIS! YOU’RE NUMBER ONE! BE, BE AGGRESSIVE!” the way I do before I run. On the underside of my left hand’s wrist, I have written keys words from my different sets in black marker, with words like Asian parents, Asian kid priorities vs. desires, and gaming/perverts.

I am so wired, I barely follow what’s happening onstage, only vaguely aware when Satoshi is done, then Kitty, whose set I had meant to pay attention to (as Vern kept saying she would be my biggest competitor, being a similar comic to me), then Vern, then Alaia, then Royce, who brings the house down, then my name is called.

I go onstage, ready to crack into things. This is what I have been working toward for most of senior year.

The audience is packed into the lounge at capacity in tight, watchful rows.

I open my mouth, ready to do a quick bit of crowd work before starting on my time-tested bit on how “Asian parents love their kids unconditionally—until.” I’d even prepared my opener—“Anyone here have Asian parents?” to which I would respond with a sympathetic “Let’s talk” to any answers to the affirmative, or “Well, then this is going to go really well” if no one says anything (unlikely, since we’re in NYC).

Instead, nothing comes out of my mouth. In front of the crowd of a hundred people, I go blank.