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same offhand annoyance she treats everybody else with. I like that about her.
    She’s not finished. “You can’t run from reality.”
    “I can’t run, period.”
    The ghost of a smile flashes at the corners of her mouth. “Maybe not a marathon, but you can manage. And here’s the thing. Everybody has something. A deformed foot, a brother in jail, bad gas. Whatever. Life’s a poker hand. We all have to deal. But the bigger person learns not to be defined by the hand they hold. Speaking of holding…” She thrusts a piece of paper at me. “The Seattle Times wants you to call.”
    My heart skips a beat as I look down at the small slip of paper. Dylan Shaw, Seattle Times Entertainment is written in thick black ink. The name is followed by a phone number. “Me?”
    That hint of a smile is back. “I assume so. Unless there’s another Paige Larsson around here.” She turns to go. “You can call him after school. You’ve got work to do. And that’s no laughing matter.”

    When God handed out patience, I was clearly napping, because I have none.
    A reporter from the Seattle Times wants to talk to me . I can’t wait until after school. But I can’t skip math either, so I wait until class is over, and when the bell rings I hurry down the hall to the band wing. After a couple of jocks finish at their lockers, I punch out the number Ms. Vastag gave me.
    “Dylan Shaw.”
    His voice is brisk. I hear someone talking behind him. Maybe he’s busy. Maybe I should I have waited until after school?
    “Hi. This is Paige Larsson.” I sound like a mouse running laps. I take a deep breath. “I’m returning your call.” Oh God, now I sound like an uptight secretary.
    “Right. Hi. Thanks for calling. And congratulations on being shortlisted for the International Teens in Comedy Festival.”
    “Thanks.” I figured on some publicity, but I didn’t figure on it before the event.
    “My boss wants me to do a feature on it for the weekend paper.”
    My breath stalls. A feature! In the weekend paper! Brooke loves the fashion and entertainment section. She loves, loves, loves it. And this week I’ll be in it. Maybe now she’ll take my comedy seriously. My knees start to tremble. I lean against a locker for support. The gray steel is cold through my thin T-shirt.
    “Since you and another teen from Washington State are going to the competition, I thought I’d get quotes from each of you.”
    “Sure.” It’s like I’m channelling Carly, or maybe I’m just remembering what she said to me last Friday, but I manage to answer all his questions without sounding like a mouse or a secretary or anything else embarrassing. It helps that Dylan is easy to talk to and that he quotes the guy from Spokane who made the shortlist in the straight stand-up category.
    “Your YouTube vlogs are great, by the way.”
    “Thanks.” I wonder if he really checked them out or if he’s just saying that.
    “I’d like to pull a visual from the one you did on dating a toaster to run with the article. Would you be okay with that?”
    He has watched them. I had Carly film me while I took my toaster out for pizza and to the movies. Me and toaster boy even went for a romantic walk in the park at the end of the night. And before I started editing, I searched through my royalty-free music file for something really romantic to mix in. It was so good that even I laughed when I played it back. “Sure.”
    “Judging by how funny they are,” he adds, “I’d say you have a great chance of winning.”

Seven
    S aturday morning, I wake up to the sound of a crow being slaughtered.
    Heart pounding, I bolt out from under my covers and stare around my room. Was I was dreaming? Then I hear it again—the silly Ricky Gervais bird ringtone I downloaded last month.
    It’s my phone. I forgot to set it to Silent when I went to bed last night. Grabbing it from the nightstand, I slide back under the covers and peer through sleep-crusted eyes at the screen.
    Three text