Her story
Marty is fifteen and can make almost anybody laugh, especially when she does not want them asking how she feels. She is the Studio's class clown by acclamation: nobody voted, everybody just knew. When the charter bus broke down and six kids faced summer camp in a short bus, Marty turned the whole disaster into a show. "Rule number one," she announced. "Just be cool." For the first time that morning, somebody laughed. Then somebody else did.
Her signature bit is the camp-Chadwick impression: the giant grin, the guitar poses, the extremely serious hand motions. Even Sally laughed so hard she snorted. Marty also named Biscuit, the scruffy stray who wandered out of the woods in the middle of a card game. Nobody argued. He stayed.
The clowning is real, and so is what sits underneath it. Late one night, thinking everyone was asleep, Marty stopped being funny and sang, very softly, a song about carrying bad things inside and wishing she could turn them upside down and shake them loose. That is Marty in one story: the laugh comes first, and the heart is right behind it.