Unscripted

by Nicole Kronzer

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-4197-4084-8

  eISBN 978-1-68335-824-4

  Text copyright © 2020 Nicole Kronzer

  Book design by Steph Stilwell

  Published in 2020 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher.

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  FOR DANNY, ELIZA

  AND ELEANOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  I stared at the dashboard clock: only two more hours.

  Twisting my frizzy curls into a bun, I tucked the seatbelt under my armpit and pressed my forehead against the Subaru’s window. Now that we were in southern Wyoming, the view was miles of flat grasslands punctuated by bedraggled fence posts that reminded me of old, weathered cowboys.

  I imagined the cowboy fence posts in conversation.

  “What’s up, Earl?”

  “What’s up? As in vertical? Just me, Clyde. And barely at that!”

  I smirked. Some jokes were best left where they started: in my head.

  Small gray mounds suddenly peeked above the horizon.

  I frowned. Were those mounds mountains?

  Mountains meant Colorado. Colorado meant—

  I glanced to my right at my brother, Will—he of the shaggy black hair, and, since crossing into Wyoming, the brand-new boyfriend. While he and Jonas swore up and down when we left Minnesota that they were “just friends,” Jonas was now curled up under Will’s right arm, his eyes closed.

  “Hey, Will,” I whispered, watching him smooth Jonas’s dark brown curls back from his light brown forehead. “There’s only two more hours until we get to camp. Will you run one-liners with me?”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “Nhhh-nnnnn. Jonas is sleeping.”

  Sure he was.

  “Will,” I whispered again.

  His eyes stayed closed.

  I exhaled slowly through my nose and peeked out the window.

  The mountains loomed larger.

  I felt sick.

  You’ve really done it this time, Zelda. You and your huge mouth and your huger ideas. Improv camp? And not just any improv camp, but THE improv camp?

  A road sign promising a rest stop in ten miles whipped past our car at six million miles per hour.

  This trip was going too fast. We were going to be there, and I wasn’t going to be prepared.

  “Will.” I nudged him again.

  He opened one eye.

  “I’m not ready.”

  He closed it again. “Yes, you are. You sent in your script.”

  “I know.”

  “And your space work and character work are good.”

  “But—”

  “They’re good, Zelda, and you know it.”

  “Okay, maybe, but that stuff ’s just about being truthful in the moment and connecting with your fellow players to tell a story. I can do that—”

  “You’re good at that.”

  “Thank you, but, one-liners, Will. I freeze up. Will you please help me?”

  Jonas snuggled deeper into Will’s arm. A sleepy smile crossed Will’s face. “Go to sleep, Z. There’s only two hours left. You’re either ready or you aren’t. And you’re ready.”

  I gritted my teeth.

  How was I supposed to get on the top team when I had a brother more interested in his boyfriend of seven hours than in his panicking sister of seventeen years?

  I dug into my backpack at my feet and pulled out my favorite book on improv comedy: The Scene Must Win by Jane Lloyd. Jane had died more than a decade ago, and I was sad I would never get a chance to actually meet her. But I willed her to give me guidance from the beyond and flipped open to a chapter at random.

  “As a performer,” Jane offered, “avoid asking questions of your fellow player. Instead, make statements and assumptions.”

  Make statements.

  Right. I could do that.

  I leaned in closer to Will. “With two hours,” I said, my voice low, “you could go to an elementary school carnival and win all the goldfish.”

  Eyes still closed, he shook his head. “Zelda. Please.”

  “With two hours,” I said, ignoring him, “you could make a show-stopping Victoria Sponge on The Great British Baking Show.”

  He fought to press down a smile.

  I leaned in even closer. “With two hours,” I stage-whispered, “you could take Jonas on a first date that isn’t getting nachos at a gas station while your parents and sister are spying from the king-size candy bar aisle ten feet away.”

  Now his eyes flew open. “You were where?”

  “With two hours,” I said, raising one eyebrow, “you could create a Spotify playlist for your brand-new boyfriend that isn’t titled ‘Doorway to my Soul.’ Puke, by the way.”

  Will’s arm tensed around Jonas. “Oh, I’m killing you later,” he promised, glaring at me.

  I shrugged. “When you loan your sister your phone, that’s an open invitation for snooping. You must know that.”

  “That’s Zelda’s way of saying that we’re all just so happy for you,” Mom whispered, winking at me in the rearview mirror from the driver’s seat.

  Will blushed furiously.

  “With two hours,” I said, cracking my knuckles, “you could do any of these things, or more! But do you know what would be really great?”

  Will sighed. “I think you’re about to tell me.”

  I threw an arm around his shoulder. “To-spend-those-two-hours-practicing-one-liners-with-your-sister-who-desperately-needs-to-in-order-to-get-on-the-top-team-at-improv-camp!” I punched him in the thigh. “Let’s play World’s Worst.”

  Ta da! Statement!

  “World’s Worst?” Jonas’s eyes flew open.

  Asleep, my ass.

  “I’ll play World’s Worst with you, Zelda,” he offered.

  Will unwrapped his arm from around Jonas with a flash of regret in his eyes. He sighed. “Z, this is our first time at this camp. Don’t count on making any of the top teams, much less the top team. Just relax. Have fun. Don’t care so much.”

  I twitched. “Don’t care so much? Jane Lloyd started this camp!” I thumped The Scene Must Win against his shoulder. “Every year representatives from Second City and iO and UCB come to the final show. Which only the best performers get to be in. If I’m going to be on Saturday Night Live by the time I’m twenty-five, this is my best chance to get a foot in the door. Did you not read anything they sent us? Don’t you remember me talking about this, like, nonstop?”

  Dad groaned, adjusted his Twins baseball cap, and wiped sleep out of his eyes. “I do, Zelda-belle.”

  “Thank you, Dad.” I reached up to the passenger seat and squeezed his arm. “I’m glad someone believes in my dream.”

  Will scoffed. “Come on, Zelda. Jonas and I love improv, too. I’m just tired
—”

  “World’s Worst sibling? Should we start there?” I asked.

  “Hi.” Will smirked. “My name is Zelda.”

  I rolled my eyes. I’d walked right into that one.

  “How about World’s Worst ambulance driver?” Jonas offered. “Or garbage collector?” He dug into his bag. “Tell you what—I’ll make a list.”

  I grinned at my brother. “I really like your boyfriend.”

  Will shook his head at me. “Enjoy this now. Until he learns not to let you manipulate him.”

  I scoffed. “I’m not manipulating him. I’m just a really good convincer.”

  Will snorted.

  I dropped the book on my lap and folded my arms. “This is going to be amazing,” I assured him (and myself). “Mom and Dad will be hiking for two weeks, and you and Jonas and I are going to hone our improv skills in the mountains of Colorado. And isn’t it going to be even better if we make the top team?”

  “For the love of god, Zelda . . .” Will shook his head but the corner of his mouth curved into a small smile. “You’re really lucky I kind of like you and stuff.”

  “I know,” I said, bumping his shoulder with mine.

  My phone buzzed, and I flipped it over.

  AR: Hey. Question for you.

  My heart beat a little faster. Alex was the latest improv guy I had a minor crush on who I was pretty sure did not think of me in that way. Like, as a girl-person he could have feelings for.

  ZBC: Fire away.

  The ellipses danced on my screen as his typed his response. I waited. A question for me. It was probably just about the rehearsal schedule . . . But it could be something else.

  AR: Jenn’s starting rehearsal again on the 25th?

  I grimaced. Or not. But then again, maybe absence would make the heart grow fonder . . .

  ZBC: Yup . . . I’m with Jonas and Will on our way to improv camp in CO! Back in 2 weeks!

  The ellipses again. Responding right away to my text . . . good sign . . .

  AR: Oh, that’s right! Have fun, dude!

  Dude.

  What is that saying? Always a bridesmaid, never a bride? For me it was more like always a friend, never a girlfriend. And at least up until now, Will had been in a similar boat. But suddenly I was the only one in the family who wasn’t in a boat built for two.

  Mom always says you can let yourself drown in self-pity, or you can choose to swim away.

  So fine.

  I flipped my phone over, closed my eyes to regroup, and front-crawled toward the shore: Boyfriend-schmoyfriend, Zelda. You’re going places: Jane Lloyd’s improv camp. Second City. Then Saturday Night Live.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The car had barely come to a stop in the parking area when I threw open the door and jumped out, skidding a little on the gravel because I was too busy looking up at the breathtaking mountains. “Breathtaking” is a doubly accurate description, actually. Breathtaking, because up close, the Rocky Mountains are aggressively beautiful—rocks and trees jut into the sky at impossible angles. But breathtaking as well because it’s really hard to breathe.

  Seriously.

  “We’re at 9,200 feet above sea level,” Dad told us, pointing at small print on the Rocky Mountain Theatre Arts Summer Camp sign in front of the Main Lodge. “That’s nearly two miles!”

  “No wonder it feels like there’s a vise on my lungs,” Will complained, pulling his backpack out of the car.

  “You’ll feel a lot more acclimated in a few days,” a deep voice called out.

  I loaded up a joke about needing to be carried around until then, but when I turned to fire it off at the owner of the deep voice, I choked.

  It was Thor.

  Thor minus the hammer, plus flip-flops.

  A six-foot-tall, tanned, blond Scandinavian god stood before us clad in dark jeans and a baby blue long-sleeve T-shirt pushed up at his elbows.

  “Ben,” he said, shook hands with my parents, then Will, then Jonas, then me. At least he probably shook hands with me. I was a little busy trying to remember how talking worked. Mouth open? Then words?

  “Welcome to RMTA,” he said. “I’m one of the coaches.”

  Coaches? He didn’t look that much older than Will and Jonas and me.

  “You look so young!” Dad exclaimed, adjusting his baseball cap back on his head to get a closer look.

  Even though I had just been thinking the same thing, I stared hard at Dad until he met my eyes. Seeing my reprimand, he shrugged. “What? He does. How old are you?”

  Thor/Ben smiled. “I’m twenty.”

  “Are the other coaches this young?” he pressed.

  “We’re all in our early to midtwenties,” he said, folding his arms.

  “But you’re the earliest of early twenties,” Dad countered. “They put you in charge of people only a couple years younger than you?”

  I tugged on Dad’s elbow to get him to lay off, but Ben took it in stride.

  “It’s experience in the professional world they look for,” he said smoothly. “I’m an actor in LA. I’ve done some film and TV and have been teaching and performing at UCB for two years.”

  “Upright Citizens Brigade,” I translated for my father, “It’s an improv theatre.”

  “I know what UCB is,” Dad said, swatting my hand away. “I listen to you when you talk.”

  Ben raised his eyebrows at me. “You know your stuff.”

  Unable to respond with human verbal language, I smirked and shrugged at Ben and tried to catch Will’s eye to exchange the Uh-Are-You-Seeing-How-Cute-This-Cute-Guy-Is? look. But Will was pulling his suitcase out of the trunk. I took out my phone to text him, because seriously, but Ben interrupted me, lifting my phone between two fingers.

  “No cell service up here.” I melted a little as he slid my phone into a pocket of my backpack. Then I glanced at Will again. Was he seeing this?

  But now Will was hauling Jonas’s suitcase out of the trunk. Jonas protested and tried to take it from him, but Will insisted. There was a lot of smiling. And hand touching. And gagging.

  Wait—that last part was just me.

  Mom must have noticed their “fight,” too. “Uh, Ben, just one little development since these guys applied . . .”

  “Sure,” he said easily, unfolding a packet of papers he retrieved from his back jeans pocket. “Who is this concerning?”

  “William Bailey-Cho,” she began.

  “Mom!” Will abandoned the suitcases and sprinted toward her.

  “And Jonas Eikenberry,” she said, ignoring him.

  “Yes?” Ben asked, ticking off their names.

  “They’re—”

  “Mom,” Will pleaded, nearly bowling her over. “Please.”

  “We’re together.” There was Jonas, holding the suitcases. His quiet voice was proud. There was finality to it.

  “So . . . different cabins then?” Ben asked, skimming his lists.

  Will was too busy basking in the glow of this admission from Jonas to counter Mom and Dad’s insistence of “yes.”

  “You got it.” Ben made a notation on his sheet and turned to me. “And you are?”

  “Nobody who needs to be separated from the boyfriend I suddenly made in Wyoming,” I blurted.

  Ben’s lips twitched.

  I blushed.

  “That makes things easier then,” he said, meeting my eye. “What’s your name?”

  “Zelda.” I swallowed, trying to get saliva flowing in my mouth again. “Zelda Bailey-Cho.” I nodded at Will. “Will’s my brother.”

  Ben paused. He looked at Will, who was now leaning with Jonas against the car, pointing at some nature thing, then at Dad, then at Mom, then back to me.

  “We’re like a Korean/Scottish Brady Bunch.” I smiled.

  He grinned. “Okay. Parents, this is where you say goodbye. It’s an all-improv zone from here on. The cabins are down that path.” He pointed away from the Main Lodge. “Eventually, you’ll move into a cabin with your team, but for to
night, Will, you’re in Bill Murray, Jonas, you’re in Dan Aykroyd, and Zelda, you’re in Gilda Radner.”

  Dad laughed. “The cabins are named after comedians?”

  Warmly, Ben said, “Yes, comedians-slash-improvisers.” He shook my parents’ hands again and approached another pile of people climbing out of their van.

  “I love you,” Mom said, snapping me out of staring at Ben. She hugged me tightly. “Have fun. Learn a lot. I hope you meet great people.” She dropped her voice. “And keep an eye on Will and Jonas.”

  I looped an arm around her neck. “Try and stop me.”

  Then Dad wrapped his arms around me. “Good luck,” he said into my hair. “And be careful.”

  I pulled back. “Be careful of what? Bears?”

  “Different kind of animal, Zelda-belle. There are a million boys here! Plus, there’s no cell service, and Mom and I have never been away from you this long before. So please. Be careful.”

  “Dad,” I chuckled, “boys see me as their funny friend Zelda who can keep track of when rehearsal is. But they don’t like like me.”

  He coughed. “The fact that you think that makes me worry even more.” He looked over my shoulder. I followed his gaze and spotted a line of uniformed Boy Scouts hiking down the road and cutting into a path in the woods.

  “Improv camp and Boy Scout camp?” he grumbled. “This keeps getting worse and worse.”

  “Dad,” I said, whacking his shoulder. “We’re not in some 1950s sitcom here. If you’re going to worry about a thousand boys wanting me, you should be worried about Will, too.”

  “I was until he became besotted with young Jonas over there.”

  We watched Will and Jonas slowly retreat as Mom lectured them about being in a relationship and the importance of communication and listening and if, god forbid, they weren’t going to listen to good sense and reason, condoms.

  Poor Will.

  Dad and I shook our heads at the same time.

  Smiling, I tried (and failed) to take a deep breath. “Look, Dad, if boys notice me, it’s only going to be for my quick wit and excellent collection of flannel shirts.”

  Dad started to speak, then stopped himself.

  “What?” I said.

  His eyes dropped to his feet. “When Will’s mom died, I read this W. H. Auden poem over and over again.”