Unscripted

by Nicole Kronzer

  Paloma whacked Hanna on the leg but nodded. “You can go crazy asking yourself questions like that.”

  My shoulders dropped. “That sucks.”

  “I mean, I definitely have a distinct point of view that’s important,” Hanna added. “It’s smart to include me.”

  I caught Paloma’s eye, and we smiled.

  “I feel that,” Sirena agreed. “But the thought occurs to me, too.” She sighed and laced her fingers through Emily’s.

  Paloma cleared her throat. “We shouldn’t think too hard about it. Zelda’s right. We’re all going to be great. Okay?”

  We nodded and voiced our agreement, but I couldn’t totally shake off my unease.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Will was nowhere to be seen.

  And predictably, neither was Jonas.

  But loads of other people were—all of Gilda Radner, plus probably fifty or sixty guys. Some people were doing vocal warm-ups, others were stretching, and a small group of guys were circled up playing zip-zap-zop. Once again, my fellow Gildas had drifted off to be with their home teams, and so once again, I was alone.

  Still, I was sure Will and Jonas were on their way. I signed all three of us in and sat in the middle of three chairs at the end of an empty row. I put my Second City tote bag on one and flung my arm over the other to save them for Will and Jonas’s inevitable arrival. Because they were coming . . . right?

  Ben plus two other guys in their early twenties hopped up on stage. The zip-zap-zop guys collapsed their circle, everyone found seats, and the crowd fell silent.

  “Okay,” Ben said with an authoritative voice, “Welcome to auditions.”

  Some guys called out, “Woooo! Ben!”

  Ben smirked and continued. “I’m looking for six to eight people for the Varsity team and Roger and Dion here are looking for eight to ten people on each of the Junior Varsity teams. Anyone who doesn’t make Varsity or JV, as well as everyone else who isn’t auditioning, will be put onto Skill-Building teams. Every year, JV performs a show the second-to-last night of camp, and the Varsity team performs the final night for everyone at camp as well as for reps from Second City, iO, and UCB.”

  None of this was news to me, but every time someone mentioned the final show, I got the shivers. I imagined myself up there, sweating under the lights, deep in the moment, sharing the stage with other great performers.

  But there wasn’t time to get lost in my daydream. Ben pressed on. “No matter what, you will be a different performer at the other end of two weeks.”

  I twisted around, searching for a glimpse of Will or Jonas. Were they seriously going to miss this?

  Ben took the pen from behind his ear and tapped it on his clipboard. “Based on this list of everyone who signed in, we’ll split you up into groups of six, and we’ll just do some Montages to start.” He made a notation, replaced his pen behind his ear, and pushed up the sleeves of his white, long-sleeve T-shirt to his elbows. This shirt was tighter than yesterday’s and showed off some serious muscle definition in his arms. Between the missing lover boys and this specimen of male perfection, focus eluded me. I closed my eyes and tried to ground myself.

  “When your group’s called, have one person get an audience suggestion,” Ben continued, “and then you can all go straight into your Montage. Feel free to employ call-back scenes that go forward or backward in time. Give us a minute to make groups, and then we’ll start.”

  I nodded, eyes still closed, and flexed my hands. Trust yourself.

  “What’s a call-back scene?” Emily hissed in my left ear. I jumped and moved my arm to make room for her.

  “ ‘What’s a call-back scene?’ ” I repeated.

  She nodded, eyebrows furrowed.

  I looked up at Sirena, who naturally, was with her. Already I was starting to recognize Sirena’s sympathetic Emily-just-needs-to-hear-it-again-out-loud look.

  “Okay,” I said, tucking my curls behind my ears. “Let’s say the first scene is about a teacher and a student arguing . . . over a test score. You take some element of the first one—maybe testing in this case—and it inspires the next scene to be about . . . cheating on the ACT. The third scene is inspired by that one. Maybe it’s people who are cheating on their spouses.”

  “Because it picked up on cheating from the second scene,” Sirena added.

  I nodded. “So, a fourth scene could build on that last one, or it could ‘call back’ an earlier scene. Like, the teacher and student. But now their argument has gone so far they’re on Judge Judy. That last scene calls back to the first one, putting it forward in time. Call-back scene.”

  “Oh god,” Emily twisted her cardigan in her hands. “That sounds so hard. Is it hard?”

  Sirena put a hand on her back. “This is like a Harold—a series of related scenes. That’s all. We call it Harold, they call it Montage. You’re fine.”

  “I’m fine. It’s just a Harold. It’s just a series of related scenes. I’m fine.”

  “Breathe, Em.”

  “Okay, I’m breathing.”

  “Don’t talk about breathing—just breathe.”

  Emily let out some shuddering breaths.

  Sirena moved her hand to Emily’s lower back and put the other one on her stomach. “Deep breaths, Em. Down here.”

  I didn’t mean to stare, but the calming power in Sirena’s voice and touch and Emily’s now-smooth face and breaths showed a complete trust that made me wish for that kind of connection. I skimmed the room looking for Will and finally caught his eye. I gestured for him to come and sit in my remaining saved chair. We’d have to grab another for Jonas.

  He wove his way through the chairs. “Sorry I’m late.” His lips were very pink and his hair was unusually messy and—

  “Will,” I muttered, moving my bag for him, “your T-shirt is on inside-out.”

  His cheeks flushed. “Seriously?” he asked in a small voice.

  “Yes. Is Jonas waiting a few minutes so it doesn’t look like you were—”

  “Shut up, Zelda.”

  I sighed and shook my head. Suddenly love was everywhere.

  But moping wasn’t going to help me out. I elbowed him. “I’m happy for you. I really am.”

  He looked at me sideways, then suppressed a pleased smile. “Thanks, Z. He’s . . .” He sighed. “I don’t even know. I think he really likes me.”

  I laughed. “Well done, Sherlock. I’ve known that boy liked you since January.”

  “What?”

  “We came back from winter break, and you got that shawl-collar cardigan for Christmas, and he couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Seriously? Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I—I don’t know. I should’ve, I guess.” Why hadn’t I said anything?

  Will shook his head. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter now—”

  “Hey.”

  We looked up. Jonas’s brown eyes melted into my brother’s.

  “At least your shirt’s on right-side out,” I said.

  Jonas brushed the back of Will’s neck and fingered the tag of his T-shirt. He gave him a slow smile. “I wonder how that happened?” he asked.

  “Okay, grab a chair, boyfriend,” I muttered.

  “Shhh—” Will said as Jonas flashed him a look of concern and peeled away to find one.

  “What?” I whispered.

  Will looked around. “We’re not . . . out . . . here.”

  I shifted in my chair to frown at him. “What do you mean? You’ve been out since middle school.” I glanced at Emily and Sirena, who were still lost in their own little world.

  He tugged at his earlobe. “But I don’t know if this place—Jonas has only been out a few months. I guess someone said something in his cabin yesterday that was kinda homophobic, and he’s nervous. It’s fine. We just have to test the waters a little. Put some feelers out. Jonas said at his last school that improv was a major bro zone. And just look at how few girls there are here. We might have to be Will and Jonas,
Excellent Friends.”

  “Instead of Will and Jonas, Passionate Lovers?”

  “Shut up,” he groaned. “You never get to say the word ‘lovers’ again. Ever. Who says ‘lovers’?”

  “Well, you’ve just said it twice.” I grinned. “Okay. I get it. I’m sorry I didn’t think about what it might mean for you to be out in a new place.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Thanks.”

  Jonas returned with the chair and slid in next to Will. I watched them fold their arms and find comfort in making contact shoulder to shoulder, knee-to knee.

  I turned to my left to introduce my new friends to Will and Jonas, but Emily and Sirena were talking to each other in low voices. I looked around at everyone in small groups, chatting. I assumed Hanna and Paloma were sitting with the rest of their team. Everyone had someone but me.

  All three coaches climbed back up on the stage. Ben clicked his pen. “These will be your Round One Long Form groups. Then we’ll take a break and come back for Short Form structures. Finally, we’ll close with some One-Liners.”

  The coach to Ben’s right was a tall, goofy-looking white guy with a mop of light, curly hair. The previous night, he’d played this really funny post office worker who could only give directions using zip codes. He waved good-naturedly. “Uh, in case you forgot from last night, I’m Roger, by the way.”

  The crowd chuckled. Roger smiled crookedly. “I’ve been doing a few shows here and there in Chicago. First summer here. Happy to see you all.”

  “And I’m Dion,” the other coach waved. Even taller than Roger, Dion had dark brown skin and wore his hair in a fade. He’d been great at voices in the show—at one point he’d played Kermit the Frog, and I’d nearly fallen off my chair. “Also here from Chicago,” he continued, “also my first summer. Careful for Roger,” he nodded in his direction. “He’s terrible at Frisbee.”

  In a faux-hurt voice, Roger said, “Hey, now.”

  Dion grinned. “Rest assured—Frisbee in his hand, you will get hit.” The crowd laughed. “Super excited to get started.”

  Roger and Dion looked like string beans standing next to each other. Their easy smiles made me feel excited to get started.

  “Right. And most of you already know me. I’m Ben Porter,” Ben added. He paused like he was waiting for another cheer but there was only light applause and a delayed whoop. I tried to catch his eye, but if he saw me, he didn’t respond.

  Ben called off six names, including mine and Hanna’s. As I climbed the stairs to the stage, my stomach flopped over. I grabbed Hanna’s hand and squeezed it, but none of the other guys would look at me. I frowned. Improv is all about trust. You’re getting on stage without a script or even characters. It’s all about eye contact and nonverbal communication. How was I going to be able to show the coaches the kind of performer I was when most of my scene partners wouldn’t even look at me?

  “Whoa!” One of the people in our Montage pointed at something on the horizon and started pacing back and forth.

  No one jumped to join him.

  “What is that?”

  Hanna leaned next to me and whispered, “There’s a winner of a start.”

  Clearly, this guy had no idea what he was doing. Or, I considered, maybe he just clapped the last scene out on a high note and jumped in without an idea for the next one. Maybe he was sacrificing himself. I took a deep breath. Okay. What’s something he could be pointing at? . . .

  I mimed holding onto a tray and put on my best popcorn vendor voice. “Eclipse glasses!” I called out, joining the guy on stage. “Get your solar eclipse glasses here!” A rumble of laughter rolled across the audience.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I’m—”

  “What are you doing here?”

  My scene partner had interrupted me, which happens sometimes, but the bigger problem was he had just asked three questions in a row. Questions can be the death of an improv scene because it makes the other person do all the heavy lifting. Luckily, I was up for the challenge. Make statements and assumptions.

  I clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Why, sonny, the solar eclipse is coming in less than three minutes.”

  “Solar eclipse?”

  “Yes! It’s a meteorological marvel! But if you stare into the sun, you’ll go blind—so get your eclipse glasses right here! Only twenty bucks!”

  “Twenty bucks?”

  This guy was either super nervous or a parrot. I raised my voice. “Perhaps you’re hard of hearing! The solar eclipse is coming! And I did say twenty dollars!”

  The audience laughed.

  “What do I need eclipse glasses for?”

  Oh my god. So many questions. Okay. Time for my foolproof fallback: knowing the guy. “Wait a minute. Jerry?”

  “Huh?”

  “Jerry Feldemeier?” I mimed setting down my tray and turned to him so we were eye to eye. “Look at you, son! You’ve grown so much! I remember when you were knee-high to a grasshopper! Tell your mom Agnes Ruffles says hello!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Yeah, I will.”

  “And for old time’s sakes, kid, take a pair of eclipse glasses on me.”

  In the end, our Montage went fairly well, but it wasn’t my best work. We did get a big laugh in the last scene when I called back Agnes Ruffles, though. The scene took place in a movie theater, and I came out as Agnes Ruffles selling 3-D glasses to the moviegoers. That’s one of my favorite things to do in Montage. Most people have nearly forgotten the earlier scenes, and so the audience gets to experience the joy of remembering coupled with the warm feeling of an inside joke. I love it when it works out.

  “You are very funny,” Hanna rumbled in my ear as we climbed off the stage.

  “So are you.” I smiled and high-fived her. “You have amazing timing.”

  “Thanks, but you, Zelda-girl, you have something special.”

  I blushed a little. “That’s really nice of—”

  “I didn’t know they let vampires in here,” a guy in the next group said to his friend, passing us on their way to the stage.

  I frowned, but a quarter-second too late, realized the vampire jibe had been directed at Hanna.

  “He—” I began, pointing behind me at the guy.

  Hanna lowered my hand and just shook her head. “It’s fine, Zelda-girl. Normally I’d skewer them, but today I’m saving my best lines for the stage.”

  I laughed. “You are awesome, and those guys are idiots.”

  “Damn straight.” Hanna high-fived me and retreated to Paloma and her crew, and by the time I returned to my seat, Will was already in position for his Montage group. Emily was up, too.

  Unfortunately, Emily was too anxious to be her best self. At one point, she played a really funny newscaster who was so nervous, she couldn’t remember any of the news, and later managed a spot-on Irish accent, but the guys she was performing with mostly sidelined her. After the third scene, where she played someone’s mom, a guy behind me whispered, “That fat girl is really bombing.”

  His friend chuckled and whispered back, “What did you expect?”

  I frowned, wishing I was the kind of person who would just turn around and pummel those asshats. Instead, I looked over my shoulder and threw eye-daggers at them.

  Peering out from under their baseball caps, the one with a gap in his front teeth grabbed his crotch and the one with close-set eyes glared back and flipped me off. I looked to the coaches to see if anyone was paying attention to the cretins, but the coaches were spread around the room, eyes on the stage.

  Geez, I thought. Bro zone doesn’t even begin to cover it.

  Two hours later, it was time for the One-Liner round.

  I turned to Will for reassurance, but he was digging through my bag.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed.

  “Jonas has a nosebleed.”

  I leaned forward to look at him, and sure enough, Jonas was pinching his nose and tilting his head back, but blood was running down his chin.
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  “Good god—take that blood faucet to the bathroom.” I pushed Will to standing. Leading Jonas by the elbow, Will helped them edge their way out.

  As I watched them go, my group was called. I took a deep breath and trotted up on stage. Unfortunately, Crotch-grabber and Finger-flipper stood on either side of me. My weakest aspect of improv next to two sexist body-shamers. Awesome. With the Gildas distracted by their teams and Will and Jonas gone, I looked up for some support from Ben, but his eyes slid past mine.

  “Last round,” Ben said, looking at his clipboard. “Most high schoolers don’t play this game because it involves . . . a bar-going culture, but I think you can handle it. It’s called 185.”

  “We play it!” Hanna and Paloma’s group shouted.

  “You do?” Ben asked. “Where are you from?”

  “Wisconsin, baby!” Hanna yelled. The rest cheered.

  “Ah, well, there you go.” Ben smiled.

  They mostly missed trying to give each other high fives.

  “Okay, it goes like this,” Ben continued. “You get a list of occupations from the audience, then the controller doles them out. For the purposes of the audition, we’ll skip that part, and I’ll just give you the occupations.”

  “Or I can do that,” Dion offered.

  “I’ll do it,” Ben insisted.

  Dion shrugged and leaned back against a pillar.

  “So, I’ll say ‘doctors,’ for instance. When you’re ready, you step forward and say, ‘185 doctors walk into a bar. The bartender says, “We don’t serve doctors here,” and the doctors say_____,’ and then you insert a pun. Like, ‘We only wanted a shot!’ ”

  This line earned Ben some groans and a few laughs. “It’s just an example,” he said, grinning. “Okay. Got it?”

  I nodded, my stomach suddenly home to a kaleidoscope of butterflies.

  “Okay. 185 . . . lawyers,” Ben called out.

  Crotch-grabber stepped up. “185 lawyers walk into a bar. The bartender says, ‘We don’t serve lawyers here,’ and the lawyers say, ‘Then how will we pass the bar exam?’ ”

  Crotch-grabber smiled, all his teeth showing, seeming pleased by his laugh-to-groan ratio.