Unscripted

by Nicole Kronzer

“We were all in that room, Ben. We all heard that laughter. The pilot part is the best part. I—this isn’t—”

  Sirena’s breathing grew louder.

  “Look.” He spread his legs wide and leaned his knees on his elbows. “All the best writers work in teams. Poehler and Fey, McKay and Ferrell, Nichols and May . . .”

  I was getting tired of arguing with him all the time about our differences in improv philosophy. But all the fire was gone from this script—my script. “I liked it the other way,” I finally said.

  “And I like it this way. And I’m the coach.” He shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”

  I looked over at Sirena’s face, which had turned into a looming thunderstorm.

  “Are you saying if I don’t agree with your changes . . .”

  “We’ll cut this cold open and do the one I wrote instead. You’d be in it—you’d play Marcy. I wrote her for you anyway.”

  “The team hated that sketch.”

  “Not the version we revised after you left.”

  I wanted to scream. He had backed me into a corner—either I share writing credit for this terrible new script, or I humiliate myself in his porn-adjacent piece of crap.

  Which improv rule was going to help me now?

  “You know what?” I said, “I’m not feeling well.” I picked up my bag. “Cramps. You do whatever you want.” I turned on my heel, and Sirena put her arm around my shoulder.

  “Asshole,” she muttered.

  “What was that?” Ben called lightly.

  “I said you’re an asshole.” Sirena turned and faced him. “You’re a jerk. Roger and Dion think so. Everyone on JV thinks so.”

  I pulled at Sirena’s sleeve. “Come on. It’s not worth it.”

  Ben smiled. “Sour grapes.” He shrugged. “Not everyone can be on the top team. Or can coach it.” He turned to me. “Take care of yourself. See you in the morning.”

  “Actually, it’s a free morning, remember?” I said. “I’ll see you in the afternoon.”

  Sirena and I flew out of the rehearsal room. Neither of us spoke until we hit the trail to the cabins.

  “Thank you for being in there with me,” I said.

  Sirena nodded. “He’s slippery, that one. Like—he says nice things, but you know he isn’t nice. Like, you’re the best ‘female’ performer he’s seen? Why the qualifier?”

  I shook my head. “Girls aren’t that funny. Haven’t you heard?”

  She snorted.

  “I don’t know what to do, Sirena,” I said. Gilda Radner was just around the corner. All I wanted was to curl up and sleep.

  “Maybe when this whole thing is done, you write a letter to the Pauls,” she suggested.

  “Yeah. Good idea. But now? The sketch?”

  “I don’t know.”

  We climbed the steps to our porch. I tugged at her elbow. “Thanks for . . .” I took a breath. “Thanks for knowing I needed you.”

  She bent down to hug me, chuckling. “Yeah . . . you’re welcome. We’re all here for you, you know. I know you’re doing this partly for us. Even though you don’t have to.” She pulled back and gave me a meaningful look.

  I blew air between my lips. “It’s a mess. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

  “Zelda!”

  I turned at Will’s voice.

  “Hey!” I called out.

  As he jogged up to the porch, the front door opened and Emily popped her head out. “Hi! Everyone else is going to the bonfire. Wanna come? I was just grabbing us hoodies.”

  “Yeah!” Sirena exclaimed. Will and I followed Sirena into the cabin and she took the hoodie from Emily’s outstretched hand. Then she touched my shoulder. “You coming? We can talk about what you should do about the sketch.”

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Zelda and I will be right there,” Will said, smiling.

  Sirena and Emily wiggled into warmer clothes, then walked off together toward the fire.

  “Did you talk to Jesse? And everyone?” I blurted as soon as they were out of earshot.

  Will gave me a slow smile. “I did.”

  From behind his back, he produced a handful of wild flowers. “These are for you.”

  My eyes widened.

  “And so is this.” Between his pointer and middle fingers, he held a note folded in quarters.

  He transferred the flowers to me—they were held together with a twist tie and a lavender ribbon those Boy Scouts had procured from god knows where. But when I reached for the note, Will jerked it away.

  “Hey,” I protested.

  “Z. What does your stomach feel like?”

  I frowned. “Like a stomach.” I reached for the note again, and he pocketed it.

  “Hey!”

  He folded his arms. “Z. Listen carefully. I’m going to paint a picture for you.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I’m standing at the gate—6:58, your Jesse—”

  “He’s not my Jesse—”

  “Your Jesse arrives. Alone.”

  I examined the ceiling to avoid looking at Will’s cocky grin. “I wonder why Murph and Ricky couldn’t come.”

  Will shook his head and slowed the pace of his speech like he was speaking to a small child, poking my shoulder with each word. “He was wearing a shirt with buttons.”

  “Are you drunk?”

  Will threw up his hands. “Z! This guy likes you!”

  “No, he—”

  “Zelda Bailey-Cho, I swear to god—”

  “Look. I bet Ricky and Murph were busy. It was just a walk. And so what if his shirt had buttons? Lots of shirts have—”

  “Okay. Once again from the top.” He gripped both of my shoulders. “Z. I am a guy. I know guys. This guy’s eyes, when I told him where you were, were deflated. A sports ball of some kind. With no air.”

  “Really?” I asked in a small voice.

  He nodded, still clutching my shoulders. “I handed him your note and those eyes lit up like a Christmas tree in Times Square.”

  “There’s already a lot of light in Times Square,” I said, “so a Christmas tree wouldn’t really—”

  He threw up his hands. “In a dark field in southwestern Minnesota in the middle of nowhere so they had to bring in a generator, just for the lights on the tree. Okay? Lit. Up.”

  I pursed my lips to push down a smile.

  “He read the note.” Will paused for dramatic effect. “And he laughed.”

  “Yeah?”

  Will nodded. “That guy’s eyes when he laughs—”

  “Right?” I blubbered. “His face just transforms into—”

  Will’s cocky grin was back. “He likes you. And I can tell—you like him, too.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek, not ready to give myself over to believing him. “So, your evidence, just to be clear, is eye deflation, eye brightening, laughing at my jokes, and shirt buttons?”

  “And the way you pretend to wonder why Ricky and Murph weren’t there! And flowers! And this note!” He fished in his back pocket for it but still held it out of reach. “But first—”

  I rolled my eyes again.

  “How does your stomach feel?”

  I wanted to jump up and down and be excited—I really did. But— “It feels . . . worried.”

  “Worried?”

  “Look. I’m here for improv. And Ben—”

  “I hate that guy.”

  “I know. You’ll hate him even more after I tell you what he did to my script.”

  Will just growled.

  “Apparently, I have terrible instincts when it comes to guys.”

  “Z—”

  “Ben is awful, but I liked him. I wanted him to touch me. To kiss me. Well, at first. Until I realized I was terrible at kissing—”

  “I told you—”

  “I know, I know. At the very least, jury’s out. But what’s not to say Jesse’s terrible in some terrible way? Clearly, I can’t trust my instincts. So, what do I trust?”

 
Will closed his eyes. He exhaled and opened them again, smiling. “Look. You knew Jonas liked me before I did. Those are instincts.”

  “So, I have them about other people but not for myself.”

  “Maybe it’s easier to see these things for other people. While I couldn’t see that Jonas liked me, I knew Ben was bad news. And I have good feelings about Jesse. Maybe this is what siblings are for. To clearly see the things the other person is too close to see.”

  I glanced at the flowers. I’d noticed the small, bright yellow ones, and the kind with the long, dark coral petals in the fields around camp. But somehow, they were even lovelier together.

  “You have two jobs before you come to this bonfire,” he said. “In this order: One, make a list of the ways Ben is an asshole. Two, read Jesse’s note. That order. Promise me.”

  I nodded and lay the flowers on the dresser. He handed over the note.

  I immediately unfolded it.

  “Zelda!”

  “I’m my own woman, and you can’t tell me what to do!” I pushed him out of the cabin, swung the screen door closed, and locked it.

  He laughed and yelled, “Please do the other thing!”

  “I will if I feel like it!”

  “Fine.” Smirking, he shook his head and disappeared.

  I threw my bag onto Mattress Island, kicked off my shoes, and somersaulted into a spread eagle. Then I rolled over on my stomach and smoothed out Jesse’s note.

  Hey, Zelda—

  The disappointment is not all yours. Don’t be selfish. Unfortunately, I’m not free tomorrow night because we have a very cult-y, all-camp ceremony. Will says you don’t have a scheduled practice tomorrow morning, but that Ben has been playing pretty fast and loose with the calendar. If you find that you’re free, I’m on rock cairn duty, and I’d love to show you a new hike. I’ll wait at our big rock around 11:30 for a little while and hope you can make it.

  Don’t worry about bringing food—I’ll make us each a sandwich for lunch. If you can’t come, I’ll just eat your sandwich.

  You know, I usually wish I’d brought a second sandwich, so maybe I’ll just make myself two sandwiches—three sandwiches total. Unless you want two, too? Tell you what—I’ll bring four sandwiches. Don’t feel pressure to eat two, you can just eat—

  (Your brother has just told me to knock it off with the sandwiches already. I am deferring to his better judgment.)

  I’ll also be at the gate Monday night at 7. We can try for that night walk again. Or you can send your brother with excuses. (Now he’s telling me to wrap it up. He’s very funny, btw. I can tell you’re related.)

  Reclaiming my half of the disappointment,

  Jesse

  I closed my eyes. How did my stomach feel? Like it wanted to flip over. Like it wanted to gush and analyze every word of this note. Like it wanted to beg Will for all the details—how long did it take him to write it? Did he chew on the back of the pen when he was thinking? Bite his lip?

  Maybe I should run over to the Boy Scout camp and find Jesse now. Tell him I got out of rehearsal early.

  Make active choices.

  Running to Boy Scout camp at night, though. That was ridiculous.

  Wasn’t it?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I scrambled to my feet and dug around in my bag for The Scene Must Win, opening it at random. Okay, Jane. Should I go and try to find Jesse?

  “It can be very tempting to reach for the cheap, base joke,” the book declared. “Bodily functions can certainly be funny, but they rarely serve as solid foundation for a scene.”

  I frowned. That didn’t really fit my situation. I closed my eyes. Maybe Jane couldn’t be bothered with such trivialities as whether or not to visit a boy. I changed my question. What should I do about the cold open situation? I flipped through the pages again.

  “An improv team can be comprised of as few as three players and as many as—”

  I exhaled sharply. Come on, Jane. I need you.

  “Zelda?”

  My heart slammed against my chest. I bolted upright on Mattress Island and peeked over my shoulder. I exhaled. It was just Dion and Roger.

  “Hi!” I said, clambering to my feet. “What are you guys doing here?’

  I unlocked the door, and Roger and Dion stepped across the threshold, their tall forms filling the space.

  “Hey,” they said together. Roger swept off his stocking cap and pointed at Mattress Island. “That’s cool. Looks like fun.” He gave me a small smile. “The Gildas said you were here. Aren’t you coming to the bonfire?”

  Dion held up a bag of comically large marshmallows. “We’re bringing back reinforcements.”

  I chuckled. Was I going to the bonfire? I touched Jesse’s note in my back pocket. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to go tearing off at night to a Boy Scout camp all by myself, especially when I’d never been there. But even if I didn’t go to Boy Scout camp, I wasn’t really in the mood for a bonfire where I’d have to face Ben again so quickly. “Um . . .”

  “Come on,” Dion said. He tossed the bag of marshmallows to me, and I caught it, surprising myself. “Paul DeLuca has a fire extinguisher under his arm, but he isn’t standing close enough to the bonfire for P2’s money.”

  Roger nodded. “Paul DeLuca refuses to relinquish the fire extinguisher and also refuses to stand any closer to the bonfire because it makes him ‘too hot,’ and Paul Paulsen is so agitated about the whole thing, I think he might turn in on himself and implode.”

  “Which would cause another fire,” Dion added. He looked to Roger. “More room to roast marshmallows.”

  Roger grinned and nodded at me. “You don’t want to miss that.”

  I chuckled.

  “So, are you coming?” Dion asked. “Now that you’re in charge of the marshmallows?”

  I looked down at the clear plastic bag and squeezed it a little.

  “Nobody from Varsity’s there,” Roger added quietly.

  I jerked up my head and then coughed to cover it. “Oh, okay,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as offhanded as possible. “Whatever. Uh, yeah. Bonfire sounds great. Let’s go.”

  I grabbed a hoodie off my bunk and slipped into my Chacos by the door. Roger and Dion might have exchanged a glance somewhere in there, but I didn’t look up to find out.

  I threw open the screen door. “After you.”

  They preceded me out of the cabin. It was starting to get dark, but we could still see well enough to safely traverse down a set of log steps to a clearing at the bottom of the hill. There, by a wide stream, the bonfire was already blazing.

  “You guys took the long way to get more marshmallows!” a deep voice called out. “Where have you been? My sugar high is crashing!”

  I tossed the bag to the guy.

  “Victory!” he shouted, thrusting the bag of giant marshmallows above his head.

  Before he could open it, however, the kid who I’d seen playing Seeker in the Quidditch match leapt into the air and yoinked the bag out of his hands.

  Deep-voice guy barreled after the Seeker into the woods with Paul Paulsen half shuffling/half chasing them, calling out, “Boys? Boys!”

  Dion and Roger patted me on the back. “Have fun,” Dion said. “Okay?”

  I nodded, forced a smile, and they were absorbed into the crowd.

  I knew I could go find the Gildas or Will and Jonas, but for once in my life, I was feeling quiet. I hung back in the shadows and watched the fire.

  Dad loves this poem by Gary Soto called “Oranges.” At one point, the poem says something like, “I peeled the orange, and it was so bright, it was like a fire in my hands.” I thought about that moment in the poem, where the kid peels open an orange to share with the girl he’s taken to the drug store to buy chocolate for. It’s so sweet. He’s so sweet.

  Two boys, brows furrowed, sat on a log deep in conversation, their faces illuminated by the flickering bonfire. One of them gestured to the sky. The other shook his head. I tried to ima
gine what they were talking about. Time? Space exploration? God? The taller one leaned back and stretched out his hands to make a point, perhaps, but slid backward off the log onto his butt. His friend laughed and offered to pull him back up. But the tall one shook the help away and stayed down. He was laughing too hard.

  Across the fire, Jonas jabbed two marshmallows onto one stick. I smiled, knowing who the second marshmallow was for. At first, he held his stick at the very edge of the bonfire. He grew impatient, occasionally touching the marshmallows, evidently finding them cold. He thrust his stick into the flames and both marshmallows caught fire. I laughed under my breath at the stream of swear words that came out of Jonas’s mouth. He blew out the flames, but it was too late to save the marshmallows. They’d grown so hot, they liquified and plopped onto the dirt. Sighing, Jonas plucked two more marshmallows from a passing bag and tried again. This time, the marshmallows took only slightly longer to catch fire. Will appeared. He said something to Jonas who laughed and threw his stick and burning marshmallows into the bonfire. Then Jonas gazed at my brother who gazed back with so much tenderness, I felt like I was intruding and looked away. When I glanced back, they were gone.

  Sirena’s and Hanna’s voices caught my attention next when they started singing a song about some girl named Cecilia who was breaking their hearts and shaking their confidence daily. I didn’t recognize it, but a dozen other people did. Soon they all had their arms looped around each other’s shoulders as they sang the song, even finding some harmony.

  I loved nights like this. I loved the chasing and the bonfire-ing and the deep conversation-ing and the marshmallow-burning and the singing. But this whole week, I’d felt sidelined at camp from everything I loved. Especially improv.

  Early on in my improv life, Mom asked me why I liked it so much when it seemed so scary. No script? No plot? Nothing preplanned?

  “When I’m up there,” I’d told her in the car, “everything falls away. I can’t think about the past or the future. Just what is.”

  “Wow. That’s really interesting,” she’d said. “It sounds like you love improv because it forces you to be in the true present.” She’d reached over and squeezed my knee. “And here’s a little life secret: Living in the present? Not dwelling on the past or the future? That’s where true happiness is.”