He grins and shakes his head. “I wish I could bottle that and open it on game day,” he says. “If you guys have that kind of chemistry in every event?” His grin widens into a full smile. “There’ll be no stopping you.”
No stopping us. How I love the sound of that!
* * *
On the way home, Faith and Nigel talk for blocks about how incredible that Theme event was, replaying each mini scene. Me? I’m daydreaming about performing at nationals. Actually, I’m thinking about after we perform, about all the people who’ll praise our four events, especially our Life scene. It’s usually only Vern and I who perform in that one, which makes it my best chance to shine.
“Ziggy was hilarious,” says Nigel.
“Especially when he was trying to lift those barbells!” Faith adds. “And I wasn’t sure about the Samson and Delilah idea, but it totally worked.”
Suddenly, I realize something. Those two strength scenes, plus the gym finale, all had to do with muscular strength. That’s probably not good—from the judges’ perspective anyway. They want to see as much variety as possible. Did we have enough?
The scene felt great, but I start to wonder how it’ll measure up against some of the ones we saw other teams present at regionals last year. They’re our competition, after all.
We wave goodbye to Nigel at the corner of his street and keep walking.
“It was perfect!” Faith says for about the twentieth time. “Couldn’t have been better.”
“It was really good,” I say slowly, “but I’m not sure it was perfect. There’s always some way it could have been better, right?”
Faith stares at me. “But Mr. J. didn’t have a single note for us.”
“That just means he didn’t think of anything while we were performing it, or he didn’t think of any small things we can tweak—only big things that would take more work. Like, maybe we should have shown more different kinds of strength. Or maybe we could have fit in another example if we’d tightened up the stuff we did do.”
Faith doesn’t say anything.
“But there’s nothing wrong with that,” I quickly add. “If we recognize problems, we can make our events stronger—strong enough to get us further in the tournament, right?”
After a beat Faith says, “I guess that’s true.”
“That’s what practice is for,” I go on. “Testing things out, finding ways we can get better.” An idea hits me. “Maybe we should film some practices—you know, to really see what worked and what didn’t.”
We’re at Faith’s street now, and she stops walking. “But that’s what Mr. J. is for,” she says. “To watch and tell us what to change.”
“Yeah, but reviewing video would definitely make that easier. I’ll mention the idea to him tomorrow.”
She’s still standing at her corner as I wave and head off down my street.
Five
That Saturday night there’s a knock on my bedroom door, and Grammy Ann calls, “Anybody home?”
She opens the door a crack. “I haven’t seen you since I got here. Are you hibernating or something?”
“Hi! Sorry about that,” I say, waving her in. “I’m doing some career research.”
“Ah!” she says as she sits down on my bed. “You’ve decided what you want to do then?”
“Yup.” I point to the cluster of souvenirs that has grown on my bulletin board over the past year—a poster of my favorite TV improv show, a program from the Second City improv performance our team went to last year, and an autographed photo of actor Sandra Oh, who performed at CCIG nationals when she was a student. It’s sort of my shrine to improv.
Grammy Ann looks at it and then at me. “You want to be…a collage artist?”
I laugh. “No, I want to be an improv performer.”
She tilts her head a little. “Like your team at school?”
“Yeah, but people do it as a job.” I point to the collage. “Those people, for starters.”
“I guess that’s true,” she says. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“It’s not exactly like our competitions, but it’s still improv.”
“That’s an exciting career choice. What do your parents think?”
I shrug. “They’ve been asking what kind of job I want since I was in grade eight. I’m pretty sure they’ll be happy I’ve decided on something.” I turn back to my computer screen. “I’ve been researching where improv performers can work and what sort of education or training they need. I wanted to do that before I tell Mom and Dad my plan.”
“Goodness! Your plan? That sounds very serious.”
“I know,” I say and then make a snooty Ms. Quinn face at her. “Apparently, I must have a good plan.”
“Well, right now you must come down for dinner, because it’s on the table,” Grammy Ann says. “And Ned’s already there, lobbying for your share of the sweet potatoes as well as his own.”
* * *
The conversation dies down as we’re clearing the table for dessert. Grammy Ann’s question has me curious about what my parents’ reactions will be. It’s probably time to find out.
“So I’ve decided what job I want,” I say, stacking the salad plates onto our dinner plates.
“Really?” says Dad. “That’s great.” He and Ned carry some of the serving dishes out to the kitchen.
“And? What is it?” Mom asks as she gathers the knives and forks. “A teacher, like Faith wants to be? Maybe an office manager, like me?”
“That’s so boring!” Ned calls from the kitchen. “Be something cool, like an Olympic athlete or”—he reappears behind Dad, holding the dessert bowls—“a professional scuba diver!”
I snort. “Because those sound exactly like me.”
Grammy Ann catches my eye as we carry plates and other dishes into the kitchen. “Chloe is very bright,” she says. “I’m sure she’ll be terrific at whatever career she ends up in.”
I follow Mom and Grammy Ann back into the dining room.
“How about a race-car driver?” asks Ned. “Or an animal trainer?”
“Yeah right!” I say, laughing.
Mom chuckles as she spoons foamy peach dessert into the bowls.
“All right, Chloe,” Dad says, passing me a serving. “We know what you’re not going to be.”
“Okay…” I pick up my spoon and poke the froth in my bowl. “I’ve decided I’m going to be an improv performer.”
Mom’s serving spoon hovers in the air for a second before she digs back into the dessert.
Dad takes a deep breath. “Improv?” he asks. “Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh. I’m good at it, and I love performing for an audience—it’s a perfect fit.”
Dad nods, then says, “You want to be a comedy writer then.”
Here we go again.
“Not all improv artists write comedy,” I say. “I don’t particularly want to, but that doesn’t mean I’m not good at improv. The coaches I’ve worked with say I have talent, and I’m a pretty important part of our team.”
“But Chloe,” Mom says slowly, like she’s talking to a four-year-old, “you don’t like telling jokes. You never tell any.”
“And you’re not funny,” Ned says through a mouthful of dessert.
“It’s not all about being funny! Why does everybody think that?”
Dad waggles his spoon at me. “Those improv shows you watch are funny,” he says.
“Yeah, but there are other things improv artists do. Did you know that lots of business
people take improv classes to help them with public speaking, like in meetings at work?”
“Really?” says Dad.
“Uh-huh. I found out about that online. I could be one of those trainers as well as a performer. I figure when our team goes to nationals, I might be seen by some improv scouts. And competing there will look great on my résumé, especially if we do well. Then I can take a few extra courses after high school and I’ll be set.”
“A few extra courses,” Dad repeats.
“Right. Improv courses.”
“And that’s all the training you’ll need to get a job?” he asks.
I stir my peach froth. “I think so. I haven’t found out all the details yet. I kind of got distracted watching some of the improv videos. They’re really good!”
Mom stares down into her dessert and says nothing. Dad’s jaws are chomping away as if he’s got shoe leather in his mouth instead of froth.
Ned looks from one to the other, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Oh boy, Chloe,” he says.
Grammy Ann holds her bowl out to Mom. “Could I have another tiny scoop, Louise? It’s lovely and light. What all is in it, dear?”
Mom gives Grammy Ann a tight-lipped smile and plops some more into her bowl, ignoring the question.
Dad puts his spoon into his mouth, then realizes it’s empty. “Have you thought this through, Chloe?” he says, scooping another spoonful. “I’m not sure many people are successful at it.”
Mom is nodding like crazy.
Clearly, they’re going to need convincing. “Yeah, but I work hard,” I begin. “And you’re always telling me not to set my goals low, that I can accomplish whatever I set my mind to. Lots of times success is all about how good your training is. I’ve found a great improv school in New York City, or there’s another one in Australia that seems well respected—”
“Australia!” Dad cries, bits of froth flying from his lips. “Like, the-other-side-of-the-world Australia?” Between his horrified expression and the speckles of pink fluff quivering in his beard, he looks like Sasquatch at a country fair.
“Yes, that Australia,” I say. Then I realize what this is about. I carefully place my spoon beside my bowl. “You don’t think I can do it.”
Ned tries to swallow a laugh. “Oh, sure you can, Chloe,” he says. He can barely get the words out between giggles.
“Ned,” Dad barks, pointing to the door.
“But I’m not—”
“Now!”
Ned goes out, grumbling.
“You really don’t believe I can.” Some part of me wants them to admit it.
Mom is shaking her head. “We didn’t say that.”
“We want you to be realistic,” says Dad. “Taking a few courses doesn’t sound like a very solid education.”
Mom jumps in again. “Plus,” she says, “living in New York is very expensive, and Australia is so far away. Not to mention that if these programs are the only ones, I imagine they’re quite difficult to get into.”
“And you don’t think I’m good enough.”
Dad mumbles something, but all I can hear is a little voice in my head whispering, Maybe they’re right.
No! I snatch my napkin from my lap and plop it onto the table. “So all that stuff you’ve always told me, about how you believe in me, I guess that was a lie.” I stand up. “Thanks for your support!”
They don’t deny it or try to stop me as I rush out of the room and up the stairs.
I fling myself onto my bed, a few angry tears itching on my cheeks. That little voice inside is still nagging at me. Maybe they’re right…Maybe they’re right…I consider calling Faith and pouring out my woes to her. But that would mean telling her about my career plan, and somehow I don’t feel ready for that. Instead I just lie there, feeling alone.
After a little while, though, a thought hits me: What do my parents know about improv anyway? Not much, really. I sit up straight and dig through my backpack for the improv book. As I pull it out, a blue cartoon ad for a weekly drop-in improv session comes with it. I turn the paper over. It’s the brochure from Ms. Quinn.
Tossing it on my desk, I flip open the book. I’ll review everything about the four events our team is doing. There must be ideas in here I’ve missed or forgotten, suggestions we can use to make our scenes stronger. There are still three weeks left before zones, the first level of competition.
I look up at my bulletin board. Sandra Oh’s brown eyes gaze back at me.
We’ll see who’s not good enough.
Six
It’s Wednesday again, and I’m at practice, knee-deep in a Story scene. For the past few days, ever since my parents’ heartwarming display of support, I’ve thought a lot about how to be the best possible improviser I can be. The answer has to be in that improv book, so I’ve been practically glued to it, most recently rereading all the parts that talk about Story.
Every Story event has to have a narrator who guides the story. For our team, that’s me, and the book’s been reminding me of ways to give my teammates solid offers and ideas they can use to develop the story. Today I’m getting my chance to try them all out.
The whole idea of improv is that there’s no script. Every scene is brand new because you have to think up stuff as you go. For most events, teams ask for a suggestion from the audience. Our Story event is always about an unlikely hero—usually played by Asha—who saves the day. That much we’ve planned, but we ask the audience to suggest an unlikely hero, and their suggestions make our Story scene different each time.
We know that sometimes an audience member will suggest a hero who suits another team member better than it suits Asha. Mr. J. has given us “Super Geek.” Ziggy is clearly the best team member to play that, and Asha’s not here today anyway.
“Thirty seconds,” calls Mr. J.
For three and a half minutes, Ziggy has been tearing around the stage, with Faith as his trusty sidekick, using his geeky know-how to save various characters from their crashed computers and slow Internet connections. Super Geek also has to save them from our accidental villain, Ignorant Man, played by Vern. For each problem, Nigel’s turned himself into whatever the scene needs—first a mainframe computer, then a software virus and now a satellite dish.
“From two rooftops away,” I say in a serious scientist sort of voice, “Super Geek watches helplessly as Ignorant Man turns the carefully tuned satellite dish away from the building upon which its focused beam has been directed. Meanwhile, inside the building—”
“Oh no!” Faith cries, jumping in. “Without a signal, the family that lives there won’t be able to watch the Jeopardy! finals!”
Ugh. Those stakes hardly pass the “so what?” test.
“Wait!” cries Ziggy. “Rip up that piece of sheet metal. I’ll use it to deflect the signal back where it belongs.”
Faith throws her hands up in despair. “You’ll never get the angle right in time,” she wails.
I step toward the imaginary audience. “Can Super Geek triumph and save the day yet again?” I say, all melodramatic. “Or is the innocent, law-abiding Thompson family doomed to spend the rest of their lives without Jeopardy!?”
“Never fear,” cries Ziggy. “I have”—with a flourish, he pretends to pull something from his pocket—“a protractor!”
It’s an obvious final moment.
“Aaaaaaannnnd scene!” we yell together.
Not a bad scene. Probably not good enough to get us to nationals though. I wish I could watch a recording of it to see, but Mr. Jeffries nixed the idea of filming anything other than competitions. Still,
I know a few things we should fix.
Mr. J. seems pleased with it. “Very nice! Nice work, all of you! Chloe, I think you’ve been practicing your narration.”
“You were like this whole other science-fiction narrator person!” Faith says.
“It totally flowed,” says Nigel. “Logical and everything!”
I grin. “I have been doing some extra reading.”
“Attagirl!” Ziggy gives me a high five.
I turn to him. “And your ending was inspired! A protractor—nice!”
He grins.
He didn’t do a perfect job, but he definitely had moments of darn good. I hesitate, then decide to say what I’m thinking. “I’m really glad you went to the math-angles thing at the end,” I say. “I kept trying to steer you guys away from computers.”
They look at me.
Ziggy’s grin fades. “You did? Why?”
“To fit in some more variety. Being a geek doesn’t have to be all laptops and networks. He could be good at science and math. And he could really be into remote sensors and futuristic stuff. I tried to point you guys to some of those possibilities. But every time, we’d end up back at good ol’ monitors and cables.”
“Yeah,” says Ziggy, “but I was trying to make him a computer geek.” He looks at the others. “That’s valid, right?”
Since they’re all nodding, I decide I’d better drop it. I can’t be too hard on him. After all, he hasn’t had many chances to play the hero—that’s Asha’s job.
But she’s not here. Again. And Mark’s missing too.
“The only thing I want to mention,” says Mr. J., “is the stakes.”
“Right,” I say, nodding. “The improv book says the problem should be super important to make sure the audience cares.” I turn to Faith. “Watching Jeopardy!? Not exactly a matter of life and death.”
Faith looks from me to Mr. J.
Raising the Stakes Page 3