Raising the Stakes

by Trudee Romanek

  Whatever. As I hustle to my next class, I mentally cross Mr. J. off my list of allies. Clearly, the only person left to whip this team into nationals-worthy shape is me.

  Eight

  By practice on Wednesday, I realize that boosting this team from mediocre to great is going to take serious effort. We’re finally working on our killer Style event, but I’m starting to wonder if it really is killer. This particular attempt, about a poor medieval cobbler, is anything but.

  “Thirty seconds,” calls Mr. J. over Ziggy’s mandolin and Faith’s recorder.

  Hanna, our Style’s singing narrator, finishes up a verse about the cobbler’s magic shoes and then launches into her repeated chorus. As the rest of us join in, I dig around in my brain for a good way to close this scattered scene, but I’m stumped. I cannot think of a way to tie up all the loose ends. From the start, we’ve been bouncing from idea to idea like a Ping-Pong ball on the loose.

  “And that’s time,” calls Mr. J.

  Asha thumps down into a chair. “That was awful.”

  “I guess they can’t all be winners,” says Mark.

  “Maybe I was wrong,” Nigel says. “Maybe a medieval troubadour song isn’t a good style.”

  “Hey, breaking new ground is never easy,” says Mark.

  Mark’s our expert on everything CCIG, and he’s pretty sure no team in the competition’s history has ever done the style of a troubadour song—a medieval wandering-minstrel-type scene. Since it’s a Style event, we have to create our improv scene using elements of the style we’ve chosen, so we’re including medieval characters, musical instruments and rhyming lyrics that tell the story.

  Faith says, “Maybe we should try Dr. Seuss style instead. Nigel would be great at those wacky characters.”

  “It’s too late to switch,” says Mark. “Besides, another team did an awesome job of Seuss at regionals two years ago. Everybody’d compare us to them.”

  “Too bad,” mutters Vern.

  “Style is really hard,” says Ziggy. “At least we’ll score higher points for attempting it.”

  It’s true. Lots of teams do the optional Character event instead, but it’s easier. Everyone knows you won’t get to nationals if you don’t do Style.

  “We have to do it better,” I say. I look around at them and stand up. “And I know we can. Let’s go again.”

  Asha ignores me. “Mr. J., what did you think of that scene?” she asks.

  He rubs his chin for a second. “It had some strong characters,” he says, “but—”

  “Mr. Jeffries?” a scratchy voice calls over the intercom. “The school board is on line two for you.”

  “I’ll take it in the drama office,” he says, heading for the door. He turns. “Try another one, with, uh…food taster.” Our Style ask-for is a medieval occupation.

  In the huddle, it hits me that maybe this is my chance to give some constructive criticism before Mr. J. gets back, since he doesn’t seem to want to offer much himself.

  “I’ll be the queen,” says Asha. “And I think Nigel should be the food taster. Mark, you want to be the enemy?”

  He nods.

  “Mark could seem like he’s loyal,” I suggest, “but actually be sneaky and power hungry. He might want to poison the queen and take over.”

  Mark says, “I could bribe Nigel with gold coins to get the poisoned food onto the royal table.” We all agree that works.

  “Should I be the young prince, the queen’s son?” asks Vern.

  “Yeah, maybe her teenage son,” says Asha.

  “Ooh, how about a typical teenager,” I say, “who’s embarrassed by his mother and shy around girls and stuff? That could be fun.” The others nod.

  We settle a few more details, and off we go.

  Ziggy and Faith set a simple tune, and Hanna starts singing: “Today’s the day, a feast we will see, a hey anon, what hey. And foods from all around there will be, a hey anon, today.” The rest of us file into the scene, all royal posture and long swishy skirts, as Hanna continues: “The knights and maids will gather ’round, a hey anon, what hey. While wine and song and joy abound, a hey anon, today.” She starts into her nonsense chorus. “What hey anon, what ho anon, anon, anon, what hey.”

  I have to stop this.

  The others are joining in: “What hey anon—”

  “Wait,” I call over their singing. “Hold on a sec.”

  They look at me like I’ve lost my mind.

  “What are you doing?” demands Asha.

  I take a deep breath and turn to face her.

  “There are major problems,” I say. “We have to stop.”

  “Four years I’ve been on this team,” she says, “and we’ve never stopped before. Mr. J. always tells us to keep going so we get practice fixing a scene that goes bad.”

  “But Asha—” I begin.

  “Chloe,” Faith cuts in sharply, “let it go.”

  I shake my head at them both. “If we never learn how to start scenes the right way,” I say, “then they’ll all go bad. Hanna,” I go on before Asha can stop me, “the improv book says that every scene needs to tell the audience right away where we are, what the relationship is between the characters and why the action’s important or why anyone should care. You’ve got to fit at least one of those three things into your first verse, before the chorus.”

  Hanna looks around at the others and then at me.

  “That’s hard to do in rhyme,” she says.

  “I get that,” I say, “but even if you only manage to say ‘ruler’ or ‘queen’ and gesture to Asha, then we know who she is, right?”

  “I—I guess so.”

  “Great. Let’s start over.”

  We stand there, looking at each other awkwardly, and then I realize why. We always start from the huddle, but it seems weird to huddle again when we’ve already planned the scene.

  I didn’t think that part through.

  Mr. J. comes back in and sees us all standing around. “What’s up?”

  Everyone looks at me. “We were talking through some problems,” I say, “with the rhyming.”

  “Ah! Excellent,” he says. “Let’s really work on that then. Into a circle for a rhyming exercise.”

  My teammates say nothing about what actually happened as we start giving each other words to find rhymes for. And maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems like they’re firing a lot more words at me than at anyone else.

  No matter. It’s all in the name of better scenes.

  When practice finishes, I follow Faith to where our backpacks sit side by side.

  “Well, that was interesting,” I whisper.

  She just looks at me. Then she turns and disappears out the doorway.

  Nine

  In the week after that practice, I call Faith a few times. We talk, but she doesn’t usually say much, like she isn’t really into the conversation. She hasn’t answered many of my texts either. We still walk to school each day, but it seems as though she and Nigel talk more to each other than they do to me. On this particular day, as the three of us head into Harrington, there’s a wind whipping around that’s so bitingly cold, no one’s saying much of anything.

  In spite of my best efforts, I haven’t been able to convince Mr. J. or the team to add another practice into our schedule. Here we are with zones in only two days—two days!—and all we’ve got left is our regular practice after school today. I could spit.

  “Hey,” I call over the wind, “let’s do a word association.”

 
Nigel grunts. Faith says nothing.

  “Come on,” I plead. “It’ll help us in Theme.”

  No response.

  “Okay, I’ll start. Um…growth.”

  Silence. Neither of them so much as looks at me.

  Great. Now I can’t sneak in this kind of practice either.

  Over the past few days I’ve begun to worry that there’s a real possibility we won’t get to nationals. I nibble on my lip and try to remember the teams from last year’s regional competition. I’m pretty sure we’ve gotten better than we were last year. Even without the extra practices, we’re still a strong team, I think. Aren’t we? And I’ve learned a lot of new and useful stuff…though my teammates haven’t exactly let me share it all with them.

  It has to be enough. And besides, there’s still today’s practice…

  * * *

  I bang my locker shut.

  Where the heck is Faith? Improv practice starts in five minutes, but there’s no sign of her. I can’t wait any longer.

  I sure hope she’s going to be there. I hope they’re all going to be there! We haven’t had the whole team together in weeks. I head down the hall, trying not to panic and making a mental count of which teammates are at school today. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen them all.

  As I reach the room, I hear lots of voices inside—a whole team’s worth? I can only hope.

  The conversation dies down as I walk in. Faith is here, but Asha’s not. Again. Next year we should write up a team contract or something. If you can’t make it to practice, you get kicked off the team—simple as that.

  “Okay,” says Mr. J. “Let’s start with a different rhyming warm-up.”

  Suits me fine. I’m hoping Hanna has practiced her rhyming skills, but we’ll see.

  The warm-up flows around the circle, with each of us, in order, calling out a new rhyme for Mr. J.’s starting word, rake. We get around the circle more than twice before we run out of words. Not bad. Next, Mr. J. gives us night. The team claps and hoots for Hanna’s clever rhyme parasite and for Nigel’s gigabyte, but when I offer meteorite, there’s no response at all. Weird. We get twice around with night too.

  “Great work,” Mr. J. says. “On to a Style event. Everyone know what you’re doing?” Nods all around. “So, no matter what happens,” he says, his eyes sliding to mine, “let’s keep going.” A few heads turn my way. Nigel is studying his fingernail.

  Oh. I get it.

  All that talking when I arrived—it was about last week’s practice. And me. Obviously, they’ve complained to Mr. J. about me. I stand there for a second, in shock. A thick, scratchy feeling is growing my throat.

  So I guess this means they don’t want my help? I catch Faith’s eye, and she quickly looks away. Her silent treatment makes sense now. And is that why she came to practice without me? There’s no time to think about it—Mr. J. says, “Dragon slayer,” and we’re into our huddle.

  I try to push what just happened out of my mind and focus on the scene. Certain thoughts creep back in though. Why didn’t they come talk to me? Don’t they get that this is about making the team better? Are they mad at me? I swallow, and the scratchiness in my throat becomes a lump.

  The huddle is quieter than usual. Asha’s not here to take the lead, for starters. With this lump in my throat, I probably couldn’t lead if I wanted to. And I’m surprised to discover that I really don’t want to. A couple of awkward seconds pass before Nigel jumps in.

  “I’m pretty sure I can be a passable fire-breathing dragon,” he says.

  “Maybe if you look after the front,” Mark suggests, “I could be the body and long tail, and together we’ll be really big and impressive.”

  It’s a good idea, except that with Ziggy, Faith and Hanna already doing the music, Vern playing the slayer and Asha away, that only leaves me to play any other characters. I’m not sure they’ll appreciate me pointing that out to them though.

  The others join the discussion, offering some semi-decent ideas, and I’m tempted to add my own bits.

  But I don’t. Not this time.

  Nigel sums things up, and with a “Break!” we’re off.

  Ziggy and Faith give us a tune, and right away Hanna points out our dragon—Nigel and Mark, who become a completely believable flame-throwing monster. Vern strides in as the arrogant slayer. Like always, I start critiquing the scene inside my head, noticing things that could be better. But this time it’s different. Today, finding fault with their efforts seems to make me feel better somehow, as though this has become me against them. Maybe I won’t help at all and let them see how that turns out. That’ll show them, a little voice inside me says.

  The beast and slayer spend an awful lot of time dancing around each other fighting while nothing much else happens. In her song, Hanna suggests only two characters for me to become, so I do. But that’s all I do.

  Mostly, Hanna sings a lot of verses about who’s hitting whom. By the end of the four minutes, our likable dragon is dead on the floor and his slayer is patting himself on the back.

  Not exactly a crowd-pleaser.

  There’s a smattering of halfhearted high fives at the end. Mr. J. gives us a few notes about making sure our story has enough of an arc. Any arc at all, I want to add, but I say nothing.

  We start another Style scene with the suggestion “baker.” This time the huddle is less awkward. The others dive right in with their ideas. I’m tempted to join them, but now that I’ve started my personal rebellion, it’s hard to stop. Again, I keep my ideas to myself. Hanna weaves a slightly sketchy tale of a baker—Mark—who baked four and twenty blackbirds into a pie. Not very original. Apparently, he made a few plum tarts for Little Jack Horner as well—that’s Vern, who sticks his thumb in one. No big surprise there either.

  When it’s over, the rest of the team members are pretty pumped. They don’t seem concerned that some of Hanna’s lines didn’t rhyme or that most of what we’ve presented is stuff from actual fairy tales.

  Afterward Mr. J. doesn’t even mention those things!

  “I know Hanna is the narrator,” he says, “but any of you can jump in as your character and add a rhyme or two of your own. Hanna, don’t be afraid to pass the story to someone else if they’re the focus at that point.”

  Good idea. That way we don’t have to rely on Hanna for all the rhymes.

  “The rest of you,” he continues, “stay on your toes. When Hanna throws you an offer, take it! For example”—he turns to me—“Chloe, Hanna said that the baker’s assistant, which was you, put up a fuss. You could have jumped right in with your own rhymes to explain more about why you were making such a fuss. Everybody got that?”

  I feel my neck getting warm. Seriously? Out of all the problems with that last scene he’s only criticizing me? There is plenty that desperately needs fixing before we go to zones! I can’t keep quiet any longer.

  “Mr. J.,” I say, “do you think it’s okay that most of that scene was from actual fairy tales? I’m pretty sure the improv book says not to copy stories that already exist.”

  He adjusts his glasses. Somebody mutters something about “that book.”

  “What I think is that the scene had good rhyming and a strong story arc. So let’s build on those strengths and many more original ideas will flow, I’m sure,” he says.

  He picks up a paper from his desk and heads toward the door. “I need to go and make copies of the permission form for zones on Friday. You guys sort out whose parents can drive there, all right?”

  And he’s gone. I look around at everyone as they start chatting. No matter what they said to Mr. J. about me, they’re still my best
shot at getting to nationals. I’m going to have to suck it up and try to make this work.

  “What’s everybody doing tomorrow?” I ask. They stop talking. “Maybe we could have another practice,” I say. “You know, try some scenes with everybody here.”

  They look around at one another for a few seconds.

  Finally, Mark says, “I’d love to do that, but Thursdays I work after school.”

  “I have to babysit.” That’s Nigel.

  “And I’ve got voice lessons,” says Hanna. “My mom can drive on Friday though,” she adds.

  At that moment Asha arrives, and the team launches into a full-scale driving debate. And that’s the end of my extra-practice idea.

  So. Everyone seems to be talking to me again, but we’ve got maybe half an hour left of today’s practice—which has done nothing to make our Style event any stronger, if you ask me—and then it’s zones on Friday.

  Our odds of doing well are dwindling by the minute.

  Ten

  The next night, after trying unsuccessfully to study the improv book some more, I do a little research into schools and jobs, to help me visualize the next stage of my life. But I find only a handful of places to take classes. There is an improv school that’s closer than Australia, but its courses are only a few weeks long. I can already hear Dad saying, Not much of an education. Plus, the classes are small. If there really are so few schools, maybe my mom and Ms. Quinn are right, and it’s super hard to get in. I’m pretty sure my chances will shrink even more if our team doesn’t get to nationals.

  “Chloe?” Grammy Ann calls up the stairs. “They’re leaving. Come say goodbye, dear.”

  Things have been a little awkward with my parents for the past couple of weeks, ever since the peach-froth incident. But the computer expo they’re off to is a whole week long. I take a deep breath and close my laptop. “I’ll be right down,” I call.

  I help Ned and Dad hoist the bags into the trunk and then dutifully hug each parent.