Mom says, “I’m sorry we have to miss the improv competition.”
I was ticked at first when I realized they wouldn’t be here for zones, but Dad’s company booked him to speak at this conference long before the competition dates were announced. It’s hardly their fault.
“No big deal,” I say. “I’ll tell you about it when you get home.”
Back in my room, I start my Internet search again. There has got to be some improv training out there that’s more like a normal college program—required courses, two or maybe three years long and with a degree at the end of it.
Doesn’t there?
I hear a knock on my door, and Grammy Ann comes in. “Are you all right? Most kids would crack a smile, at least, watching their parents leave town.”
“Yeah, I know.” I turn to her. “Things haven’t exactly been going according to my plan. And this research—I hate to admit it, but Mom might be right about improv. I’m having trouble finding any college-type program that sounds like what I need.”
“Hmm. I don’t know much about any of that,” Grammy Ann says. “But I do know that every time I’ve come over here lately, you’re holed up in your room doing research. Maybe you need a break. Ned’s reading before bed. How about you and I play a board game or watch some TV?” Her eyes stray to my bulletin board. “Can we watch that improv show you like?”
I grin at her. “Sure. I haven’t watched season three yet. You sure you want to?”
She nods. “I’ve seen a few of your school competitions, but I’ve never seen any professional improv.”
It’s tempting. I should keep reviewing stuff in the improv book, but after yesterday’s practice I do not feel motivated. Maybe there’s no point. I look back at the list of search results on my laptop screen. The cursor flashes slowly at me. It looks as defeated as I feel. I snap the laptop shut.
“Maybe for a little while.”
* * *
On the screen, two improv players wait to hear their challenge.
“All right,” the host says. “You must make up a rhyming poem about love, with each of you adding every other word.”
I sit up. Maybe I can get some rhyme pointers for Style.
“Wait,” Grammy Ann says. “Does he mean that one person says one word and then the other says the next, back and forth, and they have to make the lines rhyme?”
I nod.
“Is that even possible?”
“We’ll find out, Grammy Ann. Sometimes improv works and sometimes it doesn’t.”
The two performers start their poem slowly, carefully. You can tell each of them is worried about guessing what the other one is thinking.
They manage to finish one verse.
“This is incredible,” Grammy Ann says.
Still taking turns, the players start the next verse, building one line, then another: “…When the moon glows full and white each month.”
“Oh no,” says Grammy Ann. “Month? What rhymes with that?”
She’s right. There’s panic in the players’ eyes, and it looks like they won’t be able to finish. Then the tall performer drops to his knees and opens his eyes wide, like a little kid. He starts the next line with “Please,” but he says it with a lisp, which makes it come out as “Pleathe.”
His partner joins him, and word by word, still with the lisp, the rhyming line grows, until they lisp out together, “Jutht wunth,” meaning “just once.”
“Brilliant!” I cry.
Grammy Ann is shaking her head. “I thought they were done for.”
“That’s the beauty of improv,” I say. “One fabulous idea can take you from failure to success. As long as you don’t give up.”
I freeze as my own message sinks in.
Don’t give up.
If I really want to get to nationals, I can’t give up either.
“Thanks, Grammy Ann!” I cry, passing her the popcorn bowl as I leap up from the couch.
“Where are you going?” she says. “Aren’t you watching anymore?
“Not tonight—sorry,” I call, already halfway up the stairs.
I push open my door. Light from the hallway beats me into the room and sets my improv shrine aglow. I flick on my lamp and race to my desk, thinking hard. This is no time to give up—not on my future and not on my team either. I open my laptop. Maybe there’s a way we can do well without extra practice.
If I can’t help my teammates get better, maybe I can do more to be my very best and use those skills every chance I get to help move the team to the next level of competition.
I think through the four events. For Life, it’s only Vern and me—I should be able to pull that one off. And I’m always the narrator for Story. If I work hard enough, I can probably keep the story on track no matter what the others do. I perk up a little.
Style probably needs the most help, but Hanna holds the reins for that one, since she’s making up the troubadour song. I can tell her how a lisp, and maybe accents too, can get her out of a tough rhyme, but that won’t help much. Then I remember what Mr. J. said about the rest of us singing some of the lines. Maybe in the huddle before Style, I can suggest myself as a featured character. That way, I’ll have more of a chance to add some of those lines myself and contribute more in that event too.
That leaves Theme. There’s no way to control that one. We all throw our suggestions in, and Asha’s the one who decides what works best. She’s usually pretty good at it though. As long as I come up with great ideas to add to the mix, Theme should be fine.
So. I’ll do my best to make the other three events great, and Theme will carry itself. Will it be enough?
Zones are tomorrow. We’ll find out soon.
Eleven
“Yes!” Ziggy whispers excitedly. “We’re doing great!”
We’re at the zones competition. We arrived to the joyful clamor of five other teams doing warm-ups. Forty other improvisers, plus us, all in one place. Anywhere else, we’re improv freaks, but here? Here, we’re the in crowd. I’d almost forgotten how wonderful that feels.
It’s the midpoint now: two events down, two more to go. Players and audience members are milling around during the break, buying raffle tickets and talking about the scenes they’ve seen so far. Mr. J. is at the front row of the seats, fussing with the video camera he has set up there. Still onstage, our team starts to wiggle and dance a little, letting off pent-up energy.
Mark turns to me. “How do you figure we’re doing?”
I think for a second. “We’re maybe holding our own,” I reply.
Honestly, I’m worried that our first two events were just okay—nothing to convince the judges we’re one of the top three teams who deserve to move on. Especially since three of the other five teams are looking strong. But I’m pretty sure my teammates won’t want to hear that.
“I thought our Life was pretty good,” says Vern.
“The ask-for we got had a lot of potential,” I say to him. “I wish you’d gone along with me, though, when I tried to get us into our parents’ car. I was planning to accidentally hit a pole or something.”
He looks at me. “How come?”
I sigh. “Because damaging the car,” I say, “would’ve increased the conflict.”
Vern shakes his head. “Arguing over who’d get to drive it to prom was really good on its own.”
The others go quiet, watching us.
I nod. “It was good, but if we’d wrecked the car instead of arguing the whole time, then nobody could’ve had it for prom, plus we would have had the whole telling-
our-parents-and-maybe-never-getting-the-car-again thing.”
Honestly, Vern does not seem to get the importance of raising the stakes.
“I still think it was fine,” he says.
“Except that you blocked my offer,” I can’t help but add.
“When?” he asks.
“When I said, Let’s go pick up some milk. You said, No, there’s plenty in the fridge,” I say. “That’s blocking.”
Vern scowls and looks down at the floor.
Asha stares at me, then taps him on the shoulder. “Great job with the boasting and teasing, Vern—so much like my brother.”
“Yeah, and nice work in Style, Hanna,” says Mark, throwing an arm around her. “Your song sounded great.”
Style wasn’t bad, but it didn’t go exactly as I’d hoped. We got apothecary as our medieval occupation. It took most of our huddle time to make sure everybody understood that an apothecary is like a pharmacist, except using herbs and stuff. I’d had no chance to pitch myself as a featured character.
“So, um, Chloe,” Hanna says, “why were you a farmer exactly?”
I’d tried to worm my way into the plot by selling my plants as new medicines. It was a stretch, I admit, but I did manage to add a few rhyming lines.
“I was trying to make the scene more full,” I say. “Sort of rounding it out.” It’s mostly true.
“It’s just…” Hanna pauses. “I’m not sure it worked with what was in my song, you know?”
Asha’s glaring at me now. “Yeah,” she says. “We shouldn’t block the offers Hanna’s giving us.”
The whistle blows and it’s time for the second half. I refocus on the match. We have Theme left to do, as well as Story, which I narrate, so that’s all good.
As we wait for our next turn, I analyze each team that performs. From what I’ve seen, there are at least two teams here that could beat us. One of those is finishing its Theme event, “Follow the leader.” It seems good to me, though it’s always tough to know for sure what the judges will like.
Another strong team gets called up to do their Story event. The audience suggests a dentist’s office as their non-geographical location. I watch three players create a perfect dental chair. One climbs onto it, playing the patient, while her teammates take their places as receptionist, person in the waiting room and dentist. Cleverly, the tallest player creates the high tool arm that swings in over the chair. Every team member is involved. The story gets under way, and they’re all contributing. I listen as the narrator weaves an entertaining tale of the world’s happiest dentist, long-lost love and quadruple root canal. It’s really good.
Note to self: our Story has to be great to measure up to this one.
No pressure, Chloe.
As I watch two more teams go, my heart sinks a little. Were our first two scenes better than what I’m seeing in front of me? I’m really not sure.
And that’s the moment I realize that we might not make it out of zones and on to regionals, let alone go all the way to nationals. There are too many things we need to get better at. I breathe slowly and try to push down my rising panic. Maybe by next year…But then I remember that Asha and Nigel are graduating. Who knows what next year’s team will be like? This was supposed to be the year. My best chance.
I sit there in shock. How did this happen?
Too few practices. Too little work. Not enough time. My dream is shriveling up and dying right in front of me.
So, is this it? Do I just give up? Go home and take down my Second City program and my TV show poster and…
TV show. In my head I replay the amazing improv scene that Grammy Ann and I watched, and I remember how, with improv, it’s never over until time’s up. For those performers, one brilliant idea turned everything around. That could happen for us too.
I make up my mind to fight to the end. This is my best chance, and our team still has two events left. I can do this!
“Next,” says the referee, “we’ll see a Theme event from Harrington High.”
This is it. We leap to our feet and gather at center stage. Faith is wiggling her legs like crazy. Asha makes a soft whirring noise with her lips. My pulse throbs in my forehead as Ziggy’s fingers tap a frenzied beat on my shoulder. We’re tense, like stretched elastic bands ready to snap, waiting to hear the theme the ref gives us. I feel like I might explode.
“Your theme is…‘Go fly a kite.’”
As we drop into our tight huddle, Asha says, “That’s like ‘Get lost’ or ‘Buzz off.’ Think of situations when you want to tell people that.”
I shake my head, but people are already talking about annoying kid sisters and irritating teachers.
“Wait!” I hiss. “We should show examples of people flying kites, too, like Benjamin Franklin’s kite getting zapped by lightning.”
Now Asha’s shaking her head. “No, we should focus on one thing. It needs to be one theme.”
Are you kidding me?
Faith says, “A referee in hock—”
“Winnie-the-Pooh flies a kite,” I say, interrupting her.
“What?” says Vern. “I’m confused.”
“Cut it out, Chloe!” Asha growls at me.
“No! We can’t just show annoyed people telling everybody to get lost. We’ll lose!”
Nigel looks like he might throw up.
“Wait!” Ziggy stage-whispers. “Let’s calm—”
“The improv book says to completely explore the theme we’re given,” I say. “Completely.” I look at them all. “Think of kites, people.”
“No, don’t!” Asha appeals to the others. “Guys?”
After what feels like the world’s longest second, Mark says, “There’s a bird called a kite.”
“How about Chinese fighting kites?” suggests Hanna.
“Good,” I say. “More kites.”
The crowd starts counting down our last five seconds.
“Stop, Chloe!” Asha says. “Nigel, do the little-sister thing, and Hanna, be the annoying teacher—”
“No!” I won’t stop. “Hanna and Nigel, do Chinese kites. Mark, be Ben Franklin—”
“Chloe!” Asha is freaking out, but I am sure I’m right.
The whistle blows and we have to start.
For four minutes, it’s like an awkward western standoff—Asha on one side, me on the other, each of us pulling our teammates into scenes. As soon as a buzz-off scene finishes, I grab someone else and leap in with a kite scene. It must look like the Asha-and-Chloe hour—and it feels at least that long.
Finally, the whistle blows and our time is up. The audience claps and cheers as usual, but there’s no team celebration. We simply go back to our space on the stage. I sit as far from Asha as I possibly can.
What a mess. Though who knows what the judges will make of it. We did manage to do the Ben Franklin, Winnie-the-Pooh and Chinese-kite scenes, plus Mary Poppins and her chimney sweep singing “Let’s Go Fly a Kite.” We could have fit in more if only…
I look over at Asha.
By her flared nostrils and the way she’s glaring straight ahead, I can tell she’s fuming. My stomach feels like it’s stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat. But I’m positive that a full event of people buzzing off would have been a boring disaster, even if she can’t admit it.
The ref announces the end of round three, and I try to forget Theme and focus on what’s ahead. We only have our Story event left, and I’ve got to make it the best one we’ve ever done. I’m pretty sure we’ll need it.
Two so-so
performances by other teams race by, and we’re called up next. We gather at center stage and Nigel asks the audience to suggest an unlikely hero.
While the audience yells ideas to the referee, Ziggy fidgets like mad. Mark is rubbing my back as well as Faith’s, on his other side. He breaks the awkward silence. “You guys are the best.”
“Yeah, we can do this,” Faith adds tentatively. “I know we can.”
“Let’s try to have some fun out there,” says Ziggy. “Okay?”
I can feel Asha eyeing me from across the huddle.
The ref blows her whistle.
Please let us get a good suggestion.
“You asked for an unlikely hero,” the ref says, “and you got Suzie Sweetness.”
Boom. Everything else falls away as we drop into our huddle.
“Sounds like a little girl,” Faith says quietly.
“Asha can be all cutesy and nice,” suggests Hanna.
“And use goodness to get the villain to change his ways,” Vern adds.
“Yeah,” says Mark. “Maybe I’m the school bully picking on the nerdy kids.”
“Or maybe not just at school,” I say. “What about adult villains?”
“You mean like Darth Vader? Or his evil master, Emperor Palpatine?” suggests Vern.
Asha frowns at him. “I doubt Chloe can tie them in.”
“What I mean is,” I say, “we have more options if she’s a kid fighting grown-up villains.”
There are murmurs of agreement.
“Likely be funnier too,” adds Ziggy.
“Maybe multiple villains,” says Asha, “from simple to more complex, and Mark is the final, nastiest one.”
“Sounds good,” says Nigel.
We’re running out of time now, and Asha takes control. “I’m a little girl fighting villains with my sweetness, laying guilt trips, innocent but clever. You villains, especially you, Mark, be the total opposite. And Chloe,” she hisses at me, “stick to the story.”
I nod. It’s a good plan. Possibly a great one. And if the story takes a wrong turn, I can get us back on track.
Raising the Stakes Page 6