We start the scene.
I have to admit, Asha is doing a terrific job as our sweet little hero, skipping, twirling her hair, that kind of thing. One by one, I introduce some small-time villains—Faith as a mean girl, Vern as the neighborhood bully, Nigel as the pickpocket—then I move on to Ziggy as the fast-talking con man and Hanna as an out-of-control, demanding boss. Suzie makes quick work of each of them, sweetly pointing out the error of their ways. Asha is still playing the character beautifully. Our chances of getting to regionals are looking up.
But I haven’t heard the ref call the one-minute mark. Did I miss it, or are we going too fast? Worry begins to pool in my gut.
Hanna, the horrible boss, has already changed into a repentant model employer. I have no choice but to introduce Mark. “Suzie Sweetness waves goodbye to the newly reformed boss and makes her way to city hall,” I narrate, “where she runs smack-dab into the worst villain she’s come up against so far—a crooked politician known as Mr. Slimeball.”
Mark steps forward and lets out a chuckle.
“He takes bribes,” I say. “He pushes bad policies through to turn them into laws. He steals from the poor and generally does despicable things on a countrywide scale.”
Mark snorts and belches his way into the scene, creating a completely unlikeable character. Silently I will him to draw out this final bit, to fill our time well. But all too quickly, he starts giving in to Suzie’s appeals to turn to goodness.
“One minute!” calls the ref.
No! That’s too long—we’re basically done!
Asha knows it too. Her eyes open wide, but she has to keep going somehow. She turns to the now defeated Mark. “I’ll bet you weren’t always like this. There’s someone else, isn’t there? Someone even more despicable. Someone who pushed you to become what you are.”
Vern’s evil-master idea. Brilliant!
“Yes,” Mark sputters. “That’s right. It’s not my fault. It was because of my master!”
He gets it, thank goodness.
“My master was cruel and nasty and found fault with everything I did,” Mark continues. “Each negative comment was like a knife, hacking away at my good nature.”
My mind is scrambling to figure out who can play the master that Mark’s describing. Vern, maybe? He knows the most about Emperor What’s-his-name.
“Through fifteen years of constant, heartless criticism,” Mark goes on, blubbering now, “my evil master destroyed my soul and turned me into the bitter, angry brute I am today!”
“Your evil master?” says Asha. She’s peeking around, waiting for a teammate to step forward as this new character. But no one does. Every team member has already been a villain, and they all stay glued in place as pieces of furniture in city hall.
Ugh! What now? I look over at Vern, trying to signal him to reenter the scene as the evil master.
Suddenly Asha’s desperate eyes latch onto mine, and she spins toward me.
Oh no. Bad idea.
I shake my head slightly, but she’s already walking my way.
“I know this evil master,” she announces. “You must mean Chloe, the Criticism Queen!”
“Uh…yes?” says Mark. It’s more a question than a statement.
My mind is churning. I’m in the scene now?
This has never happened before. If I’m the ultimate villain, how can I narrate my own conflict? Do I talk about myself as ‘I’ or should I say ‘she’? I have to make this work!
Asha is standing a few paces away, waiting for a response.
“That’s right, S-Suzie Sweetness,” I stammer, desperately trying to think like an evil master. “And I will defeat you.”
An idea sparks in my brain. Maybe I can talk to Asha but also make comments directly to the audience. That way I’m still sort of narrating. I try to think nasty thoughts as I turn to the audience. “Suzie never suspected she’d end up facing me, the ultimate villain, the queen of criticism. I’ll have her confidence in shreds in no time.”
“Thirty seconds,” calls the ref.
Where the one-minute call sent me into a panic, this one cuts through the chaos in my brain, jolting me back to reality. Only thirty seconds left to get us to regionals. It’s up to me.
I spin back to Suzie and let out an eerie laugh. “If you think I’ll be gentle because of your childish ways and ridiculous ponytails,” I say, sneering at her, “you really don’t know me at all.” I try to savor my words, to revel in my villainy. “And drop that high girly voice—we both know it’s fake.”
“Oh, I know how you work, Criticism Queen,” she replies sweetly, taking a step toward me. “You’re trying to make me lose faith in myself.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” I snarl. “Deep down you already know you’re nothing. You’re not a real hero.” I straighten to my full height and glare at her. “You,” I say, spitting out each word, “are no good at all.”
Something in her face changes, and she looks me right in the eye.
“I’m no good?” she says, her voice slipping down. “Well, I wonder why, Chloe? You’re positively oozing with criticism! There’s always something wrong. Nothing anyone does is ever good enough for you.” She has dropped the high Suzie voice completely. “You’ve been crushing our confidence for weeks now!”
Wait. Weeks?
And did she say our confidence?
She takes another step toward me. Her eyes are on fire. “Nothing is fun anymore,” she says, “because of you.”
Then it hits me.
She’s talking to me. Not to Chloe, the Criticism Queen, but to plain ol’ Chloe Willis.
“We work hard and we really try,” she goes on, “but you keep pushing and criticizing.” She’s getting louder. “You make us all feel like crap, like we’re no good. But guess what? We are! And you know what else? If all you can do is criticize, then you’re the one who’s no good.”
She stands there, breathing hard and glaring at me. Over her shoulder, I can see my teammates, frozen, their eyes wide.
Asha steps closer still. “Poor thing,” she says, the sweetness suddenly back in her voice. “I feel so sorry for you.”
The ref blows the whistle, and we’re finished.
Oh boy, are we finished.
Twelve
It’s the evening after zones, and I’m on a bus, heading to Toronto. I’ve made this hour-long trip loads of other times, to go shopping or to a baseball game, but always with my parents or Grammy Ann.
I spent most of today stomping around the house, grumbling to myself and slamming things. I’m so angry at our team, especially Asha. I cannot believe she broke character and turned our make-believe scene into a real-life argument. Apparently, lots of people in the audience—like Grammy Ann and Ned—didn’t even realize, but still. It breaks every improv rule—no, every performance rule there is!
After that awful scene ended, the eight of us sat like statues through the other teams’ last events. None of my teammates would so much as look at me. They all disappeared into the crowd as soon as the final scores were announced.
Incredibly, we ended up third. Our team actually moves on to regionals, and maybe further. But nobody seemed to care about that. Everyone, including Faith, managed to fit into the other cars to get home. On the ride back, I told Grammy Ann I didn’t want to talk about it. Ned filled the silence with his personal renditions of practically every scene in the competition. He was still at it this morning. Fortunately for him, he headed off to his friend Jake’s after lunch for a sleepover, or I might have throttled him.
Grammy Ann fretted and s
tewed about leaving me alone while she went to her big volunteer-appreciation banquet tonight, but I convinced her I’d be fine.
That’s when I hatched my plan.
Like I said, I’m angry at my team, but it’s not only that. I’m confused and, to be honest, I’m hurt. They really think I’m the ultimate villain? I can’t believe Asha attacked me like that, and in a competition, too! The thought of doing improv with her again… Let’s just say I figure maybe it’s time for me to try doing improv with some other people—real players who are serious about it, who care about getting it right.
As my bus pulls into Union Station, I do up my coat and fish the wrinkled blue brochure from my pocket to triple-check the address. The improv club is only a few blocks from here, according to the map on its website, not far from the baseball stadium. I picture the turns and street names on the map once more.
Wintry air races past as I step outside the station, and my body gives a shudder. In the orange light of the streetlamps, it takes me a minute to get my bearings. I’m pretty sure it’s this way. To be absolutely certain, I ask a passing police officer.
There’s a zero percent chance I’ll get lost, but I count my steps anyway, to avoid thinking about that possibility. It’s just a city, after all. As I walk, I look around. The people don’t seem much different from the ones in Harrington, but the buildings are bigger. A lot bigger than I remember. It takes me nearly five minutes to walk past a huge one, all shiny glass and metal, that takes up a whole block.
A couple of turns and a few streets later, I see a sign for the club not far ahead. Suddenly my anger fades, and what I’m about to do stops me at the door. Improv in a city club with people I don’t know? What the heck am I thinking?
The place looks respectable though. And I have to do something—it’s more than two hours until the next bus home.
I stand there, uncertain.
Finally, a normal-looking college type steps past me and opens the door. I take a deep breath and follow him in.
A chalkboard sign says Drop-in Improv, and an arrow points to a room on the right. Inside, I see a small stage and some people sitting in mismatched chairs, chatting. I count four girls and six guys. Most of them look to be only a few years older than I am, thank goodness.
A tall skinny guy with a beard comes over and sticks out his hand. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Adrian. This your first time here?”
“Hi. It’s Chloe,” I say. “Yeah, first time here, but I’ve been doing improv for a couple of years.” I decide not to add “at school.”
“Awesome,” he says, then turns to the group. “Everybody, this is Chloe.” He points to each of the others, running through their names—I manage to catch Trish, Bill and Lydia.
Right away, Adrian gets us in a circle for a round of good ol’ Zip, Zap, Zop. I concentrate—I don’t want to embarrass myself by making mistakes in a beginner warm-up. But no one else seems too concerned over the occasional slip.
We start another game I’ve played before, and I relax a little. A few of these people seem to know each other, but the rest are new like me.
We move on from warm-ups and Adrian explains that scenes are really informal here. We’re welcome to jump in as the mood strikes us.
It’s different, this improv. For starters, there’s no huddle, and there are no large-group scenes. Most involve only two or three people, since the stage can’t hold more than about four at once. It takes me a little while to get the hang of jumping in with no planning at all, trying to pick up on my scene partners’ clues—read their minds, really—to keep us all heading in the same direction.
The other thing I can’t help but notice is that most of these people are funny. They’re not cracking joke after joke or anything, but I have to admit, they make me laugh. A lot.
I do a scene with Trish and a curly-haired guy named Paul. Trish and I are lost inside a haunted castle, and Paul’s the spirit haunting it. I decide I’ll be a high-powered business executive who doesn’t believe in ghosts. It takes a few minutes to find our rhythm together, but then we click, and suddenly it’s really fun.
The scene builds higher, and I feel that incredible rush of becoming someone else, of completely giving myself over to a character.
It feels amazing.
This is why I’m desperate to keep doing improv, to make it my career—so I will get to feel this for the rest of my life.
It seems like a really long time since I last felt it.
When the scene ends, I find myself wanting to get home to do some improv with my teammates. Then the memory of zones rushes back, and a physical ache burns in my chest. Will I ever do this with them again?
I push the thought from my mind as Bill and Lydia go up to start a scene. They’re two ants marching through a meadow.
“Where’d the rest of them go?” asks Bill. “We’ve got work to do.”
I’ll accept that offer. I rush back up with a guy who has black curly hair and eyes exactly like Nigel’s. “Time to stock up for winter?” I say eagerly.
“Yes!” says Bill. “We don’t want to be cold and hungry.”
The Nigel-guy starts talking about how all six of his feet hurt as the three ant workers pass food down the line for me to stack. The flow of supplies coming my way begins to slow, and Lydia and Bill are looking tired.
“Do we have enough yet?” Bill asks.
I peer into our storage space. “Already half full!” I chirp, but the others groan.
“Only half?” asks Lydia. “I’m tired of working.” She turns to Bill. “Hey, let’s go play instead!”
“Play?” I cry. “But if we run out of food, we’ll starve!”
They all look at me. Even Nigel-guy seems skeptical. “Half full might be enough,” he says. “Last winter we ended up with more than we needed.”
“Yeah, I bet it’s plenty,” Lydia agrees, and she and Bill start to drift away.
“But this winter might be longer,” I call after them. “So we should stock up as much as we can.”
I struggle to carry more than my share to the storage space. Only Nigel-guy is still there, watching me. “Help me, please!” I beg. “I can’t do it by myself. And it’s important!”
That’s when it happens. This boy looks at me with his Nigel eyes and shrugs.
“Important to you, maybe. But us?” he says. Then he grins. “We’d rather just play.”
My mouth falls open.
It’s like he’s picked up a bow and shot the words at me.
Zing.
Straight into my heart.
Thirteen
I had a lot of time to think on the bus ride back to Harrington, but it didn’t make any difference. I couldn’t get my thoughts straight. Now, in bed an hour later, I still can’t. They’re buzzing around in my head like a swarm of angry bees, never settling, never letting me get a clear view of any one of them. The little-kid part of me would love to talk it all through with my mom, like I used to do. But young-adult me knows she won’t be home for days.
I stare at my improv shrine in the glow of my bedside lamp and think back to tonight’s ant scene. Is that why my team was angry with me? Because I sucked all the fun out of improv? Maybe I did. I must have, I realize, now that I think back through everything that’s happened. No wonder they refused to talk to me after zones.
But I was only trying to help us get better! How noble of you, says a little voice inside my head. Helping the team get better so you can become a star.
All that criticizing, all that fussing and pushing, was to get us to nationals, but we’ll never get there now, with our team in tatters. It was a
ll a huge mistake.
What’s worse, I’m starting to doubt my career plan too. Once the club’s drop-in session was over, Adrian said he’d loved my business-woman character. I was flattered and told him my dream of becoming a performer. He gave me all kinds of advice about building a career in improv. And about doing stand-up comedy. So I asked him how important the comedy part of it is.
“It’s true you don’t have to be funny,” he said, “but it’s really hard to make it in improv if comedy’s not your thing.”
So that’s fantastic. All aspects of my life are officially a disaster.
I’m still awake, trying to make sense of it all, when I hear a muffled knock, and Grammy Ann opens my door. She must have seen my light.
“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” she says. Then she sees my face. “Oh, dear. What’s this now?” She sits on my bed. “I knew I should’ve stayed home.”
Seeing Grammy Ann’s concern makes tears spring to my eyes, but I shake my head and force them back. “No, it’s good that you went out,” I say. “Otherwise I never would have got to learn all the important stuff I learned tonight at the—” I stop, then decide I might as well tell her. “I took a bus to Toronto to go to an improv club.”
Her eyes open wider, and she asks, “By yourself?”
I nod.
For a second she looks like her head might explode. But then she tucks the covers around me as though to reassure herself I’m actually home safe and, without a word, calms down. “And?” she asks.
“And I realized I…Oh, Grammy Ann, I’ve made such a mess of everything. I was pushing the team really hard. That’s why they were mad at me at zones.” Now that I’ve started, more words come tumbling out.
“I only did it because we weren’t good enough. I knew I had to push or we wouldn’t stand a chance of getting to nationals, and I really need nationals on my résumé if I want to make an impression and get into a good improv-training program, especially since I’m not funny.” I’m babbling now. “I thought it was the right thing to do, but the way it’s turned out, we’ll never get to nationals, and I’m starting to realize that I shouldn’t have pushed them that hard. It made improv no fun for them.”
Raising the Stakes Page 7