No fun for me either, I suddenly realize.
Grammy Ann shakes her head. “Hold on. I thought your team came in third,” she says. “That means you do go on, doesn’t it? To regionals?”
“Yeah, but the team would have to be fantastic to move on from there to nationals, and I just don’t think we’re good enough. And me pushing them only made things worse.”
“So you don’t think you should keep pushing them?” Grammy Ann asks.
“It doesn’t matter what I think anymore,” I say, realizing it’s true. “They won’t want me there. They probably want nothing to do with me. Faith wouldn’t even ride home with us”—tears are dribbling out onto my cheeks, but I don’t care—“and she’s my best friend! That’s the worst part—they’re not just my teammates; they’re my friends. But now they all hate me.”
“Hate you?”
I nod, sniffling. “Because I was a giant, obnoxious control freak about it.”
“I see,” she says, rummaging a tissue from her pocket. “Did you realize before tonight that they didn’t like you pushing them?”
I think back. There were times it was pretty clear. “I guess I did.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“But I wanted us to get to nationals! I couldn’t give up—I had to keep trying. Like on that improv show. They kept going and one brilliant idea turned everything around.
Grammy Ann looks at me and tilts her head. “Hmm,” she says.
“What?”
“Chloe, dear, it is important to keep trying. Perseverance is an admirable quality, but there’s more to some situations than simply trying hard.”
Yeah. I should have known that.
“I guess my dream of nationals and of doing improv for the rest of my life blinded me a little.”
“So what do you think you’ll do now, dear?”
I think through my options. One: Return to the team and convince them to keep pushing to get to nationals. Two: Forget about nationals, and my dream, and beg the team to take me back. Three: Forget the team and find a new group of friends, like maybe the banana-tossing guy. Oh yeah, and I might have to drop out of improv class too.
I sniffle. “Run away and join the circus?”
Grammy Ann chuckles. “Ned would approve of that, I’m sure. But at this particular moment, I recommend sleep. Things often seem brighter in the morning.” She kisses my forehead, then stands up. “As your grandfather always said, when in doubt, be honest with everyone”—she touches the end of my nose—“starting with yourself.”
Yeah, I think afterward as I lie there in the dark, but sometimes that’s the hardest thing in the world to do.
Fourteen
It’s Wednesday after class. I started to text Faith three times on Sunday, but each time I gave up. What could I say? For two and a half days now I’ve walked to school on my own, gone to my locker by myself and eaten lunch alone on the other side of the cafeteria. I’ve hardly spoken to a soul in the hallways—except for the kids from our improv class, who I’ve discovered are surprisingly friendly. The class itself has been awkward, with Mr. J. staring at me like he’s trying to figure out what went wrong and Faith staying as far away from me as possible. The rest of my teammates—ex-teammates, that is—look anywhere but directly at me. Mark’s sad eyes are the only ones that will meet mine.
Fortunately, I’ve managed to avoid seeing Asha altogether.
Being ripped apart from my team and my best friend has been worse than awful. But all this solitude has given me plenty of time to think about what I want and what I should do—about the right thing to do. And I’ve made up my mind. Really, there was only ever one option. I remind myself of that now as I approach the drama-room door, my heart thumping in my chest like some kind of hip-hop bass line. If I can just get through this…
I hear their familiar voices as I step into the classroom. All eyes turn to me, and smiles fade as everyone goes quiet.
“Hey, Chloe,” Mark says.
Mr. J. stands up. “We were wondering if you’d come to practice.”
I suck in a big breath and drop my backpack on the floor. “Yep. I’m here,” I say, walking to the center of the room. “And I’d like to do a Story scene. Without any ask-for.”
Mr. J. pulls at his ear and looks at me through his dark-rimmed glasses. “Well,” he says slowly, “I guess that would be all right.”
“What?” Asha says from the far side of the room. “Mr. J., I thought—” But he holds up his hand, and she stops talking.
He nods at me. “All right. A Story scene with Chloe, and no ask-for,” he says, sitting back down.
Asha crosses her arms, and somebody else groans.
No ask-for means there’s nothing to discuss and no huddle, which is exactly how I want it. I take another deep breath, ignoring their whispers, and begin. “There was once,” I say loudly, “an evil villain named Chloe, the Criticism Queen.”
All whispering stops. I definitely have their attention now.
“Chloe was determined to get her team to the improv national championships. She decided to push and criticize all the time, at every practice, to make each of them better and make the team stronger. But what she never told her teammates…”
They’re all watching, waiting for my next words. I wonder what they’ll think of me when they hear them.
This is harder than I thought.
I lick my lips and try again. “What she didn’t admit to them, ever, was that she wanted to get to nationals for the team, yes, but mostly…for herself.”
They look at one another, trying to figure out where I’m going with this.
“You see, nationals was Chloe’s big chance to prove to everyone that she had what it took to be an improv performer—not at school, but as an actual career.” I rush on, talking quickly so I won’t be able to hear if anyone laughs. “Chloe knew that if she could get her team to nationals, she would perform well there. Because—because that’s when Chloe performs best. With her team. Her friends.”
All eyes are focused on me as I sweep across to where they’re standing.
“So Chloe kept pushing, harder and harder, to be sure that the team—that she—would get to nationals. She picked on old members as well as the newest of them all.” I look for Hanna, and she appears right beside me.
“You were—” She stops. “Oh! Right,” she says, turning from me to the imaginary audience. “I mean, Chloe was terrific at improv. I was learning a lot from her, but then it started to seem like she was mad all the time, and she never talked about anything except better rhymes and raising the stakes higher.” She looks at me. “I just wanted the old Chloe back.”
Mark steps up to talk to Hanna. “I know what you mean. I missed the old Chloe too. And I really did want to put in more practice time, but I had a part-time job.” Now he looks at me. “I was saving for college. I couldn’t skip my shifts.”
Of course he couldn’t. How come I never thought of that?
“And I,” says Asha, working her way to the front, “I had a diabetic grandmother at home and a mother who couldn’t always leave work to give Grandma her afternoon medication. Some people,” she adds, looking straight ahead, “have responsibilities.”
So many things I never considered. I swallow and keep going. “But because Chloe was completely focused on her own personal dream,” I say, “she never asked the others about any of those things. For her, everything was about getting to nationals, though some of her teammates didn’t even want to go.”
I turn toward Nigel now, silently begging him. Please accept my offer.
H
e looks around at the others, then sighs and steps forward. “Things hadn’t been great at home. My parents…well, there was a lot of yelling. I didn’t feel right about leaving my little sisters alone to deal with that.” He looks right at me. “Improv is supposed to be fun. I need it to be fun.”
Oh, Nigel.
I tear my eyes away from him—this isn’t over yet. “And still Chloe kept pushing and pushing,” I say.
Vern steps up beside Mark, looking out at our pretend audience.
“Chloe’s pushing and criticizing was really irritating and annoying and super frustrating. Still, she actually was making the team better.” He turns to me. “Even if none of us—including her—could see it.”
I raise my eyebrows at him in a silent question. Both he and Mark nod.
My heart gives a leap…but I know there’s more.
“Sadly,” I say, “by the time Chloe realized she’d sucked all the joy out of improv, it was too late. She knew the dream of nationals was hers and hers alone. More important, she knew that she’d probably pushed away the only people who really understood her…and the best friends she’d ever had.”
I feel a hand slip into mine, and Faith is at my side.
“I told you,” she whispers in my ear. “Apologizing is always a good idea.”
She smiles, and somehow I feel lighter than when I came in. I take another big breath. Just a bit more. “So the one thing Chloe really wanted to do was apologize—for her negative attitude, the awkward practices and all her critical comments. Somehow she had to tell her team how very sorry she was. Because she knew that as long as she did that”—I look at them all—“she could live with whatever came next.”
Everyone is smiling now. Everyone except Asha anyway.
Suddenly, Ziggy leaps out in front of us all. “What Chloe didn’t realize was that there was still time to inject the fun and the joy back into the team. They only had to click their heels together three times and repeat, ‘There’s no place like improv!’” He turns, sees us all standing there and orders, “And so they did!”
Ziggy arranges us in a circle and, laughing, we begin clicking our heels, losing our balance and holding each other up.
“The truth is…” a deep voice booms.
I turn, astonished to see Mr. J. joining our scene.
“…it’s very rare,” he continues, “for all the members of any group to share exactly the same dream, whether that’s going to nationals or just having a good time playing.” He smiles at me. “Everyone’s entitled to dream, but no one dream is more important than any other.” He reaches out his arms. “Aaaaaaannnnnnd—”
“—scene!” we all yell together.
It’s done. Thank goodness.
“Guys, I’m really sorry,” I say, retrieving my backpack. “I didn’t know how to apologize, but I knew I had to.” I pull out the improv book. “You can’t have this stuff hanging over you when you compete at regionals.” I hand the book to Mr. J. and then look at each of them. “I know you’ll be awesome!”
Asha’s eyes lock onto mine. “When we compete at regionals?” She crosses her arms again. “You’re bailing on us?”
Everyone goes quiet.
“I, um…I figured…” I stammer.
“You’ve been a royal pain,” she says, glaring at me. “You totally took over that kite scene, in the middle of competition!”
“I know,” I say, “and I shouldn’t have—”
“And now,” she says, cutting me off again, “you’re ditching your responsibility to this team?”
My face gets hot. This, I was not expecting.
“You are the only person I know,” she goes on, “who can handle being forced into a scene while you’re narrating it. What’ll happen if I pull that crazy stunt at regionals and you’re not there, huh?”
Then finally—finally—she grins.
“And for what it’s worth,” she adds, “you might have been right about that kite scene.” She comes over and gives me a hug. “I was too angry to see it.”
I feel like I might float up off the ground.
Ziggy smacks me on the arm. “An improv performer, eh? Very cool.”
“That’s what I thought before,” I say, “but now?” I shake my head. “As you guys know, I’m not particularly funny. It’s probably not a good fit.”
“It’s not,” says Mark.
Whoa. It stings hearing Mark agree with me.
Faith gasps, “Mark!” And Vern cuffs him on the back of the head.
“Ow! But she’s right,” he says, and then he turns to me. “You should be an actor instead.”
His words catch me completely off guard. And yet…somewhere inside, something clicks into place—like when we find the perfect way forward in a scene.
“An actor?” I say. “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” says Mark. “You’re comfortable in any kind of story, and your characters are all really distinct and believable. And your timing is spot on. Always.”
“I agree,” Mr. J. says. “You have all those crucial acting skills. And lots of actors study improv to make their acting more ‘in the moment.’ You’ve got a head start.”
“Mark’s right about your characters,” says Nigel. “It’s easy to play off them because they’re as real as actual people.”
“No kidding,” Hanna says. “I’m still having bad dreams about your nasty Criticism Queen.”
I only half hear the others agreeing, because my mind is busy processing all of this. If I became an actor, I could still perform for audiences. I’d still get to turn myself into all those fascinating characters I love so much.
“Actors play all kinds of different roles,” says Asha, like she’s read my mind. “That’d be perfect for you.” The others are nodding.
“An actor,” I repeat, letting the idea seep into me.
Mr. J. smiles at me. “Definitely worth looking into.”
Then he claps his hands and the spell is broken.
“All right,” he says. “We’ve got eight days to prep for regionals. Let’s get started.”
And just like that, we’re a team again.
* * *
After practice it’s a bit awkward as Faith and I walk back to our lockers. Finally, I just say it.
“Look, I know I’ve been awful,” I admit. “And I’m really sorry. Do you think…I mean, are we okay?”
She grins. “Of course! But I’ll be watching. Any hint of the Criticism Queen”—she wags a finger in my face—“and I’m calling you on it.”
“Deal,” I say. “I never want to do that again. Nothing is worth feeling that lousy.”
Fifteen
We’re ten minutes down the road toward regionals. The past eight days have been crammed full of team practices, research, planning, guidance appointments and more practices. Our car is just as jam-packed, with my parents, my brother Ned, Grammy Ann and me, not to mention the big basket of sandwiches and stuff that’ll be our dinner on the drive there.
“You’re sure you put the tripod in the trunk, right, Dad?”
“Yes, Chloe, I’m positive.”
“Why are we bringing the video camera anyway?” Mom asks.
“So we can record all their scenes,” says Dad, “and they can analyze them later, like football teams do.”
“But I thought Mr. Jeffries usually did that,” Mom says.
I speak up. “He does, but I wanted to have a video of my own to review.”
Grammy Ann puts her hand on my arm. “And you’
re sure that’s a good idea, dear?” she asks, her voice tinged with concern.
“It’s okay,” I reply. “I want to review me, not the team.”
“But why do you want to review yourself?” Mom asks.
I hesitate, thinking back to the famous peach-froth incident. This is not the way I had planned to talk to them about this—in the car, staring at the backs of their heads. But come to think of it, maybe it’ll be easier, since I won’t have to watch the disapproval, or whatever their reaction is, creep into their faces.
“Chloe?”
“Okay,” I begin, “I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. I found out a bunch more about improv, and I’ve decided that you were right. It might not be the perfect career for me. But I would still love to perform, so…I have a new plan.”
Dad glances at Mom and then back at the road. “All right,” he says. “A new plan. We’re listening.”
Here it is: the moment of truth. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I think I’d like to be an actor.”
Silence. I look up at them in the front seat. Dad’s still calmly driving, and Mom’s not freaking out. So far, so good. I continue. “Improv’s given me some of the skills I’ll need, but I’ve got a lot to learn before I can get into theater school, which is what I’d like to do.” This is not coming out very clearly, but I forge ahead anyway. “I’ll still be on the school improv team. I have to focus on my own skills too, though, to get better. So I’d like to take acting lessons on the weekends, at a place in Toronto that Ms. Quinn, my guidance counselor, suggested.”
Grammy Ann raises her eyebrows. “Ms. Quinn?”
“Uh-huh. She says I’ve got to make the next couple of years count if I’m going to get into a good theater school, and she’s helped me figure out which ones I should audition for.”
Dad clears his throat, but I push on before he can say anything.
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