“Not in Australia or New York City either. There are a couple of college theater programs in Toronto that have really good reputations.”
“I see,” Dad says. “About these acting lessons in the city. How will you get to them?”
“I’ll have to take a bus there by myself. I think I can manage that.” Grammy Ann makes a sound as though she’s swallowing her tongue, but I speak over her. “And I’ve already talked to the owner of the dance studio near Harrington High about a part-time job—to pay for my bus tickets and acting lessons.”
“A dance studio?” says Mom. “You’ve never taken dance classes.”
“It’s a cleaning job,” I explain. “And because I’ll be an employee, I can take lessons for half price, which is good because Ms. Quinn says I’ll need some dance experience if I’m going into acting.”
Mom shakes her head and sighs. “Acting doesn’t seem like a very stable profession either.”
“It’s not, I know,” I say. “There are some working actors who—” well, who I was talking to at the improv club, but I’ll save my confession about that adventure for another day “—who have experience in the business, and they say that performers audition a lot but only get paid when they land a part. So it’s good to have another skill that can earn you money between shows.”
“That makes sense,” says Mom. “Go on.”
“The dance studio also offers yoga, and I figure if I start taking those classes now—at half price—maybe by the time I’m through college, I’ll be able to teach yoga in a studio, part-time for extra money. Besides, it’ll keep me fit and grounded, which is supposed to be very important when you’re an actor.”
Ned stops chomping on the apple he wrestled from the dinner basket. “What could you teach Yoda that he doesn’t already know?” he asks.
Mom and Dad both laugh.
I push on. “And any money that’s left after I pay for lessons and bus fare, I’ll save up for theater-school tuition.”
Dad glances over at Mom, but I can’t tell whether I’ve managed to convince them.
I can’t stand it. No matter what their answer is, I have to know. “So? How does that sound?”
“It sounds,” says Dad, “like you’ve done an awful lot of thinking.”
Mom turns around as far as her seat will let her and smiles at me. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”
“Me too,” says Dad. “Give it your best shot, and let’s see how it goes. If anyone can make it work, Chloe, you can.”
I feel a smile stretch across my face. “Really? You think so?”
“Chloe, we’ve always known you have talent,” says Mom, “and not very many kids work as hard as you do. But performing improv as a career? We weren’t convinced it was the best choice for you.”
Dad is nodding. “It’s tough enough to make a dream come true,” he says. “You want to at least make sure it’s the right dream.”
Funny. That’s almost exactly what Adrian said to me at the improv club. Was that really only two weeks ago?
Grammy Ann puts her arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze.
I can’t stop smiling.
* * *
Regionals. Excitement roars through me, and this time there’s nothing—no stress or worries about being good enough—to get in the way of the frenzied joy of improv competition.
It’s almost like coming home, being up here on the stage with my team. My best friends. My improv family. The eight of us sit squished together onstage, limbs wrapped around each other every which way, like we’re all trying to fit into a selfie. We’re there for each other no matter what happens. It’s an incredible feeling.
And then it’s our turn.
We get our ask-for, drop into our huddle and then we’re off on the best adventure I’ve ever experienced.
I know it won’t last. Our competitive season might end tonight. Nigel and Asha will graduate, and the team will change. And I know that even if my theater plans work out and I get to do improv after high school, it’ll still never be quite the same. But this time right now, these next two hours with these particular friends, is something very special—something I will carry with me through whatever comes next in my life.
These are my people, and this is improv heaven.
I’m just going to enjoy the ride.
Acknowledgments
In appreciation of fearless high-school improvisers who create brilliant, electric scenes in seconds. Enormous thanks to Jeff Shanks and the Barrie North Improv Team, especially Brina Romanek, Scott Romanek and Mauricio Diaz, and to Kevin Jacquemain and Innisdale’s improv program. Thanks also to the dedicated folks at the Canadian Improv Games, and to Karen Krossing, Rae Smith and the Talk is Free Theatre improv gang. Much gratitude to Sarah Harvey and Orca for this opportunity and to Robin Stevenson for her cheerful editorial wisdom. And, finally, thanks to Rob and our kids for their support and love, especially Graham for freeing up time in my days and space in my brain.
TRUDEE ROMANEK is a ham who loves to perform. She is the award-winning author of a dozen nonfiction books for young readers. This is her first novel. Trudee lives with her family in Barrie, Ontario.
The following is an excerpt from
another exciting Orca Limelights novel,
Cut the Lights by Karen Krossing.
9781459804135 $9.95 PB
9781459804159 EPUB • 9781459804159 PDF
BRIAR MAY HAVE A VISION for the one-act play she’s been chosen to direct at her performing arts high school, but nobody seems to share it. Not her cast, not her crew, not even her best friend, who wrote the play. As Briar struggles to motivate her cast and crew, she learns some important truths about the fine art of directing—and about herself.
One
A tidy kitchen. Early morning. A vase of lilies sits on the granite countertop.
My parents chew their oatmeal without talking. Dad stares steadily out the window at the lilac blooms. Mom reads the newspaper folded beside her bowl. Upstairs, Mom’s much younger sister, Darla, thumps from room to room, hollering about a lost nose ring, threatening to bring her chaos downstairs.
I slip on my new glasses—red cat’s-eye frames, no lenses—and position myself near the sink so I can see the table and hall.
“Glasses?” My mother looks puzzled. “But your eyes are fine, Briar.”
“Yup. They have no lenses, so I can see clearly.” I poke my fingers out through the eyeholes and wiggle them around. “It’s symbolic.”
“Why are you wearing them?” Her nose wrinkles.
“Is this a trend at that school of yours?” Dad lowers his spoon.
“Trends are for followers,” I explain, even though it’s pointless. “These glasses remind me to think like a theater director—they frame the scene.”
Mom pinches her lips together.
“You’re still talking about directing?” Dad’s tone of voice says he hopes I’ll outgrow it.
“Yup.” I pour myself a glass of mango juice, imagining a rosy future where my parents accept my dreams as more than whimsy. Impossible, I know, but before you judge them, try to understand. Dad is a bookkeeper. Not a useless profession; even theater directors need to track budgets and maybe even ticket sales. Mom’s job is more baffling—she’s an office manager at a sock company. The place is painfully practical—unless you make sock puppets and put on a show. I got in trouble for doing that on “Take Your Kid to Work” day.
“Where would you get a job as a director?” Dad asks.
I’m ready with numbers—it helps to speak his language. “Did you know that last year there were 227 productions i
n this city?” I down my juice and pocket a granola bar for later.
“Really.” Dad frowns.
“That includes 187 professional companies with 62 venues and over 38,000 seats, not including outdoor venues, theaters with less than 400 seats or comedy clubs.”
“You seem to know what you’re talking about.” Dad raises his eyebrows.
“Yup.” I smile, just as my aunt Darla clomps down the stairs in her high-heeled boots. I adjust my glasses, ready to view the full impact of the upcoming drama.
“Morning.” Darla twists her nose ring into place.
Dad grimaces and Mom nods. I wave hello, admiring how the sunlight cuts between Darla and my parents, dividing the kitchen in two. As Darla turns to the coffeemaker, her oversized fair-trade bag from Nepal knocks over the vase on the island.
“Darla!” Mom leaps to catch the vase. She ends up with her blouse drenched and lilies spilling down her front, but she catches the vase before it shatters.
Darla swings around, wide-eyed. “Did I do that?”
If this were a stage, I’d put a mic over the island to capture the dialogue.
Dad sighs and rubs his eyes.
Mom grabs a clean dishtowel and starts mopping up water, her forehead creased.
“Let me help.” Darla plucks lilies off the floor, setting them in the vase at bizarre angles. “I’ve got a job interview with Finders Keepers this morning—they find odd props for tv commercials. Maybe this time I’ll get lucky!” Darla calls herself an actress, although she hardly ever gets called for auditions anymore. Now she’s trying to get a behind-the-scenes job.
“Maybe this time you’ll keep a job for more than two weeks,” Dad mutters. He hates it when Darla is out of work because she always moves in with us. She’s been here two months this time—long enough to set him on edge.
Mom rearranges the jumbled flowers while giving Darla a disapproving look. “Why can’t you get an ordinary job like everyone else?”
I consider reblocking the scene—turning Darla’s body toward the audience, and moving Dad so Mom’s not masking him.
“Why would I want to do that?” Darla plants her hands on her hips.
I leave for school, promising myself I’ll be anything but ordinary.
* * *
A school hallway buzzes with students. Ten minutes to first class.
Sonata, the best actor in the school, waltzes past in a white minidress with strategic rips in all the right places. A guy dressed like Alfred Hitchcock films a kid with a purple mohawk. Two grade-twelve girls sing Phantom of the Opera songs at full volume. Like Principal Racier says at every assembly, “You can be anything you want at Whitlock School of the Arts.”
Ratna waits by my locker, fidgeting. She’s petite, fine-boned, a brilliant playwright and my best friend.
“Nice glasses.” She tucks her black, bobbed hair behind her ears.
“Thanks. They’re my director frames.”
Ratna shoots me a sideways look, but it’s brief. My glasses may seem radical compared to my plain jeans and Stage Crew T-shirt, but I’m not that weird for Whitlock. Last year, I joined the stage crew so I’d know enough about lighting and sound to direct a play this year.
“I’m hoping my glasses bring me good luck today.” I cross my fingers and toes. “Is the list up?” Mr. Ty, the lead drama teacher, promised to post the list of student-written plays and student directors selected for this year’s Whitlock Fringe Festival “at first light on April third”—his exact words.
“Not yet.” Ratna chews a fingernail. “But we should look again.”
“Definitely.”
As we link arms and march toward the drama office, I swallow hard. Wish Upon a Star, written by Ratna and to be directed by me, just has to be listed. It would be my directorial debut, apart from short skits in drama classes. It’s only a one-act play, but I know I can still create a masterpiece of sound, lights, set and performance.
“I want to cast Sonata for the lead,” I say, to distract myself from the idea that we might not get listed.
“Every director will want her, Briar. You’ll never get her.”
“I will when she reads the lines you wrote.” I elbow her.
Ratna smiles at the compliment. “But she always works with Lorna.”
“Hey, seniors aren’t the only talent in this school,” I say, even though Lorna’s an awesome director.
“I know.” Ratna shrugs.
We walk in silence.
“If we don’t get picked, will you audition?” she asks.
“Never.” I make a face. “I hate acting.” I don’t mention that acting makes me nervous.
“But you take drama!”
“Only because I want to direct. Directing has more…” I pause to find the right words. “Artistic control. With Wish Upon a Star, I was thinking—”
I break off as we round the corner and see a crowd gathered outside Mr. Ty’s office.
“The list!” Ratna grabs my hand.
“Only seven plays selected.”
“More than thirty submitted.”
I frown. “Let’s get it over with.”
As we get closer, my stomach lurches and my canvas Toms shoes feel like lead. I wish everyone would vanish—I won’t be able to bear the humiliation if Ratna and I aren’t listed.
We elbow into the crowd. Sonata is there already, congratulating Lorna. Apparently, she’ll be directing a play she also wrote. Impressive. I can see over the heads to the sheet taped to Mr. Ty’s door. Before we get near, Lorna claps both Ratna and me on the back. “Way to go, you two!”
My mouth goes dry. “We made it?”
Ratna looks stunned, and then a grin widens her tiny face.
“You’re the only grade tens on the list.” Lorna smirks like she has a secret. “So if you need any directing tips, Briar, I can…”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. I don’t need anyone’s help.
Lorna looks down her long nose. “Of course you are.” She turns away.
“We did it!” Ratna squeals before she disappears to read the list.
I watch her laugh with the others. Lorna hugs Sonata.
I straighten my glasses. Ratna’s work is done. Mine is only beginning.
Raising the Stakes Page 9