by Lance Rubin
“Uh…Winnie.”
“Uh-Winnie, excellent.”
Everyone chuckles, including Leili.
“Just Winnie,” I say, my ears hot.
“I know,” Mr. Martinez says, grinning. “Just a reminder that our words are important tools. We need to be precise when we use them.”
I’m guessing Mr. Martinez didn’t have a ton of friends growing up.
“But as to your definition of improv,” he continues, “that’s exactly right. I always describe it as a hybrid of writing and acting, scenes literally being written while they’re being performed. When it’s done well, it’s truly magical, the performers and audience living together in the spontaneity of the moment, all of them witnessing creativity unfolding in its purest form.”
Say what now?
“As our veterans remember from last year, we do short-form improv, which is the Whose Line Is It Anyway? format, quick structured games to improvise within.” Dad once forced me to watch a couple of old episodes of Whose Line Is It Anyway? All the performers were talented and funny, but it was a tad corny for my taste. And there were no women. “Like, as a quick example, there’s the game ABC. Two people do a scene, and the first line has to start with A, the next with B, and so on, until Z, when the scene ends.”
“Amazing,” Evan says.
“Beautiful,” his friend I don’t know says.
“Crocodile,” Tim Stabisch says.
“Yes, like that!” Mr. Martinez says. “Sorta. So every week, we’ll be learning new games and focusing on different rules of improv, which will help us to get better and better at, as Winnie said, making up things on the spot. And just like last year, we’ll do three performances for an audience: one in the fall, one in the spring, and one at the end of the school year.” My throat goes from normal to dry within the span of two seconds. “Nothing to stress about, just a chance to show your friends and family what we’ve been doing. The first one will be in October during Homecoming week, so we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
October? We’re already performing in October?
“Um.” A cute guy with long bangs I’ve never seen before, must be a freshman, raises his hand, and Mr. Martinez points to him. “So, like, will we be doing any stand-up as part of this?”
“Ah,” Mr. Martinez says, grimacing as if forced to break the news to someone that their bird has died. “A very good question. No. We will not.” I breathe an involuntary sigh of relief. “Stand-up comedy is actually very different from improv. It’s one person, with prewritten material, getting up onstage to tell jokes. I have a ton of respect for that art form, takes mad guts, but it’s not what we’re doing here.”
And thank god for that.
“Also worth mentioning that improv is different from sketch comedy. When you’re watching Saturday Night Live or Key & Peele, those are sketches, and even though at times they may feel loose and made up on the spot, they’re not. That’s all written in advance. So we’re not here to do stand-up. Or sketch. We are here to do improv. Make sense?”
Long-Bangs Guy nods, then straps his backpack on and walks out of the auditorium.
“Whoa whoa,” Mr. Martinez calls after him. “You sure you don’t want to at least give it a try?”
“I forgot,” Long-Bangs Guy says, not turning around, “I have to, um, mow the lawn.” If that’s the best excuse he could come up with, he was probably right to leave. Still, can’t help but feel overwhelmingly jealous that he’s out there and I’m in here.
“Well, okay,” Mr. Martinez says, looking genuinely befuddled. “New record for fastest improv dropout. Anybody else want to leave?”
I think he’s joking, but nevertheless, this is my chance.
“In that case, let’s get up on our feet!”
Shoot. Missed it.
“You okay?” Leili asks once we’ve stood, possibly noticing the terror in my eyes.
“Maybe,” I say, taking a few deep breaths.
She links her arm with mine and leans into me. “You’re doing great.”
“If I vom,” I whisper, “just stand in front of me and act like nothing happened.”
8
“All right,” Mr. Martinez says, “let’s circle up and start with a quick game of Nameball, so we can learn the names of all our new folks, and they can learn ours. Who wants to start?”
Nameball? Have I magically teleported back to kindergarten?
“I got this,” Rashanda says. She bends the fingers of one hand into claws and holds them up for all to see. “Rashanda,” she says. Then she winds up and flings her arm like she’s throwing something across the stage as she says, “Dan!”
A nerdy-looking dude with glasses, muttonchops, and a Game of Thrones T-shirt pretends to catch whatever’s been thrown, shouting “Dan!” as he does.
We are playing catch with an imaginary ball. Okay.
Dan holds the ball with one claw-hand before putting another hand next to it and expanding his nonexistent ball into something volleyball-sized. He hurls it with two hands toward us. “Leili!” he shouts.
“Leili!” she says as she pulls the ball of air to her chest. She compresses it down to the size of a pea, held aloft between her two fingers. She flicks it up into the air. “Winnie!”
I stick my palm out to catch the fake pea. “Winnie,” I say as I imagine it landing on my hand like a raindrop.
“Uh,” Leili says.
“You’re supposed to catch it the way it’s thrown to you,” Evan says from across the circle.
“So, like, between your fingers,” Leili says. “The way I threw it.”
“Oh,” I say.
“That’s all right,” Mr. Martinez says. “We didn’t even explain the rules yet. Now we all know.”
It’s really fun to be made an example of. I hope it happens at least ten more times because it doesn’t make me want to puke at all.
“You need to catch it and throw it to someone else,” Leili says, a slight layer of panic in her voice.
“Right, great,” I say, curling up my palm and putting my thumb and index finger close to each other. “Winnie,” I say, pretending once again to catch the invisible ball because this definitely isn’t a waste of time.
“Nice,” Mr. Martinez says.
“And, uh…” Who should I pass it to? Evan’s right across from me, but if I throw it to him, he might think it’s because I have a crush on him. Which I don’t.
“Just throw it to whoever,” Leili says.
Okay, Evan it is. I wind up to hurl it in his direction.
“No,” Leili whispers. “You need to change it.”
I hate this game. I hate it so much.
“What?” I whisper back.
“Change the ball into something else. Like bowl it.”
“Make it into a bowl?”
“No, like bowling. A bowling ball.”
I want to come up with my own unique take on how to pass it, but I’ve got nothing. It’s like I’ve never had a single idea in my life. Everyone is watching us whisper at each other.
“Okay,” I say as I begrudgingly go through the motions of pretending a tiny ball is now a bowling ball before swinging my arm back, then forward. “Evan,” I say.
“Evan!” he says, all too eager to crouch down and pick up the ball-shaped air that has rolled his way. He shrinks it down again, shouts “Mahesh!” and then puts it into an imaginary blow gun and blows it across the room. Damn, why didn’t I think of that? The guy he and Tim had been sitting with before, apparently named Mahesh, shouts his own name as he slaps his neck in surprise and drops to the ground. Everyone laughs, including me.
Now I can, of course, think of at least twenty more creative things I could have done on my turn: bounced it like a basketball, shot it like a bow and arrow, thrown it like a pie. Bowling was pretty
good, I guess, but it wasn’t even my idea.
I ruminate on this, not realizing how little I’ve paid attention to the rest of the game until Mr. Martinez says, “Okay, good, time for a little Zip-Zap-Zop!” Here’s my chance to redeem myself. Whatever this game is, I will be the best person who has ever played it.
It turns out it is less about skill or creativity and more about listening, clapping, and shouting. I am not the best person who has ever played it.
I do a little better during the One-Word Story, where we go around the circle telling a story by each adding a word. I introduce the word arugula, which becomes a key part of the narrative. Then it’s time for a game that actually involves two people in a scene together, and my heart begins to snarl at the bars of my rib cage.
“For all you newbies,” Mr. Martinez says, “we sit on the edge of the stage to form the audience, and then the action happens farther upstage. Why do we do it this way? I don’t know! We just do.” Leili laughs way harder than the joke deserves as we plop down on the stage. But so do Rashanda and Jess and Evan. Most of the group, in fact, seems to be in love with Mr. Martinez.
“Okay, now before we really get into it, I would be remiss if I didn’t first explain the most important rule of improv. The rule that will apply to every single game we play, every single moment you have onstage with a fellow troupe member. The rule that, let’s face it, is kind of the love of my life.” Everyone guffaws. Not me. I’m just trying to remember to breathe. “What is it, everybody?” Mr. Martinez leans forward, cupping his ear with his hand. “All together!”
“YES, AND!” more than half of the room shouts. I think Leili’s contribution just ruptured my eardrum.
“That’s right, Yes, and. The absolute most important rule of improv.” I feel a surge of relief, and I realize it’s because it reminds me of Yes Please, Amy Poehler’s book, which I’ve read four times. Her love for improv always made me curious to try it, until I mentally ruled it out PBM (post–bat mitzvah). But maybe I am supposed to be here. Walking the same path Amy did. “And I’m already tired of hearing myself speak, so does anybody who’s not me want to come up here to help explain it?”
Numerous arms shoot up, none higher and more determined than my best friend’s.
“Leili. Come on up.” Leili simultaneously glows and blushes as she joins Mr. Martinez, nervously fiddling with the bottom of her cardigan. He nods and gestures: You have the floor. “Um,” she says, “Yes, and means that you say yes to everything your scene partner does, then add something new to the scene to help move it forward.”
“Yes!” Mr. Martinez says. “Great answer!”
“Thanks,” Leili says. I’ve never seen her beam this much. (And I’ve known her for almost a decade.)
She goes to sit back down, but Mr. Martinez stops her. “Hold on a sec, Leili. There’s one more thing I want you to help with.”
“Oh, okay. Sure.” She’s playing it cool, but I can tell she’s flipping out.
“So, her answer was great,” Mr. Martinez says, “because improv is all about agreement.” He’s really fired up, gesturing even more emphatically than before. “You are not here to shoot down what your scene partner puts out there, you are here to support everything that happens on that stage. No matter what. Your job is to listen to each other, to make each other look like geniuses, to build something together that you couldn’t have built on your own. And with that in mind…let’s dive into some Yes, and drills!”
“Wooooo!” Nicole O’Connor shouts, her long arms and long index fingers extended toward the ceiling. She’s another person I sort of know. She had a small part in Arsenic and Old Lace. I do a quick scan of the group in the hopes of finding people who, like me, are radiating anxiety. Fletcher Handy’s giving off a distinctly neutral vibe, so that’s something.
“This is very simple and exactly what it sounds like,” Mr. Martinez says. “I’m going to bring up two of you at a time to do a scene together, and your sole focus will be to Yes, and each other. I don’t want you to worry about being clever, just agree with your scene partner and add something new with every line.”
It’s hard to absorb every word he’s saying because the fear is taking up so much space in my brain. But I can do this. I’ll go up and do a scene with someone and agree with everything they say. That’s easy. I’m very agreeable.
Is that even true? Dad sometimes calls me the Mule because I’m so stubborn. Well, whatever, I can do this.
“Before we bring anyone up, Leili and I are going to do a quick demonstration, mainly for our new folks.” Leili’s eyes open wide. “You down?” She pulls herself together and gives a thumbs-up.
“Super. So, I’m going to initiate a scene, maybe by saying something, maybe by miming a physical activity. Then Leili will affirm the reality of that—YES—and add something onto it. Then I’ll add to that, and she’ll add to that, and we’ll have a little scene. So…here we go.”
“Yeah, girl!” Rashanda shouts. Leili shoots her a small smile.
“Yay Lay,” I say, seeing as she’s my best friend. I think I was too quiet, though. She doesn’t respond.
“What?” Nicole O’Connor, sitting next to me, asks.
“Oh, nothing, I was just…” I shrug, then look back at the stage, where Mr. Martinez is pretending to dig a hole. He’s working hard, wiping his brow with his forearm and stepping on the imaginary shovel’s blade to guide it into the ground.
Leili stands next to him, staring at the hole while he digs. “I’m sorry I forgot my shovel,” she says.
“Oh, that’s okay,” Mr. Martinez says. “I mean, we’d be able to bury the body faster if you had, but we should be fine.”
Big laugh from all of us, partly out of shock that a teacher would talk about burying a dead body.
“True,” Leili says. “But now I can focus more on being supportive. You’re doing a great job! That man we murdered will be buried in no time!” She’s so earnest and natural in her delivery, everyone loses it.
“Thanks, Mom,” Mr. Martinez says.
An even huger laugh, as suddenly the scene is about an incredibly twisted mother and son. “And we’ll end that one there,” Mr. Martinez says. “Awesome!” He excitedly kicks the air with one of his cooler-than-your-average-teacher two-tone shoes.
“Hopefully that was helpful to see, especially with Leili doing such a fantastic job supporting and forwarding the scene.” Leili blushes and shrugs. I have no idea if I could do what she just did. “Let’s actually have you stay up here for the next one.” Mr. Martinez has no idea how much he’s making her day right now. “And let’s partner you up with…” I stare at my lap as he scans the room. Improvising with my best friend would probably be the gentlest way to launch into this world, but I want to watch at least one more scene to get a better feel. “Rashanda.”
Rashanda bounds over to Leili and they share a high five.
“And since Rashanda is as much of a pro as Leili”—the two of them shoot each other a quick look of pride—“we’re going to add one other element into the mix. Other than Yes, and, the most important thing in any improv scene is your relationship. When I called Leili Mom in that last scene, that’s what I was establishing. Who are you to each other? Do you love each other? Like each other? Hate each other?”
“What if it’s all three?” Evan asks, and everybody cracks up.
“You laugh,” Mr. Martinez says, “but that’s actually a very wise question. Because most times, in human relationships, it is all three. And that’s exactly the kind of thing we want to see informing the choices you make in an improv scene.”
Oh geez. The agreeing with everything I could do, but infusing a made-up scene with dynamic layers of emotional complexity sounds intimidating.
“This is simpler than it sounds,” Mr. Martinez says. “It mainly means you should know how you feel about the other person
onstage. So for each of these Yes, and scenes, we’re going to give our scene partners their relationship. What should Leili and Rashanda’s relationship be in this scene?”
“Sisters!” Molly Graham-Crockett shouts.
“Sisters,” Mr. Martinez says. “Perfect. And obviously, ladies, you’ve got a lot of wiggle room for what that means. For example, if I were going to be using my real-life relationship with my sister, I would be fiercely protective and loving with all my choices. Because, you know, she’s my kid sister, and I’m not gonna let anyone mess with her, not for a second.”
Much of the room audibly swoons. I mean, it was sweet, but he was laying it on a little too thick for my taste.
“Anyway. Sisters. You two ready?” Leili and Rashanda nod solemnly. “First scene of the new year. Sisters. Go!”
Leili looks very thoughtful and begins some intricate miming, maybe polishing a prized statue?
“Thanks for cleaning those dishes, sis,” Rashanda says.
“No problem,” Leili says, still polishing. “You know me. I love to clean!”
“Good. ’Cause I have fifty more for you to clean after this.”
People laugh, including Mr. Martinez.
“Fifty?” Leili says, incredulous. “That’s it?” Huge laugh. That was totally brilliant. Leili is brilliant.
The scene continues to unfold, exploring the strange dynamics of their relationship, with Rashanda giving Leili task after task that she always wishes were more involved. They’re Yes, and–ing like rock stars, and I’m in awe. I don’t think I’m cut out for this at all. I should just start an anonymous blog and call it a day.
Mr. Martinez ends Leili and Rashanda’s scene, and everyone claps. “That was awesome,” I say to Leili as she sits back down, and I truly mean it. She really is good at everything. It’s slightly maddening.
Pair after pair gets called to the stage by Mr. Martinez, improvising with varying levels of success as I get progressively more nauseous, a thin sheen of sweat on my forehead and arms.
I can’t do this. I’m going to be terrible at this.