Raising the Stakes (2 page)

Ms. Quinn is peering through her glasses at the computer screen when I sit down in the chair by her desk.

“Hi,” I say. “The secretary sent me in to see you. I’m Chloe Willis.”

She gives a quick smile, then turns to a stack of papers on her desk. “Willis…” she repeats as she shuffles through them.

I shift in the hard brown chair. “So, uh, why am I here exactly?”

I’m not used to being called down to the office, even the guidance office. My lowest mark last semester was an eighty-four, after all.

Ms. Quinn pulls a paper from the pile and peers at it. “Willis…Ah, yes,” she says. “We had to move you out of a class that was too full.”

My stomach clenches a little. “It’s not the new improv class, is it?” I ask. I thought I was one of the first to get my name in for that.

“No, no,” she says, looking at me over her glasses. “Your math class had a lot more students than the other grade-ten class. We’ve shifted a few of you over. Now you’ll have”—she consults the paper again—“English fourth period, with Mr. Walsh, and math fifth period instead, still with Mrs. Ackermann.”

I breathe and relax against the chair.

“That improv class is certainly popular,” she says. “I’ve never seen a new course fill up so quickly. You like improv, do you?”

“Like it?”

How
do
I feel about improv? About performing in front of a crowd, or about the fifteen-second adrenaline rush of the huddle as the team frantically plans the basics of the coming scene? Or the mind-blowing joy of getting a brilliant idea at the very instant I need one, like at last year’s regionals when we were scrambling to…

I suddenly realize Ms. Quinn is looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“Uh, sorry. Yeah, I love improv.” And then for some reason I blurt out the idea I wasn’t ready to share with Faith. “That’s what I plan to be—an improv performer.”

Ms. Quinn’s face goes all serious. She folds her arms on her desk and leans toward me. “Really. And what are your plans?”

I blink at her. “To be an improv performer,” I say again.
Um, hello.

“No, no, I mean, what are you doing to prepare for that type of work? You need a solid career plan no matter what field you’re aiming for.”

I hesitate. A career plan?

“Well,” I say, thinking, “I was on last year’s school improv team, and I went to an improv camp last summer. The coach there said I had
great potential. I’m on the school team again this year, and Mr. Jeffries says it’s one of the strongest Harrington has ever had. I think this year we have a shot at getting to the improv national championships.”

Ms. Quinn is still looking at me, so I add, “Nationals is as far as you can go in high school improv. Only the very best teams get to compete there each spring.”

“I see,” she says. “And what other things can you do to prepare? Most improv performers are comedians as well, aren’t they? The public library is still hosting its monthly coffeehouse. Maybe you’d like to do a stand-up routine at the next one.”

My chair squeaks as I shift again. “I’m not sure stand-up is for me,” I say.

The truth is, I’m not a comedian and I know it. On our team, Ziggy and Mark are the really funny ones. “Improv isn’t like stand-up,” I explain. “Teams choose four out of five events to perform at competitions. Performing each one is kind of like putting on a mini play.”

Ms. Quinn looks confused.

“What I mean is, it’s not about telling jokes,” I say. “Sure, some of what we act out is funny,
but improv is more about working together to build whatever we can think of off the tops of our heads into a full, logical scene. Mr. Jeffries always says it should be entertaining, but it doesn’t
have
to be funny.”

She frowns. “Well, maybe not, but I doubt there are many jobs in the improv field. With such limited opportunities, the competition will be fierce. It seems to me you’d be wise to work on every skill that’s involved if you hope to make a living at it.”

She pulls a binder from the shelf above her desk and begins flipping through it. “By grade ten,” she says, “most students have already begun serious preparation, whatever their career goal may be.” She takes a blue brochure from the binder and hands it to me along with my new class info. “This improv center in Toronto offers some comedy courses. Have a look and then we can talk about next steps.”

I look at the brochure. Course names like Stand-Up, How to Write Jokes, and Intro to Clowning spring from the page. I feel nauseous just reading them.

The bell for first period rings.

Back in the hallway, I stuff the brochure into my binder. With lots of hard work, our improv team should get to nationals. And when we do, I’ll be front and center, competing against the best and making a name for myself in improv.

That sounds like a solid career plan to me.

*
*
*

History class is over, and I race toward the drama room. Our first improv class! I spot Faith’s bun by the drama-room door. She’s deep in conversation with Ziggy and Mark. Both boys are in grade eleven, and both are on the improv team. Beyond that, they’re totally different. Short skinny Ziggy is our constantly moving joker character. Mr. J. says he’s like a Mexican jumping bean that’s been soaked in espresso. Mark, on the other hand, is big and cuddly. He reminds me of an overstuffed teddy. We always joke that if our team were an actual family, Mark would be the laid-back, loving uncle. He has a great sense of humor and he’s a smart guy, so he plays all the wise old characters.

“…when you’re in grade twelve,” Mark is saying as I get there. “There’s no room for this.”

“No room for what?” I ask.

“Hey, Chloe!” Mark wraps me in a bear hug, then explains. “No room for the improv class. That’s why Nigel and Asha aren’t in it. Especially Asha,” he continues. “She’s trying to get into a top-level aerospace-engineering program. Her timetable is packed with maths and sciences.”

“I don’t get it,” Faith says. “Didn’t she earn an extra credit from that correspondence course?”

“And do that robotics lab last summer too?” I add.

Mark nods. “Yeah, but she says other kids have been doing extra stuff like that since middle school, and Aerospace only accepts thirty students. Apparently, her brother barely squeaked into the same program a few years ago. The competition is fierce.”

The familiar words hang in the air.

Then Ziggy starts ducking and dodging like a boxer, his long black hair flopping in his eyes.

“Aaaaand the competition is fierce,” he says in his announcer voice, “but Zigzaggin’ Ziggy starts to get the upper hand on Mark the Mammoth.”

Mark laughs, and the three of them head into class.

I stand there, picking at the edge of my binder.

Can competition really be that fierce?

By grade ten, most students have already begun serious preparation.

Do I need more than improv-team practices?

In the drama room, Mr. J. is writing stuff on the board for our improv class. I watch him for a second before I realize.

This class.

This class will help me get better at improv. Not only that, it’ll help the five of us get better at improv, which will increase our team’s chances of getting to nationals.

This class will be my serious preparation. It has to be.

I lift my chin and go in to join my friends.

Three

T
he drama room is filling up, and I can hardly wait to get started.

Vern saunters over and joins our foursome. He’s our team’s male lead, like I’m its female lead. That means that if a scene calls for a boyfriend and girlfriend or husband and wife, Vern and I play that couple. It’s not like we’d ever have to make out or anything, but I’m glad I’m comfortable with Vern. And at least he’s sort of cute.

“Hey, guys,” he says.

Mark turns to him. “Ready to give this improv class a try, Vern?”

Vern shakes his head. “No, Luke,” he says in his best Yoda voice. “Do or do not. There is no try.” With Vern, everything connects to
Star Wars
somehow.

Suddenly Ziggy pretends to fire up a light-saber, and, with much humming and zapping, the three of them launch into a slow-motion battle.

By the time Mr. Jeffries shuts the door, there must be thirty of us inside. The chairs are all around the edge of the class. We grab five together as everyone settles down.

“All right,” says Mr. J., adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. “Welcome to—” he pauses for effect “—Harrington High’s first-ever improv class!”

There is a chorus of hoots and hollers, the loudest from Ziggy, who starts high-fiving everyone he can reach.

“So let’s establish some guidelines for this class. Some of you, especially that rowdy bunch over there”—he grins in our direction—“already know that people who do improv together share a special bond.”

Some kids giggle, thinking he’s being dramatic again, I guess.

“I’m serious,” he continues. “And to build that bond, each of us has to commit to this very important rule: what happens in improv class stays in improv class.” He points to the board, where he’s written those words.

Then he goes on for ten minutes about responsibility, mutual respect, class safety—stuff like that. It’s all I can do to sit still while he’s talking. I get why he’s saying it. Improv doesn’t work if there’s no trust. But I’ve heard it all before, and because of exams and the semester break, it’s been weeks since we’ve done any improv. I’m itching to get started.

“Everybody understand?” Mr. Jeffries asks.

There is much nodding of heads.

“Great! Okay, now—” he pauses, and beside me I feel Ziggy shift forward, ready for action “—let’s go over some basics.”

Ziggy lets out a quiet groan.

“Improv,” Mr. J. continues, “is about saying the very first thing that comes into your head. That’s what makes a scene spontaneous and interesting—and slightly terrifying. But don’t be afraid to fail. Failing is part of the process.”

For another ten minutes Mr. Jeffries talks about stuff like facing the audience and projecting your voice. Definitely the basics. I let my eyes wander around the class. Near the back, I see the guy who chucked a rotten banana last semester that splattered on Asha and Mark in the cafeteria.
I also see that he’s brought a few of his druggie friends along. Terrific. Mr. J. expects us to trust these guys enough to do improv with them?

“When an improviser presents an idea,” Mr. J. is saying now, “his partner should always respond with ‘Yes, and.’ I don’t mean you need to actually say those words each time, but you should accept your partner’s suggestions—we call them offers—by building on them rather than ignoring or blocking them.”

Mr. J. talks on as five more minutes of class time tick away. Finally he says, “Everybody into a circle!”

We spring up, ready for some improv to begin.

“This warm-up is called Zip, Zap, Zop.” “Yes!” says Ziggy.

It’s an old favorite, one of the first warm-ups every new improviser learns.

“Would you like to explain it, Ziggy?” Mr. J. asks.

Ziggy salutes. “With pleasure, sir!” he says. His eyes dart around the circle. “Okay, if I swing my arm toward you and say, ‘Zip,’ I’m passing megawatts of supercharged energy on to you. Quick as
you can, you say, ‘Zap’ and shoot that energy over to another person. Then that person ‘zops’ it to someone else, who sends it on, starting over with ‘Zip.’ But it’s gotta go superfast. And the words
zip
,
zap
and
zop
have to stay in that order.”

It’s a pretty large group, but we get a round going. The new kids catch on, and within a few minutes the energy is flying around without too many mistakes.

“All right, let’s move on.” Mr. J. looks over at our group. “You five, come on over here. Ladies and gentlemen,” he says to the class as we trot to his side, “allow me to introduce some experienced improvisers and valuable members of Harrington High’s improv team.”

Yes!
I bet we get to demonstrate.

Mr. Jeffries smiles at us—which is why I’m completely unprepared for what he says next.

“Spread out, guys. Pick a section of the room and go work with the folks there.”

Um, what?
Splitting up an improv team is about the cruelest thing you can do, and Mr. J. knows it!

Vern shrugs and walks over to the group by the window. Mark gives Faith a one-armed
hug and heads toward the banana tosser and his friends. I look at the closest group of kids, in the corner by the door. A few of them I know from other classes. They seem like decent kids, but they’re all brand new at improv. I need to improve my own skills, and I’m way more likely to do that if I can work with at least a couple of kids who have experience. Besides, if Mr. J. is planning to split us up all the time, we’ll never get the extra team practice I’m counting on.

“But Mr. J.,” I say. Everyone stops moving and looks at me. I swallow and go for it. “Wouldn’t it be good for the team—” But then I stop, since it seems like Mr. J. is not thinking about the team right now. “I mean…”

My thoughts whirl, and then I’ve got it.

“I mean, wouldn’t it be good if those of us
on
the team,” I say instead, “demonstrate some of the stuff you’re teaching us for the newer kids?” My face feels warm.

“It might be, Chloe,” Mr. J. replies, “but they can probably learn more from working with you than they can by watching you.”

This is not going to be easy. I suck in a breath and try again. “But,” I say, “if we do some improv
scenes for them, we could be sort of an example, right? Because we already have a bond and that trust you were talking about?”

Mr. J. raises an eyebrow at me. My face gets even warmer.

At last he says, “I’ll keep that idea in mind for later, once we’ve learned some improv techniques.”

My friends have all gone to join their groups. I sigh and head toward the kids by the door.

This is definitely not what I was hoping for.

Four

F
inally, it’s Wednesday after school. The whole improv team is together, happily brainstorming and acting out some scene ideas at practice. Mr. J. has given us barriers as a theme, so Mark, Vern, Nigel and Asha are on their hands and knees, Faith, Ziggy and I are above them, and little Hanna is kneeling on Ziggy’s back, pretending to be Éponine from
Les Misérables
, singing “At the Barricade.”