Raising the Stakes (3 page)

Mr. Jeffries calls time.

“Uh-oh,” I say, getting an idea. “Guys, all of a sudden my arms are
really
tired.” I begin to shake. “They’re starting to give out!” Ziggy and Faith both grin at me and join in, wiggling and making the top of the pyramid quiver.

“Mine too,” calls Mark from the bottom row.

“And mine!” adds Nigel.

“Ahhh! Wait!” Hanna cries, giggling. But our human pyramid is already leaning badly, and the eight of us collapse in a heap of laughter.

Hanna grins at me.

“You brat!” cries Asha. My eyes flit to her face to make sure I haven’t roused her quick temper. But she’s grinning too. It’s good to be back with my improv family.

Once we’ve recovered, I turn to Hanna. “Nice work!”

“Yes, good progress, Hanna,” Mr. Jeffries says. “Way to throw yourself into the scene.”

“Get it, Hanna?” says Mark. “
Throw yourself
into it?

“Thanks, Mr. Jeffries,” Hanna says, flashing him a grateful smile. She’s our team’s only grade-nine student, and although she seems shy and not very confident, she’s full of surprises. Like, she’s got this powerhouse singing voice that she didn’t bother to mention when she tried out for the team.

“All right, let’s work through a few full Theme events,” Mr. J. says. “See what you come up with, and how you can make your strengths work for you. What do you need to remember for Theme?”

Our two senior team members answer right away.

“No puns,” offers Nigel. “Explore the whole idea of the word.”

“Use our bodies to show where each mini scene takes place,” Asha says.

We take turns listing reminders that Mr. J. has drilled into us. Instinctively the team begins to drift into a clump. We know what’s next.

The huddle. The bond. The moment you feel like, no matter what your differences, you truly belong. A cluster of eight ordinary kids who together can do anything. Sounds corny, but that’s exactly how it feels.

We get in a circle and throw our arms around each other’s shoulders. I look from face to face—from Vern’s serious one to Nigel’s eager grin, from Faith’s eyes, open wide in anticipation, to Hanna’s, squeezed shut as she waits. Energy zips around the huddle. Sure, it’s not the crackling electricity we feel at a competition, but we’re keyed up. Muscles are charged and neurons are already firing as we wait to hear whatever our coach throws at us.

“Okay,” says Mr. J., “your theme is…strength.”

That final word is like a gunshot. A jolt of adrenaline rushes through me. Mark is already spitting out, “Samson and Delilah, in the Bible. His strength was in his hair. She had it cut off.”

“A circus strongman,” I say.

“With giant barbells,” adds Ziggy.

“Maybe guys impressing girls at the gym?” offers Hanna.

We’re quiet but intense, speaking as quickly as we can, firing ideas into the center of our circle and trying not to talk over one another.

“Obi-Wan telling Luke the force is strong in him,” Vern says.

“Strength in numbers,” says Nigel. “like a union, maybe.”

“Or an army in a battle,” Faith adds.

“Or both.” That’s Asha. As our team’s best and most experienced improviser, she decides which ideas we’ll use. Always. I watch her dark eyes and serious face as she assesses each suggestion, nodding at some, frowning at others. I know she’s also planning who’s the right person to be what character and which ideas should come first and last.

“Strong fumes,” says Nigel. “Maybe ammonia, knocking people out.”

“Right, and covalent bonds between atoms, in chemistry,” Asha adds.

I jump in. “Really strong coffee. At an office… to keep employees awake while they stay late finishing a report about strong sales.”

I’m already excited just thinking about the fun we can have with these ideas. Mr. J. starts counting down the last five seconds of our huddle time.

We go quiet to listen to Asha.

“Union, then army, then Vern, circus strongman, Chloe, ringmaster.” We’re all concentrating to catch her words as they fly by. “Nigel, lab with ammonia and atoms. Then Mark, be Samson; I’m Delilah. Chloe, Ziggy, office. Vern, you’re Luke; Mark’s Obi-Wan. End at the gym.”

“BREAK!” we yell together with a clap of our hands. That’s our standard move from the huddle into the scene. The cry and the clap are like our musketeers’ cry of “one for all.” Plus, it kick-starts the action.

We spread out, a cluster of striking workers holding picket signs. Nigel kneels, facing away
from the audience, shoulders rounded and head down out of sight to turn himself into an oil drum. His fluttering fingers become the flames of a fire darting up from inside it. Like a lightning bolt, Asha energizes the scene, chanting, “Saf-er work!” and shaking her fist at some unseen window high above our imaginary audience.

We join her. “Saf-er work!”

I step up beside Asha. “It’s no use, boss! Two days picketing out here in the cold”—Faith and Hanna start warming their hands over Nigel—“and nobody will so much as talk to us.”

“They
have
to talk to us!” Asha cries. “We’ve had eighteen seam stitchers injured by runaway sewing machines this month alone.” Ziggy shuffles across in front of us, whimpering, with one arm “missing,” pulled inside his shirt. “It’s too dangerous,” Asha continues. “I refuse to work under these conditions!”

“Easy for you to say.” That’s me again. “You don’t have seven kids to feed. This job’s all that’s standin’ between us and livin’ on the street.” I pause, then lower my sign. “Stay if you want, but I’m goin’ back to work.”

Asha clutches my arm. “No! They’re up there watching us,” she says, pointing to the make-believe window, “waiting to see if we’ll give up. The only way we can succeed is by sticking together!”

It’s the perfect moment to switch. Mark hollers, “Incoming fire!” Instantly, we change our signs to guns and drop to the floor.

The Theme event whizzes by as we transition through battlefield, circus, lab, biblical times, office and Luke’s Jedi training. Mr. J. gives us our thirty-second call, which means there’s time to squeeze in one more bit before the gym scene. I swagger forward, puffing out my chest. Faith jumps up beside me, ready for whatever I throw out.

“Crashing on this planet isn’t all bad,” I say. “Now we can test
NASA
’s brand-new DH4000 solar suits.” I pretend to hand Faith a suit.

Her eyes tell me she’s still trying to figure out where I’m going with this. “Are you sure?” she says, since she’s not.

“Posit-utely! That sun up there is a dead ringer for ours back on Earth. This is our chance to try these beauties out before some other astronaut grabs the glory.”

Climbing into my imaginary suit, I practically hear the penny drop as Faith gets it.

“But
NASA
told us this planet is way closer to its sun,” she says.

I snort and reach for my helmet. “What’s the matter? Are you chicken?” Faith shakes her head. “Good,” I say. “Prepare to go down in history. We’ll be more famous than Neil Armstrong.”

Naturally, we shrivel up under the sun’s strong rays.

The rest of the team feels the energy change as the scene concludes. They fall into position around us—running, skipping, pumping iron and generally doing gym-type stuff. Hanna strikes up a conversation with Vern, admiring his muscles. He scoops her up into his strong arms, and then she sniffs his strong body odor, passing out the instant before Mr. J. calls time. It’s a perfect finish, and it feels fantastic.

Asha squeals, “Amazing!” and hugs each of us.

The team is a big jumble of happiness and excitement as we congratulate one another. This was definitely a good scene. Slowly, we quiet down to get Mr. J.’s assessment.

He grins and shakes his head. “I wish I could bottle that and open it on game day,” he says. “If you guys have that kind of chemistry in every event?” His grin widens into a full smile. “There’ll be no stopping you.”

No stopping us
. How I love the sound of that!

*
*
*

On the way home, Faith and Nigel talk for blocks about how incredible that Theme event was, replaying each mini scene. Me? I’m daydreaming about performing at nationals. Actually, I’m thinking about
after
we perform, about all the people who’ll praise our four events, especially our Life scene. It’s usually only Vern and I who perform in that one, which makes it my best chance to shine.

“Ziggy was hilarious,” says Nigel.

“Especially when he was trying to lift those barbells!” Faith adds. “And I wasn’t sure about the Samson and Delilah idea, but it totally worked.”

Suddenly, I realize something. Those two strength scenes, plus the gym finale, all had to
do with muscular strength. That’s probably not good—from the judges’ perspective anyway. They want to see as much variety as possible. Did we have enough?

The scene
felt
great, but I start to wonder how it’ll measure up against some of the ones we saw other teams present at regionals last year. They’re our competition, after all.

We wave goodbye to Nigel at the corner of his street and keep walking.

“It was perfect!” Faith says for about the twentieth time. “Couldn’t have been better.”

“It was really good,” I say slowly, “but I’m not sure it was perfect. There’s always
some
way it could have been better, right?”

Faith stares at me. “But Mr. J. didn’t have a single note for us.”

“That just means he didn’t think of anything while we were performing it, or he didn’t think of any small things we can tweak—only big things that would take more work. Like, maybe we should have shown more different kinds of strength. Or maybe we could have fit in another example if we’d tightened up the stuff we did do.”

Faith doesn’t say anything.

“But there’s nothing wrong with that,” I quickly add. “If we recognize problems, we can make our events stronger—strong enough to get us further in the tournament, right?”

After a beat Faith says, “I guess that’s true.”

“That’s what practice is for,” I go on. “Testing things out, finding ways we can get better.” An idea hits me. “Maybe we should film some practices—you know, to really see what worked and what didn’t.”

We’re at Faith’s street now, and she stops walking. “But that’s what Mr. J. is for,” she says. “To watch and tell us what to change.”

“Yeah, but reviewing video would definitely make that easier. I’ll mention the idea to him tomorrow.”

She’s still standing at her corner as I wave and head off down my street.

Five

T
hat Saturday night there’s a knock on my bedroom door, and Grammy Ann calls, “Anybody home?”

She opens the door a crack. “I haven’t seen you since I got here. Are you hibernating or something?”

“Hi! Sorry about that,” I say, waving her in. “I’m doing some career research.”

“Ah!” she says as she sits down on my bed. “You’ve decided what you want to do then?”

“Yup.” I point to the cluster of souvenirs that has grown on my bulletin board over the past year—a poster of my favorite
TV
improv show, a program from the Second City improv performance our team went to last year, and an autographed photo of actor Sandra Oh,
who performed at
CCIG
nationals when she was a student. It’s sort of my shrine to improv.

Grammy Ann looks at it and then at me. “You want to be…a collage artist?”

I laugh. “No, I want to be an improv performer.”

She tilts her head a little. “Like your team at school?”

“Yeah, but people do it as a job.” I point to the collage. “Those people, for starters.”

“I guess that’s true,” she says. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“It’s not exactly like our competitions, but it’s still improv.”

“That’s an exciting career choice. What do your parents think?”

I shrug. “They’ve been asking what kind of job I want since I was in grade eight. I’m pretty sure they’ll be happy I’ve decided on something.” I turn back to my computer screen. “I’ve been researching where improv performers can work and what sort of education or training they need. I wanted to do that before I tell Mom and Dad my plan.”

“Goodness! Your
plan
? That sounds very serious.”

“I know,” I say and then make a snooty Ms. Quinn face at her. “Apparently, I
must
have a good plan.”

“Well, right now you
must
come down for dinner, because it’s on the table,” Grammy Ann says. “And Ned’s already there, lobbying for your share of the sweet potatoes as well as his own.”

*
*
*

The conversation dies down as we’re clearing the table for dessert. Grammy Ann’s question has me curious about what my parents’ reactions will be. It’s probably time to find out.

“So I’ve decided what job I want,” I say, stacking the salad plates onto our dinner plates.

“Really?” says Dad. “That’s great.” He and Ned carry some of the serving dishes out to the kitchen.

“And? What is it?” Mom asks as she gathers the knives and forks. “A teacher, like Faith wants to be? Maybe an office manager, like me?”

“That’s so boring!” Ned calls from the kitchen. “Be something cool, like an Olympic athlete or”—he reappears behind Dad, holding the dessert bowls—“a professional scuba diver!”

I snort. “Because those sound exactly like me.”

Grammy Ann catches my eye as we carry plates and other dishes into the kitchen. “Chloe is very bright,” she says. “I’m sure she’ll be terrific at whatever career she ends up in.”

I follow Mom and Grammy Ann back into the dining room.

“How about a race-car driver?” asks Ned. “Or an animal trainer?”

“Yeah right!” I say, laughing.

Mom chuckles as she spoons foamy peach dessert into the bowls.

“All right, Chloe,” Dad says, passing me a serving. “We know what you’re
not
going to be.”

“Okay…” I pick up my spoon and poke the froth in my bowl. “I’ve decided I’m going to be an improv performer.”

Mom’s serving spoon hovers in the air for a second before she digs back into the dessert.

Dad takes a deep breath. “Improv?” he asks. “Are you sure?”