Raising the Stakes (7 page)

Finally, Mark says, “I’d love to do that, but Thursdays I work after school.”

“I have to babysit.” That’s Nigel.

“And I’ve got voice lessons,” says Hanna. “My mom can drive on Friday though,” she adds.

At that moment Asha arrives, and the team launches into a full-scale driving debate. And that’s the end of my extra-practice idea.

So. Everyone seems to be talking to me again, but we’ve got maybe half an hour left of today’s practice—which has done nothing to make our Style event any stronger, if you ask me—and then it’s zones on Friday.

Our odds of doing well are dwindling by the minute.

Ten

T
he next night, after trying unsuccessfully to study the improv book some more, I do a little research into schools and jobs, to help me visualize the next stage of my life. But I find only a handful of places to take classes. There is an improv school that’s closer than Australia, but its courses are only a few weeks long. I can already hear Dad saying,
Not much of an education
. Plus, the classes are small. If there really are so few schools, maybe my mom and Ms. Quinn are right, and it’s super hard to get in. I’m pretty sure my chances will shrink even more if our team doesn’t get to nationals.

“Chloe?” Grammy Ann calls up the stairs. “They’re leaving. Come say goodbye, dear.”

Things have been a little awkward with my parents for the past couple of weeks, ever since the peach-froth incident. But the computer expo they’re off to
is
a whole week long. I take a deep breath and close my laptop. “I’ll be right down,” I call.

I help Ned and Dad hoist the bags into the trunk and then dutifully hug each parent.

Mom says, “I’m sorry we have to miss the improv competition.”

I was ticked at first when I realized they wouldn’t be here for zones, but Dad’s company booked him to speak at this conference long before the competition dates were announced. It’s hardly their fault.

“No big deal,” I say. “I’ll tell you about it when you get home.”

Back in my room, I start my Internet search again. There has got to be some improv training out there that’s more like a normal college program—required courses, two or maybe three years long and with a degree at the end of it.

Doesn’t there?

I hear a knock on my door, and Grammy Ann comes in. “Are you all right? Most kids would
crack a smile, at least, watching their parents leave town.”

“Yeah, I know.” I turn to her. “Things haven’t exactly been going according to my plan. And this research—I hate to admit it, but Mom might be right about improv. I’m having trouble finding any college-type program that sounds like what I need.”

“Hmm. I don’t know much about any of that,” Grammy Ann says. “But I do know that every time I’ve come over here lately, you’re holed up in your room doing research. Maybe you need a break. Ned’s reading before bed. How about you and I play a board game or watch some
TV
?” Her eyes stray to my bulletin board. “Can we watch that improv show you like?”

I grin at her. “Sure. I haven’t watched season three yet. You sure you want to?”

She nods. “I’ve seen a few of your school competitions, but I’ve never seen any professional improv.”

It’s tempting. I should keep reviewing stuff in the improv book, but after yesterday’s practice I do not feel motivated. Maybe there’s no point. I look back at the list of search results on my
laptop screen. The cursor flashes slowly at me. It looks as defeated as I feel. I snap the laptop shut.

“Maybe for a little while.”

*
*
*

On the screen, two improv players wait to hear their challenge.

“All right,” the host says. “You must make up a rhyming poem about love, with each of you adding every other word.”

I sit up. Maybe I can get some rhyme pointers for Style.

“Wait,” Grammy Ann says. “Does he mean that one person says one word and then the other says the next, back and forth,
and
they have to make the lines rhyme?”

I nod.

“Is that even possible?”

“We’ll find out, Grammy Ann. Sometimes improv works and sometimes it doesn’t.”

The two performers start their poem slowly, carefully. You can tell each of them is worried about guessing what the other one is thinking.

They manage to finish one verse.

“This is incredible,” Grammy Ann says.

Still taking turns, the players start the next verse, building one line, then another: “…When the moon glows full and white each month.”

“Oh no,” says Grammy Ann. “
Month
? What rhymes with that?”

She’s right. There’s panic in the players’ eyes, and it looks like they won’t be able to finish. Then the tall performer drops to his knees and opens his eyes wide, like a little kid. He starts the next line with “Please,” but he says it with a lisp, which makes it come out as “Pleathe.”

His partner joins him, and word by word, still with the lisp, the rhyming line grows, until they lisp out together, “Jutht wunth,” meaning “just once.”

“Brilliant!” I cry.

Grammy Ann is shaking her head. “I thought they were done for.”

“That’s the beauty of improv,” I say. “One fabulous idea can take you from failure to success. As long as you don’t give up.”

I freeze as my own message sinks in.

Don’t give up.

If I really want to get to nationals,
I
can’t give up either.

“Thanks, Grammy Ann!” I cry, passing her the popcorn bowl as I leap up from the couch.

“Where are you going?” she says. “Aren’t you watching anymore?

“Not tonight—sorry,” I call, already halfway up the stairs.

I push open my door. Light from the hallway beats me into the room and sets my improv shrine aglow. I flick on my lamp and race to my desk, thinking hard. This is no time to give up—not on my future and not on my team either. I open my laptop. Maybe there’s a way we can do well without extra practice.

If I can’t help my teammates get better, maybe I can do more to be
my
very best and use those skills every chance I get to help move the team to the next level of competition.

I think through the four events. For Life, it’s only Vern and me—I should be able to pull that one off. And I’m always the narrator for Story. If I work hard enough, I can probably keep the story on track no matter what the others do. I perk up a little.

Style probably needs the most help, but Hanna holds the reins for that one, since she’s
making up the troubadour song. I can tell her how a lisp, and maybe accents too, can get her out of a tough rhyme, but that won’t help much. Then I remember what Mr. J. said about the rest of us singing some of the lines. Maybe in the huddle before Style, I can suggest myself as a featured character. That way, I’ll have more of a chance to add some of those lines myself and contribute more in that event too.

That leaves Theme. There’s no way to control that one. We all throw our suggestions in, and Asha’s the one who decides what works best. She’s usually pretty good at it though. As long as I come up with great ideas to add to the mix, Theme should be fine.

So. I’ll do my best to make the other three events great, and Theme will carry itself. Will it be enough?

Zones are tomorrow. We’ll find out soon.

Eleven

“Y
es!” Ziggy whispers excitedly. “We’re doing great!”

We’re at the zones competition. We arrived to the joyful clamor of five other teams doing warm-ups. Forty other improvisers, plus us, all in one place. Anywhere else, we’re improv freaks, but here? Here, we’re the in crowd. I’d almost forgotten how wonderful that feels.

It’s the midpoint now: two events down, two more to go. Players and audience members are milling around during the break, buying raffle tickets and talking about the scenes they’ve seen so far. Mr. J. is at the front row of the seats, fussing with the video camera he has set up there. Still onstage, our team starts to wiggle and dance a little, letting off pent-up energy.

Mark turns to me. “How do
you
figure we’re doing?”

I think for a second. “We’re maybe holding our own,” I reply.

Honestly, I’m worried that our first two events were just okay—nothing to convince the judges we’re one of the top three teams who deserve to move on. Especially since three of the other five teams are looking strong. But I’m pretty sure my teammates won’t want to hear that.

“I thought our Life was pretty good,” says Vern.

“The ask-for we got had a lot of potential,” I say to him. “I wish you’d gone along with me, though, when I tried to get us
into
our parents’ car. I was planning to accidentally hit a pole or something.”

He looks at me. “How come?”

I sigh. “Because damaging the car,” I say, “would’ve increased the conflict.”

Vern shakes his head. “Arguing over who’d get to drive it to prom was really good on its own.”

The others go quiet, watching us.

I nod. “It was good, but if we’d wrecked the car instead of arguing the whole time, then
nobody
could’ve had it for prom, plus we would have had the whole telling-our-parents-and-maybe-never-getting-the-car-again thing.”

Honestly, Vern does not seem to get the importance of raising the stakes.

“I still think it was fine,” he says.

“Except that you blocked my offer,” I can’t help but add.

“When?” he asks.

“When I said,
Let’s go pick up some milk
. You said,
No, there’s plenty in the fridge
,” I say. “That’s blocking.”

Vern scowls and looks down at the floor.

Asha stares at me, then taps him on the shoulder. “Great job with the boasting and teasing, Vern—so much like my brother.”

“Yeah, and nice work in Style, Hanna,” says Mark, throwing an arm around her. “Your song sounded great.”

Style wasn’t bad, but it didn’t go exactly as I’d hoped. We got apothecary as our medieval occupation. It took most of our huddle time to make sure everybody understood that an apothecary is
like a pharmacist, except using herbs and stuff. I’d had no chance to pitch myself as a featured character.

“So, um, Chloe,” Hanna says, “why were you a farmer exactly?”

I’d tried to worm my way into the plot by selling my plants as new medicines. It was a stretch, I admit, but I did manage to add a few rhyming lines.

“I was trying to make the scene more full,” I say. “Sort of rounding it out.” It’s mostly true.

“It’s just…” Hanna pauses. “I’m not sure it worked with what was in my song, you know?”

Asha’s glaring at me now. “Yeah,” she says. “We shouldn’t
block
the offers Hanna’s giving us.”

The whistle blows and it’s time for the second half. I refocus on the match. We have Theme left to do, as well as Story, which I narrate, so that’s all good.

As we wait for our next turn, I analyze each team that performs. From what I’ve seen, there are at least two teams here that could beat us. One of those is finishing its Theme event, “Follow the leader.” It seems good to me, though it’s always tough to know for sure what the judges will like.

Another strong team gets called up to do their Story event. The audience suggests a dentist’s office as their non-geographical location. I watch three players create a perfect dental chair. One climbs onto it, playing the patient, while her teammates take their places as receptionist, person in the waiting room and dentist. Cleverly, the tallest player creates the high tool arm that swings in over the chair. Every team member is involved. The story gets under way, and they’re all contributing. I listen as the narrator weaves an entertaining tale of the world’s happiest dentist, long-lost love and quadruple root canal. It’s really good.

Note to self: our Story has to be great to measure up to this one
.

No pressure, Chloe
.

As I watch two more teams go, my heart sinks a little. Were our first two scenes better than what I’m seeing in front of me? I’m really not sure.

And that’s the moment I realize that we might not make it out of zones and on to regionals, let alone go all the way to nationals. There are too many things we need to get better at. I breathe slowly and try to push down my rising panic.
Maybe by next year…But then I remember that Asha and Nigel are graduating. Who knows what next year’s team will be like? This was supposed to be the year. My best chance.

I sit there in shock. How did this happen?

Too few practices. Too little work. Not enough time. My dream is shriveling up and dying right in front of me.

So, is this it? Do I just give up? Go home and take down my Second City program and my
TV
show poster and…

TV
show. In my head I replay the amazing improv scene that Grammy Ann and I watched, and I remember how, with improv, it’s never over until time’s up. For those performers, one brilliant idea turned everything around. That could happen for us too.

I make up my mind to fight to the end. This is my best chance, and our team still has two events left. I can do this!

“Next,” says the referee, “we’ll see a Theme event from Harrington High.”

This is it. We leap to our feet and gather at center stage. Faith is wiggling her legs like crazy. Asha makes a soft whirring noise with her lips.
My pulse throbs in my forehead as Ziggy’s fingers tap a frenzied beat on my shoulder. We’re tense, like stretched elastic bands ready to snap, waiting to hear the theme the ref gives us. I feel like I might explode.

“Your theme is…‘Go fly a kite.’”

As we drop into our tight huddle, Asha says, “That’s like ‘Get lost’ or ‘Buzz off.’ Think of situations when you want to tell people that.”

I shake my head, but people are already talking about annoying kid sisters and irritating teachers.

“Wait!” I hiss. “We should show examples of people flying kites, too, like Benjamin Franklin’s kite getting zapped by lightning.”

Now Asha’s shaking
her
head. “No, we should focus on one thing. It needs to be one theme.”