Raising the Stakes (10 page)

Mark steps up to talk to Hanna. “I know what you mean. I missed the old Chloe too. And I really did want to put in more practice time, but I had a part-time job.” Now he looks at me. “I was saving for college. I couldn’t skip my shifts.”

Of course he couldn’t. How come I never thought of that?

“And I,” says Asha, working her way to the front, “I had a diabetic grandmother at home and a mother who couldn’t always leave work to give Grandma her afternoon medication.
Some
people,” she adds, looking straight ahead, “have responsibilities.”

So many things I never considered. I swallow and keep going. “But because Chloe was completely focused on her own personal dream,” I say, “she never asked the others about any of those things. For her, everything was about getting to nationals, though some of her teammates didn’t even want to go.”

I turn toward Nigel now, silently begging him.
Please accept my offer
.

He looks around at the others, then sighs and steps forward. “Things hadn’t been great at home. My parents…well, there was a lot of yelling. I didn’t feel right about leaving my little sisters alone to deal with that.” He looks right at me. “Improv is supposed to be fun. I
need
it to be fun.”

Oh, Nigel.

I tear my eyes away from him—this isn’t over yet. “And still Chloe kept pushing and pushing,” I say.

Vern steps up beside Mark, looking out at our pretend audience.

“Chloe’s pushing and criticizing was really irritating and annoying and super frustrating. Still, she actually
was
making the team better.” He turns to me. “Even if none of us—including her—could see it.”

I raise my eyebrows at him in a silent question. Both he and Mark nod.

My heart gives a leap…but I know there’s more.

“Sadly,” I say, “by the time Chloe realized she’d sucked all the joy out of improv, it was too late. She knew the dream of nationals was hers and hers alone. More important, she knew that
she’d probably pushed away the only people who really understood her…and the best friends she’d ever had.”

I feel a hand slip into mine, and Faith is at my side.

“I told you,” she whispers in my ear. “Apologizing is
always
a good idea.”

She smiles, and somehow I feel lighter than when I came in. I take another big breath. Just a bit more. “So the one thing Chloe really wanted to do was apologize—for her negative attitude, the awkward practices and all her critical comments. Somehow she had to tell her team how very sorry she was. Because she knew that as long as she did that”—I look at them all—“she could live with whatever came next.”

Everyone is smiling now. Everyone except Asha anyway.

Suddenly, Ziggy leaps out in front of us all. “What Chloe didn’t realize was that there was still time to inject the fun and the joy back into the team. They only had to click their heels together three times and repeat, ‘There’s no place like improv!’” He turns, sees us all standing there and orders, “And so they did!”

Ziggy arranges us in a circle and, laughing, we begin clicking our heels, losing our balance and holding each other up.

“The truth is…” a deep voice booms.

I turn, astonished to see Mr. J. joining our scene.

“…it’s very rare,” he continues, “for all the members of any group to share exactly the same dream, whether that’s going to nationals or just having a good time playing.” He smiles at me. “Everyone’s entitled to dream, but no one dream is more important than any other.” He reaches out his arms. “Aaaaaaannnnnnd—”

“—scene!” we all yell together.

It’s done. Thank goodness.

“Guys, I’m really sorry,” I say, retrieving my backpack. “I didn’t know how to apologize, but I knew I had to.” I pull out the improv book. “You can’t have this stuff hanging over you when you compete at regionals.” I hand the book to Mr. J. and then look at each of them. “I know you’ll be awesome!”

Asha’s eyes lock onto mine. “When
we
compete at regionals?” She crosses her arms again. “You’re bailing on us?”

Everyone goes quiet.

“I, um…I figured…” I stammer.

“You’ve been a royal pain,” she says, glaring at me. “You totally took over that kite scene, in the middle of competition!”

“I know,” I say, “and I shouldn’t have—”

“And now,” she says, cutting me off again, “you’re ditching your responsibility to this team?”

My face gets hot. This, I was not expecting.

“You are the only person I know,” she goes on, “who can handle being forced into a scene
while
you’re narrating it. What’ll happen if I pull that crazy stunt at regionals and you’re not there, huh?”

Then finally—
finally
—she grins.

“And for what it’s worth,” she adds, “you might have been right about that kite scene.” She comes over and gives me a hug. “I was too angry to see it.”

I feel like I might float up off the ground.

Ziggy smacks me on the arm. “An improv performer, eh? Very cool.”

“That’s what I thought before,” I say, “but now?” I shake my head. “As you guys know, I’m not particularly funny. It’s probably not a good fit.”

“It’s not,” says Mark.

Whoa. It stings hearing Mark agree with me.

Faith gasps, “Mark!” And Vern cuffs him on the back of the head.

“Ow! But she’s right,” he says, and then he turns to me. “You should be an actor instead.”

His words catch me completely off guard. And yet…somewhere inside, something clicks into place—like when we find the perfect way forward in a scene.

“An actor?” I say. “You think so?”

“Absolutely,” says Mark. “You’re comfortable in any kind of story, and your characters are all really distinct and believable. And your timing is spot on. Always.”

“I agree,” Mr. J. says. “You have all those crucial acting skills. And lots of actors study improv to make their acting more ‘in the moment.’ You’ve got a head start.”

“Mark’s right about your characters,” says Nigel. “It’s easy to play off them because they’re as real as actual people.”

“No kidding,” Hanna says. “I’m still having bad dreams about your nasty Criticism Queen.”

I only half hear the others agreeing, because my mind is busy processing all of this. If I became an actor, I could still perform for audiences. I’d still get to turn myself into all those fascinating characters I love so much.

“Actors play all kinds of different roles,” says Asha, like she’s read my mind. “That’d be perfect for you.” The others are nodding.

“An actor,” I repeat, letting the idea seep into me.

Mr. J. smiles at me. “Definitely worth looking into.”

Then he claps his hands and the spell is broken.

“All right,” he says. “We’ve got eight days to prep for regionals. Let’s get started.”

And just like that, we’re a team again.

*
*
*

After practice it’s a bit awkward as Faith and I walk back to our lockers. Finally, I just say it.

“Look, I know I’ve been awful,” I admit. “And I’m really sorry. Do you think…I mean, are
we
okay?”

She grins. “Of course! But I’ll be watching. Any hint of the Criticism Queen”—she wags a finger in my face—“and I’m calling you on it.”

“Deal,” I say. “I never want to do that again. Nothing is worth feeling that lousy.”

Fifteen

W
e’re ten minutes down the road toward regionals. The past eight days have been crammed full of team practices, research, planning, guidance appointments and more practices. Our car is just as jam-packed, with my parents, my brother Ned, Grammy Ann and me, not to mention the big basket of sandwiches and stuff that’ll be our dinner on the drive there.

“You’re sure you put the tripod in the trunk, right, Dad?”

“Yes, Chloe, I’m positive.”

“Why are we bringing the video camera anyway?” Mom asks.

“So we can record all their scenes,” says Dad, “and they can analyze them later, like football teams do.”

“But I thought Mr. Jeffries usually did that,” Mom says.

I speak up. “He does, but I wanted to have a video of my own to review.”

Grammy Ann puts her hand on my arm. “And you’re sure that’s a good idea, dear?” she asks, her voice tinged with concern.

“It’s okay,” I reply. “I want to review
me
, not the team.”

“But why do you want to review yourself?” Mom asks.

I hesitate, thinking back to the famous peach-froth incident. This is not the way I had planned to talk to them about this—in the car, staring at the backs of their heads. But come to think of it, maybe it’ll be easier, since I won’t have to watch the disapproval, or whatever their reaction is, creep into their faces.

“Chloe?”

“Okay,” I begin, “I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. I found out a bunch more about improv, and I’ve decided that you were right. It might not be the perfect career for me. But I would still love to perform, so…I have a new plan.”

Dad glances at Mom and then back at the road. “All right,” he says. “A new plan. We’re listening.”

Here it is: the moment of truth. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I think I’d like to be an actor.”

Silence. I look up at them in the front seat. Dad’s still calmly driving, and Mom’s not freaking out. So far, so good. I continue. “Improv’s given me some of the skills I’ll need, but I’ve got a lot to learn before I can get into theater school, which is what I’d like to do.” This is not coming out very clearly, but I forge ahead anyway. “I’ll still be on the school improv team. I have to focus on my own skills too, though, to get better. So I’d like to take acting lessons on the weekends, at a place in Toronto that Ms. Quinn, my guidance counselor, suggested.”

Grammy Ann raises her eyebrows. “Ms. Quinn?”

“Uh-huh. She says I’ve got to make the next couple of years count if I’m going to get into a good theater school, and she’s helped me figure out which ones I should audition for.”

Dad clears his throat, but I push on before he can say anything.

“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.