Raising the Stakes Read online

  RAISING

  the

  STAKES

  Trudee Romanek

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2015 Trudee Romanek

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Romanek, Trudee, author

  Raising the stakes / Trudee Romanek.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0779-2 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-4598-0780-8 (pdf).—

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0781-5 (epub)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8635.O4475R35 2015 jC813'.6 C2015-901720-3

  C2015-901721-1

  First published in the United States, 2015

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015935532

  Summary: In this short novel for middle readers, Chloe’s determination to succeed in the world of improv damages her friendships and hurts her team’s chance to win.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover photography by John Cameron

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  18 17 16 15 • 4 3 2 1

  For Mom and Dad, and for Brina,

  who continually inspires.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Traffic noise swirls around us as Faith, Nigel and I pick our way along the icy sidewalk toward school.

  “Okay,” I say. “Thirty seconds. What have you got for the theme truth? Go.” I start my watch timer and slip my fingers back into the cozy warmth of my glove.

  I saw truth last night on a list of topics for the Theme event in the improv book I borrowed from our coach. Nigel and Faith are already staring down at their steadily moving feet, thinking hard.

  Tall gangly Nigel is the genius transformer on our improv team. He can turn himself into anything from a steamroller to an erupting volcano. But he also comes up with great ideas for Theme. And now he gets the first one.

  “A little kid admitting he broke a glass?”

  “Yup, that works,” I say.

  “Ooh, Chloe,” Faith cries, “how about a court scene? You know, a person on the witness stand. Do you swear to tell the truth and all that.”

  I nod. “Absolutely.”

  Faith and I have been friends since the day in fourth grade when she gave her speech on why she’d never want to be a Disney princess. Back then, she was already wearing her long brown hair in her trademark messy bun. Faith is a solid, all-around improviser. She’s especially good at fearlessly throwing herself into a scene, confident that she’ll figure it out as she goes.

  “Girls playing Truth or Dare?” suggests Nigel.

  I nod again. “Another nice one.”

  The three of us walk to school together every day—well, every day since we all made the school’s improv team last year. We started doing exercises like this on our walk when we had competitions coming up, to get our brains in top shape. Today’s only day one of second semester, and our first competition of this year’s season is still weeks away, but I’ve got big plans.

  Some kids probably think it’s weird that Nigel walks with us, since he’s in grade twelve and Faith and I are only in grade ten. But our connection is about who we are, not how old we are. It’s about being part of something. When we’re doing an improv scene, all eight members of our team depend on each other completely. Whether the scene is good or bad, we share the experience more than I’ve ever shared anything with anyone else. That’s a pretty good reason to walk together. That and the fact that the three of us only live a couple of blocks apart.

  Up ahead, some girls pore over a fashion magazine as they wait for the traffic light to change. One of them sighs enviously, her breath forming a little cloud that hovers in front of her until the wind snatches it away.

  “George Washington!” Faith blurts out. “He said, I cannot tell a lie.”

  The girls look over, then return to their magazine. They’re used to us. Everyone knows the kids on the improv team aren’t afraid to draw attention to themselves. We’re all big hams—eight goofy kids among hundreds of normal ones at Harrington. Of course we walk together! Most of us eat lunch together too.

  “How about a lie-detector test in a police station?” Nigel offers.

  He and Faith are doing better than they ever did last year. I hold up the hand I’ve been counting on. “Five solid ideas in just fifteen seconds! You guys are on fire this morning!”

  They beam at each other. Then Nigel yelps, “Pinocchio’s nose! And how it shrinks down when he tells the truth.” His brown eyes open wide as another thought hits him. “And he could ask someone, ‘Do I look ridiculous with this long nose?’ and the person lies!”

  I’m impressed. “Two in one scene! Fantastic!”

  An icy blast of wind hits us, and Faith pulls her scarf tighter. “In medieval times,” she says, “didn’t they say a sword was true if it was straight?”

  “Yeah,” says Nigel, “that sounds familiar.”

  We turn the last corner. There are more kids around us now, coming from all directions. Most are walking, though a few ride bikes through the slush on the roads. At the end of the block, a two-story brown-brick building peeks out from behind snow-covered oak trees. That’s Harrington High, our school—a school that, starting today, offers an improv course!

  I look down at my watch. “Three seconds left.”

  I still can’t quite believe we’ll get to do improv during class. Nigel and a couple of the others from the team aren’t in the class, but it should be a blast for the five of us who are.

  At the last moment, Nigel says, “Maybe use that saying ‘Truth is stranger than fiction’ somehow.”

  “And that’s time. You got eight really good ideas! That was amazing!” I squeal, pulling them into a three-sided hug.

  Then I hold them both at arm’s length. I haven’t shared my game plan with anyone yet—not even Faith—but it’s time. “Guys,” I say, looking from one to the other, “I really think we can do it this year.”

  Nigel frowns down at me. “Do what exactly?”

  “Make it all the way to the national championship, silly!” We start walking again, arm in arm, as I explain. “This year’s team has got everything we need. Think about our four events—our Life and Story events are strong, Theme gets better with every practice, and our Style will blow everyone away.”

 
I know it’s true. I’ve been thinking about it for months now. Our best chance of getting through zones and regionals and on to nationals is this year, before Nigel and Asha, who’s also in grade twelve, graduate. And getting to nationals would be a dream come true for me.

  “Our team is pretty strong,” says Faith, “but nationals? You think so?”

  Nigel shrugs. “That’s if we want to go to nationals,” he says.

  I stop dead.

  “If we want to?” I squawk. A kid walking behind us almost bumps into me. “How could we not want to? First of all, it means we’d get to do more improv. And second, nationals is the ultimate improv competition! It’s like the end goal—you work, you get better, you make it to nationals!”

  “Improv is definitely fun,” says Nigel, pulling my arm to start me walking again, “but nationals is really far away. Just getting there would cost a bundle. You know Harrington never spends any money on the improv team.”

  “He’s right about that,” Faith says.

  We all know that Ms. Quinn’s award-winning camera club sucks up most of our school’s arts budget. Between the club’s equipment purchases, competition entry fees and annual photography exhibit, there’s usually not much money left over. But I’m ready for this argument.

  “We can do fundraising for the money to get us there,” I tell them. “And CCIG pays for dorm rooms for out-of-town teams who qualify.” The CCIG—the Cross-Country Improv Games—is the organization that runs the whole tournament.

  “Really?” says Faith.

  “Yup. I researched it.”

  “That’s awesome!” she says.

  Nigel looks surprised but not convinced. “Going to nationals would mean leaving Harrington for a whole week,” he says. Then he shakes his head. “Can’t do it.”

  What?

  Ahead, a gust of wind sets the oak branches shaking too, and clumps of snow topple to the ground.

  Instinctively I kick into improv mode, silently brainstorming ways to change his mind. “But Nigel,” I try, “we’d get to do improv for a whole month longer than we usually do. Think of it! Four more weeks of nonstop practices after regionals, and then nationals itself—a full week of workshops and games with other kids exactly like us!”

  “That sounds amazing,” says Faith.

  I’m positive Nigel would love nationals. He adores doing improv. Last year when our season was over, he moped around school for weeks.

  He smiles. “Well, that part would be terrific.” His smile fades. “But being apart from my sisters that long? No way.”

  Seriously? I can understand why Nigel adores little Patty, who’s as sweet as can be, but Sarah is eleven, the same age as my brother, Ned. I’d do a happy dance if I could get away from annoying, video-game-addicted Ned for a whole week.

  We’re stamping slush from our shoes and heading in through Harrington High’s front doors and I still haven’t got Nigel on board. Then a kid pushes past me, staring at his cell phone, and an image of Ned glued to his computer screen pops into my brain.

  “Skype! You could Skype with them,” I practically yell, ignoring the stares of other kids in the hall. “Every night even.”

  “Oh yeah,” says Faith.

  Nigel brightens. “I forgot about that. And four extra weeks of improv would be amazing!” He flashes me a grin. “Okay, maybe I could handle going to nationals. See you two at lunch.”

  I’m grinning too as he heads off toward the grade-twelve lockers.

  “When did you get so pumped about nationals?” Faith asks as we turn down our hallway.

  I think for a second. “I guess it started when we watched the national finals webcast last year,” I say. “I’ve been thinking for a while that I don’t want to grow up to be one of a billion boring, identical people doing boring, identical things, you know? I want to do something. Something special! Maybe improv is our chance.”

  Faith nods, so I don’t have to explain the rest—that to really leave my mark, I’ve decided I want to be an improv performer. As a career, I mean. It seems easier to keep that part to myself for now.

  As for the Harrington High improv team, it’ll take plenty of hard work, but we’re destined for nationals.

  I’m sure of it.

  Two

  I’m sitting in homeroom with ten minutes until history class starts when the intercom crackles to life.

  “Chloe Willis, please report to the guidance office.”

  I frown as I gather up my books and head into the hall. What could they want me for?

  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.