Raising the Stakes Read online

  “…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

  The 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 t
hen 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

  Finally, 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.”

  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.