Calli Be Gold (11 page)

“It is. There are colors.”

He examines the paper again. Then it’s time for the fifth graders to leave.

“I’ll see you next time,” I say, and as I’m walking away, Noah gives me a tiny, small, but possibly happy wave. And I wave back.

Definite progress.

The next day, after school, I’m not upset that I have to go to the skating rink with Becca and Mom, because I’m hoping that Noah will be there, maybe even sitting at a table in the concession area. But when we get there, I don’t see him anywhere.

The rink is back to normal after the exhibition, except
for about twenty huge black garbage bags stacked by the back door. I see the dad on his laptop computer, the kid with the
DEATH RULES
hoodie lurking around the arcade, and the twins, but no Noah.

Becca is acting like nothing is wrong. I’m sure she has decided to step it up and rise to the challenge, like Dad would advise her to. She seems to be skating fine. While I’m watching, she doesn’t make any mistakes.

After we’re there just a few minutes, Mom waves a yellow Post-it at me and says, “I’m going to run you over to the dentist. Luckily, I don’t have a meeting. We’ll come back to get Becca.”

All the assistants at Dr. Cannon’s office, and even Dr. Cannon, the dentist, talk to kids like they’re two years old. They make you put this purple stuff on your teeth to show where you’re not brushing well, and they call the saliva sucker Mr. Thirsty. If that’s not bad enough, they ask if you want to pick a prize from the treasure chest when you’re done.

While we’re there, Mom spends the whole time on her phone and I can hear her voice even though I’m down the hall from the waiting room. She’s talking about the hairpiece issue and why the new costumes haven’t arrived. Then she calls Dad to confirm what time Alex’s game is.

The assistant tells me I have beautiful teeth but if I don’t take care of them better, they might not stay so beautiful. I get a picture in my mind of Tanya Timley’s shiny white teeth, and when the assistant turns her back,
I make a face at her. I know she didn’t see, because she still gives me a sticker with big smiling teeth that says
GREAT CHECKUP!

On our way out, I take a little notepad from the treasure chest. There’s a photo of a polar bear on the cover.

We rush back to the rink to get Becca, then drop her off and rush to Alex’s game. Afterward, he stays late for a team meeting. On the way home, Mom glances at me in the backseat of the van. “Tomorrow you won’t have to do all this running around with me,” she says. “You have your first improv class! Are you excited? Nervous?”

“Yeah,” I mumble. What color would Noah see for Mom? Electric orange?

“What if I don’t like the class?” I ask.

“Now, you don’t want to start out with a bad attitude.”

“But what if I don’t?”

“Calli Gold, I don’t want to hear that. We discussed this, remember?”

Even though I told myself I would try improv and be a Gold like the rest of them, deep down inside, I really don’t want to. A strange feeling rears up. “You’re not going to talk about the piano again, are you?” My voice comes out mean. Like Becca’s.

“No …,” she says.

I can’t stop myself. “You know, Mom, if you’re so sad about never getting to play the piano when you were a kid, you could still learn. Why don’t you take lessons now? Then you could stop being sorry you never got to.”

I can see part of her face and it looks crumpled and hurt. I bite my lip. In the space above her head, I imagine a big black piano with sharp white claws instead of keys. The claw piano looks like it’s going to pounce on her. Or me.

Without another word, she pulls into the garage, gets out of the van, and leaves me inside, which makes me feel worse than if she had yelled.

I feel like all the pink has drained out of me.

he next day, as if nothing happened, Mom is driving me to the first improv class. I know she’s mad at me, but whenever I try to tell her I’m sorry, the words just won’t come out.

She pulls the van up to the front walkway of the community center but doesn’t turn off the engine. She peels my yellow Post-it off the steering wheel. “The class is in room seven,” she says flatly.

“You’re not coming in with me?” I ask, a little shaky.

“Do I need to?” she says, turning to look at me. “I thought you told me you want to do more things on your own, and stay home by yourself, like Wanda does.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know anyone in the class.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure you’ll make a new friend.”

I slowly reach for the door handle.

“You’ll be fine,” she says. “I’ll be waiting out front in an hour when the class is over.”

She starts pulling away from the curb before the van door is completely closed. The air is cold against my cheeks and it’s starting to get dark. I can think of only one choice. To go inside.

When I get to room seven, I stop outside the door and stand on the flat gray carpet. My feet don’t want to move any farther than the doorway.

“Are you here for improv?” a voice calls out, and I look up to see a woman in a black turtleneck waving at me from inside the room. Perched on a metal chair, she’s wearing a pair of black-rimmed trendy-type glasses, the kind people wear even if they don’t need them.

When I nod, she gestures to me. “Come on down, then.”

I trudge inside and see five kids sitting in metal chairs across from the woman. A tall, skinny man is next to her, also wearing a black turtleneck. They look just like the people on the brochure, even though they’re not the same ones. Maybe it’s a rule that everyone who works in improv has to wear a black turtleneck. Would Noah be able to see any other color for them except black?

When I take a seat, the kid next to me turns. It’s the creepy kid from the skating rink, the one with the
DEATH RULES
hoodie. I can’t believe it. He does improv?

“We might as well get started.” The woman stands
up. “Welcome to Improv 101. I’m Liza. And this”—she sweeps her arm toward the man—“is Gary. We are going to acquaint you with the amazing world of improvisational theater over the next four weeks.” Both of them stand up and take a bow, and a girl behind me claps, but no one else does.

“All right, then. Everyone stand up!” Liza orders.

Reluctantly, we rise. I wonder if anyone really wants to be here.

“We’re going to start out by teaching you the four major principles of improv.” Liza pulls off her fake glasses and waves them wildly. “Gary?”

Gary leaps from his chair, stamps one foot, and shouts, “Click!”

No one except the girl who clapped says anything. She repeats, “Click?” and writes something in a small spiral.

Liza strides over to a dry-erase board and scrawls four huge letters:
C, L, I, C.

“Click!” Gary shouts again.

The kid with the hoodie looks at me but I quickly look away.

“Clarity,” Liza says.

“Listening,” Gary says.

“Instinct.” Liza again.

Then they shout together: “Confidence.”

The girl with the spiral gasps, “Oh, I get it, CLIC!”

“Ten points for you,” Gary singsongs, clapping with only the tips of his fingers.

Liza writes the four words on the dry-erase board. “When you do improv,” she explains, “you need to be free to express yourself and your vision. That’s
clarity.
Always
listen
to your fellow actors, use your
instincts,
and most of all, have
confidence
in yourself.”

I know, right then and there, in room seven of the Southbrook Community Center, that improv is not going to be my passion. All I can think about is how hot my feet are inside my shoes, how I won’t be able to get through the rest of these classes, and how I’ll never find something I’m good at in this world. I definitely don’t have the feeling I had when Noah said I was a pink heart. On top of all that, I don’t have a clue what Liza is talking about.

Gary asks us to get into a circle. “We’re going to play a little warm-up game.” He pushes away the chairs. “We’re all going to say our names. But here’s the catch: no one can say their names at the same time. If you do, you’re out. Keep saying your name, watch your fellow actors closely, and let’s see what happens.”

He shouts, “Gary,” and the girl with the spiral calls out, “Megan.” A boy says, “Andrew,” and another girl blurts, “Lauren.” Liza shouts her name and Gary calls his again.

There is silence; then the hoodie kid and I say our names at the same time.

“You’re both out,” Gary cries. “Too bad. Have a seat.”

I sink into my chair and cross my arms in front of my chest. The hoodie kid starts biting the skin on his thumb.

Gary and Liza are the last two people left standing, which is of course not fair at all.

Liza pushes her glasses to the top of her head and gazes intently at us. “Wasn’t that amazing? Did you feel it? And that’s just the tip of the iceberg!”

Next she asks everyone to find a partner, which is a completely bad thing when you don’t know anyone in the class. The hoodie kid glances at me, and I grumble, “Fine.”

Gary explains that this will be our first real improvisational exercise. He tells us that one person will say a word and the other person will say another, and we have to keep going back and forth to create a skit. This doesn’t sound too bad, because no one can get “out,” but then Gary mentions that we’ll be doing it in front of everyone else. My palms get all sweaty.

“We’ll demonstrate,” Gary says, and he and Liza start bouncing words off each other like Ping-Pong balls. In about thirty seconds, they have some funny skit going about zebras that escaped from the zoo and are running around eating petunias. Pretty much everyone is cracking up except me.

Liza and Gary stop and take a quick bow; then Gary points to the hoodie kid and me. “You’re up.”

The two of us stand and the hoodie kid says in a low, menacing voice, “Evil.”

I frown and glance at Gary.

“Just say the first word that pops into your mind,” he says.

I glance at the kid’s sweatshirt. “Rules,” I call out.

“In,” the hoodie kid replies.

“The.”

“Land.”

“Of.”

“Grujorken!” the hoodie kid shouts.

I know I look completely confused.

We end up with something about evil people in a magical land who have frequent nosebleeds. No one is laughing.

Everyone else takes a turn; then Liza informs us that class is over for today. “Your homework,” she says, “is to come up with an occupation, a place, and a food that you will give to someone else next week to incorporate into a skit.”

“What’s an occupation again?” It’s the girl with the spiral. I am beginning to dislike her.

“A job,” Gary drawls. “Waiter, garbage man, funeral director. Use your imagination.”

I think he’s going to talk about bringing out the inner muse, but he doesn’t.

“Good work today, people,” Liza says as we put our jackets on. “See you all next week!” She waves her glasses at us.

When I push open the doors of the community
center, Mom’s waiting in the van. Big puffs of steam are coming from the back end.

“How was it?” she asks when I get in.

“Okay.”

“Tell me about it. What did you do?”

“Dumb stuff.” I sound like Noah.

“You didn’t like it?”

I look out the window. It’s foggy and dirty and cold. I drag one finger across the glass and scrawl a big heart.

“Not really.”

The rest of the drive home, we are both quiet.