Raising the Stakes (8 page)

Are you kidding me?

Faith says, “A referee in hock—”

“Winnie-the-Pooh flies a kite,” I say, interrupting her.

“What?” says Vern. “I’m confused.”

“Cut it out, Chloe!” Asha growls at me.

“No! We can’t just show annoyed people telling everybody to get lost. We’ll lose!”

Nigel looks like he might throw up.

“Wait!” Ziggy stage-whispers. “Let’s calm—”

“The improv book says to completely explore the theme we’re given,” I say. “
Completely
.” I look at them all. “Think of kites, people.”

“No, don’t!” Asha appeals to the others. “Guys?”

After what feels like the world’s longest second, Mark says, “There’s a bird called a kite.”

“How about Chinese fighting kites?” suggests Hanna.

“Good,” I say. “More kites.”

The crowd starts counting down our last five seconds.

“Stop, Chloe!” Asha says. “Nigel, do the little-sister thing, and Hanna, be the annoying teacher—”

“No!” I won’t stop. “Hanna and Nigel, do Chinese kites. Mark, be Ben Franklin—”

“Chloe!” Asha is freaking out, but I am sure I’m right.

The whistle blows and we have to start.

For four minutes, it’s like an awkward western standoff—Asha on one side, me on the other, each of us pulling our teammates into scenes. As soon as a buzz-off scene finishes, I grab someone else and leap in with a kite scene.
It must look like the Asha-and-Chloe hour—and it feels at least that long.

Finally, the whistle blows and our time is up. The audience claps and cheers as usual, but there’s no team celebration. We simply go back to our space on the stage. I sit as far from Asha as I possibly can.

What a mess. Though who knows what the judges will make of it. We did manage to do the Ben Franklin, Winnie-the-Pooh and Chinese-kite scenes, plus Mary Poppins and her chimney sweep singing “Let’s Go Fly a Kite.” We could have fit in more if only…

I look over at Asha.

By her flared nostrils and the way she’s glaring straight ahead, I can tell she’s fuming. My stomach feels like it’s stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat. But I’m positive that a full event of people buzzing off would have been a boring disaster, even if she can’t admit it.

The ref announces the end of round three, and I try to forget Theme and focus on what’s ahead. We only have our Story event left, and I’ve got to make it the best one we’ve ever done. I’m pretty sure we’ll need it.

Two so-so performances by other teams race by, and we’re called up next. We gather at center stage and Nigel asks the audience to suggest an unlikely hero.

While the audience yells ideas to the referee, Ziggy fidgets like mad. Mark is rubbing my back as well as Faith’s, on his other side. He breaks the awkward silence. “You guys are the best.”

“Yeah, we can do this,” Faith adds tentatively. “I know we can.”

“Let’s try to have some fun out there,” says Ziggy. “Okay?”

I can feel Asha eyeing me from across the huddle.

The ref blows her whistle.

Please let us get a good suggestion.

“You asked for an unlikely hero,” the ref says, “and you got Suzie Sweetness.”

Boom
. Everything else falls away as we drop into our huddle.

“Sounds like a little girl,” Faith says quietly.

“Asha can be all cutesy and nice,” suggests Hanna.

“And use goodness to get the villain to change his ways,” Vern adds.

“Yeah,” says Mark. “Maybe I’m the school bully picking on the nerdy kids.”

“Or maybe not just at school,” I say. “What about adult villains?”

“You mean like Darth Vader? Or his evil master, Emperor Palpatine?” suggests Vern.

Asha frowns at him. “I doubt Chloe can tie them in.”

“What I mean is,” I say, “we have more options if she’s a kid fighting grown-up villains.”

There are murmurs of agreement.

“Likely be funnier too,” adds Ziggy.

“Maybe multiple villains,” says Asha, “from simple to more complex, and Mark is the final, nastiest one.”

“Sounds good,” says Nigel.

We’re running out of time now, and Asha takes control. “I’m a little girl fighting villains with my sweetness, laying guilt trips, innocent but clever. You villains, especially you, Mark, be the total opposite. And Chloe,” she hisses at me, “stick to the story.”

I nod. It’s a good plan. Possibly a great one. And if the story takes a wrong turn, I can get us back on track.

We start the scene.

I have to admit, Asha is doing a terrific job as our sweet little hero, skipping, twirling her hair, that kind of thing. One by one, I introduce some small-time villains—Faith as a mean girl, Vern as the neighborhood bully, Nigel as the pickpocket—then I move on to Ziggy as the fast-talking con man and Hanna as an out-of-control, demanding boss. Suzie makes quick work of each of them, sweetly pointing out the error of their ways. Asha is still playing the character beautifully. Our chances of getting to regionals are looking up.

But I haven’t heard the ref call the one-minute mark. Did I miss it, or are we going too fast? Worry begins to pool in my gut.

Hanna, the horrible boss, has already changed into a repentant model employer. I have no choice but to introduce Mark. “Suzie Sweetness waves goodbye to the newly reformed boss and makes her way to city hall,” I narrate, “where she runs smack-dab into the worst villain she’s come up against so far—a crooked politician known as Mr. Slimeball.”

Mark steps forward and lets out a chuckle.

“He takes bribes,” I say. “He pushes bad policies through to turn them into laws. He steals from the poor and generally does despicable things on a countrywide scale.”

Mark snorts and belches his way into the scene, creating a completely unlikeable character. Silently I will him to draw out this final bit, to fill our time well. But all too quickly, he starts giving in to Suzie’s appeals to turn to goodness.

“One minute!” calls the ref.

No!
That’s too long—we’re basically done!

Asha knows it too. Her eyes open wide, but she has to keep going somehow. She turns to the now defeated Mark. “I’ll bet you weren’t always like this. There’s someone else, isn’t there? Someone even more despicable. Someone who pushed you to become what you are.”

Vern’s evil-master idea. Brilliant!

“Yes,” Mark sputters. “That’s right. It’s not my fault. It was because of my master!”

He gets it, thank goodness.

“My master was cruel and nasty and found fault with everything I did,” Mark continues. “Each negative comment was like a knife, hacking away at my good nature.”

My mind is scrambling to figure out who can play the master that Mark’s describing. Vern, maybe? He knows the most about Emperor What’s-his-name.

“Through fifteen years of constant, heartless criticism,” Mark goes on, blubbering now, “my evil master destroyed my soul and turned me into the bitter, angry brute I am today!”

“Your evil master?” says Asha. She’s peeking around, waiting for a teammate to step forward as this new character. But no one does. Every team member has already been a villain, and they all stay glued in place as pieces of furniture in city hall.

Ugh! What now?
I look over at Vern, trying to signal him to reenter the scene as the evil master.

Suddenly Asha’s desperate eyes latch onto mine, and she spins toward me.

Oh no. Bad idea
.

I shake my head slightly, but she’s already walking my way.

“I know this evil master,” she announces. “You must mean Chloe, the Criticism Queen!”

“Uh…yes?” says Mark. It’s more a question than a statement.

My mind is churning. I’m
in
the scene now?

This has never happened before. If I’m the ultimate villain, how can I narrate my own conflict? Do I talk about myself as ‘I’ or should I say ‘she’? I
have
to make this work!

Asha is standing a few paces away, waiting for a response.

“That’s right, S-Suzie Sweetness,” I stammer, desperately trying to think like an evil master. “And I will defeat you.”

An idea sparks in my brain. Maybe I can talk
to
Asha but also make comments directly to the audience. That way I’m still sort of narrating. I try to think nasty thoughts as I turn to the audience. “Suzie never suspected she’d end up facing me, the ultimate villain, the queen of criticism. I’ll have her confidence in shreds in no time.”

“Thirty seconds,” calls the ref.

Where the one-minute call sent me into a panic, this one cuts through the chaos in my brain, jolting me back to reality. Only thirty seconds left to get us to regionals. It’s up to me.

I spin back to Suzie and let out an eerie laugh. “If you think I’ll be gentle because of your childish ways and ridiculous ponytails,” I say, sneering
at her, “you really don’t know me at all.” I try to savor my words, to revel in my villainy. “And drop that high girly voice—we both know it’s fake.”

“Oh, I know how you work, Criticism Queen,” she replies sweetly, taking a step toward me. “You’re trying to make me lose faith in myself.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard,” I snarl. “Deep down you already know you’re nothing. You’re not a real hero.” I straighten to my full height and glare at her. “You,” I say, spitting out each word, “are no good at all.”

Something in her face changes, and she looks me right in the eye.

“
I’m
no good?” she says, her voice slipping down. “Well, I wonder why, Chloe? You’re positively oozing with criticism! There’s
always
something wrong. Nothing anyone does is ever good enough for you.” She has dropped the high Suzie voice completely. “You’ve been crushing our confidence for weeks now!”

Wait.
Weeks
?

And did she say
our
confidence?

She takes another step toward me. Her eyes are on fire. “Nothing is fun anymore,” she says, “because of you.”

Then it hits me.

She’s talking to
me
. Not to Chloe, the Criticism Queen, but to plain ol’ Chloe Willis.

“We work hard and we really try,” she goes on, “but you keep pushing and criticizing.” She’s getting louder. “You make us all feel like crap, like we’re no good. But guess what?
We are!
And you know what else? If all you can do is criticize, then you’re the one who’s no good.”

She stands there, breathing hard and glaring at me. Over her shoulder, I can see my teammates, frozen, their eyes wide.

Asha steps closer still. “Poor thing,” she says, the sweetness suddenly back in her voice. “I feel so sorry for you.”

The ref blows the whistle, and we’re finished.

Oh boy, are we finished.

Twelve

I
t’s the evening after zones, and I’m on a bus, heading to Toronto. I’ve made this hour-long trip loads of other times, to go shopping or to a baseball game, but always with my parents or Grammy Ann.

I spent most of today stomping around the house, grumbling to myself and slamming things. I’m so angry at our team, especially Asha. I cannot believe she broke character and turned our make-believe scene into a real-life argument. Apparently, lots of people in the audience—like Grammy Ann and Ned—didn’t even realize, but still. It breaks every improv rule—no, every
performance
rule there is!

After that awful scene ended, the eight of us sat like statues through the other teams’ last events.
None of my teammates would so much as look at me. They all disappeared into the crowd as soon as the final scores were announced.

Incredibly, we ended up third. Our team actually moves on to regionals, and maybe further. But nobody seemed to care about that. Everyone, including Faith, managed to fit into the other cars to get home. On the ride back, I told Grammy Ann I didn’t want to talk about it. Ned filled the silence with his personal renditions of practically every scene in the competition. He was still at it this morning. Fortunately for him, he headed off to his friend Jake’s after lunch for a sleepover, or I might have throttled him.

Grammy Ann fretted and stewed about leaving me alone while she went to her big volunteer-appreciation banquet tonight, but I convinced her I’d be fine.

That’s when I hatched my plan.

Like I said, I’m angry at my team, but it’s not only that. I’m confused and, to be honest, I’m hurt. They really think I’m the ultimate villain? I can’t believe Asha attacked me like that, and in a competition, too! The thought of doing improv with her again… Let’s just say I figure maybe it’s
time for me to try doing improv with some other people—real players who are serious about it, who care about getting it right.

As my bus pulls into Union Station, I do up my coat and fish the wrinkled blue brochure from my pocket to triple-check the address. The improv club is only a few blocks from here, according to the map on its website, not far from the baseball stadium. I picture the turns and street names on the map once more.

Wintry air races past as I step outside the station, and my body gives a shudder. In the orange light of the streetlamps, it takes me a minute to get my bearings. I’m pretty sure it’s this way. To be absolutely certain, I ask a passing police officer.

There’s a zero percent chance I’ll get lost, but I count my steps anyway, to avoid thinking about that possibility. It’s just a city, after all. As I walk, I look around. The people don’t seem much different from the ones in Harrington, but the buildings are bigger. A lot bigger than I remember. It takes me nearly five minutes to walk past a huge one, all shiny glass and metal, that takes up a whole block.

A couple of turns and a few streets later, I see a sign for the club not far ahead. Suddenly my anger fades, and what I’m about to do stops me at the door. Improv in a city club with people I don’t know? What the heck am I thinking?

The place looks respectable though. And I have to do
something
—it’s more than two hours until the next bus home.

I stand there, uncertain.

Finally, a normal-looking college type steps past me and opens the door. I take a deep breath and follow him in.