Raising the Stakes by Trudee Romanek

matter what happens,” he says, his eyes sliding to mine, “let’s keep going.” A few heads turn my way. Nigel is studying his fingernail.
    Oh. I get it.
    All that talking when I arrived—it was about last week’s practice. And me. Obviously, they’ve complained to Mr. J. about me. I stand there for a second, in shock. A thick, scratchy feeling is growing my throat.
    So I guess this means they don’t want my help? I catch Faith’s eye, and she quickly looks away. Her silent treatment makes sense now. And is that why she came to practice without me? There’s no time to think about it—Mr. J. says, “Dragon slayer,” and we’re into our huddle.
    I try to push what just happened out of my mind and focus on the scene. Certain thoughts creep back in though. Why didn’t they come talk to me? Don’t they get that this is about making the team better? Are they mad at me? I swallow, and the scratchiness in my throat becomes a lump.
    The huddle is quieter than usual. Asha’s not here to take the lead, for starters. With this lump in my throat, I probably couldn’t lead if I wanted to. And I’m surprised to discover that I really don’t want to. A couple of awkward seconds pass before Nigel jumps in.
    “I’m pretty sure I can be a passable fire-breathing dragon,” he says.
    “Maybe if you look after the front,” Mark suggests, “I could be the body and long tail, and together we’ll be really big and impressive.”
    It’s a good idea, except that with Ziggy, Faith and Hanna already doing the music, Vern playing the slayer and Asha away, that only leaves me to play any other characters. I’m not sure they’ll appreciate me pointing that out to them though.
    The others join the discussion, offering some semi-decent ideas, and I’m tempted to add my own bits.
    But I don’t. Not this time.
    Nigel sums things up, and with a “Break!” we’re off.
    Ziggy and Faith give us a tune, and right away Hanna points out our dragon—Nigel and Mark, who become a completely believable flame-throwing monster. Vern strides in as the arrogant slayer. Like always, I start critiquing the scene inside my head, noticing things that could be better. But this time it’s different. Today, finding fault with their efforts seems to make me feel better somehow, as though this has become me against them. Maybe I won’t help at all and let them see how that turns out. That’ll show them , a little voice inside me says.
    The beast and slayer spend an awful lot of time dancing around each other fighting while nothing much else happens. In her song, Hanna suggests only two characters for me to become, so I do. But that’s all I do.
    Mostly, Hanna sings a lot of verses about who’s hitting whom. By the end of the four minutes, our likable dragon is dead on the floor and his slayer is patting himself on the back.
    Not exactly a crowd-pleaser.
    There’s a smattering of halfhearted high fives at the end. Mr. J. gives us a few notes about making sure our story has enough of an arc. Any arc at all , I want to add, but I say nothing.
    We start another Style scene with the suggestion “baker.” This time the huddle is less awkward. The others dive right in with their ideas. I’m tempted to join them, but now that I’ve started my personal rebellion, it’s hard to stop. Again, I keep my ideas to myself. Hanna weaves a slightly sketchy tale of a baker—Mark—who baked four and twenty blackbirds into a pie. Not very original. Apparently, he made a few plum tarts for Little Jack Horner as well—that’s Vern, who sticks his thumb in one. No big surprise there either.
    When it’s over, the rest of the team members are pretty pumped. They don’t seem concerned that some of Hanna’s lines didn’t rhyme or that most of what we’ve presented is stuff from actual fairy tales.
    Afterward Mr. J. doesn’t even mention those things!
    “I know Hanna is the narrator,” he says, “but any of you can jump in as your character and add a