rhyme or two of your own. Hanna, don’t be afraid to pass the story to someone else if they’re the focus at that point.”
Good idea. That way we don’t have to rely on Hanna for all the rhymes.
“The rest of you,” he continues, “stay on your toes. When Hanna throws you an offer, take it! For example”—he turns to me—“Chloe, Hanna said that the baker’s assistant , which was you, put up a fuss . You could have jumped right in with your own rhymes to explain more about why you were making such a fuss. Everybody got that?”
I feel my neck getting warm. Seriously? Out of all the problems with that last scene he’s only criticizing me ? There is plenty that desperately needs fixing before we go to zones! I can’t keep quiet any longer.
“Mr. J.,” I say, “do you think it’s okay that most of that scene was from actual fairy tales? I’m pretty sure the improv book says not to copy stories that already exist.”
He adjusts his glasses. Somebody mutters something about “that book.”
“What I think is that the scene had good rhyming and a strong story arc. So let’s build on those strengths and many more original ideas will flow, I’m sure,” he says.
He picks up a paper from his desk and heads toward the door. “I need to go and make copies of the permission form for zones on Friday. You guys sort out whose parents can drive there, all right?”
And he’s gone. I look around at everyone as they start chatting. No matter what they said to Mr. J. about me, they’re still my best shot at getting to nationals. I’m going to have to suck it up and try to make this work.
“What’s everybody doing tomorrow?” I ask. They stop talking. “Maybe we could have another practice,” I say. “You know, try some scenes with everybody here.”
They look around at one another for a few seconds.
Finally, Mark says, “I’d love to do that, but Thursdays I work after school.”
“I have to babysit.” That’s Nigel.
“And I’ve got voice lessons,” says Hanna. “My mom can drive on Friday though,” she adds.
At that moment Asha arrives, and the team launches into a full-scale driving debate. And that’s the end of my extra-practice idea.
So. Everyone seems to be talking to me again, but we’ve got maybe half an hour left of today’s practice—which has done nothing to make our Style event any stronger, if you ask me—and then it’s zones on Friday.
Our odds of doing well are dwindling by the minute.
Ten
T he next night, after trying unsuccessfully to study the improv book some more, I do a little research into schools and jobs, to help me visualize the next stage of my life. But I find only a handful of places to take classes. There is an improv school that’s closer than Australia, but its courses are only a few weeks long. I can already hear Dad saying, Not much of an education . Plus, the classes are small. If there really are so few schools, maybe my mom and Ms. Quinn are right, and it’s super hard to get in. I’m pretty sure my chances will shrink even more if our team doesn’t get to nationals.
“Chloe?” Grammy Ann calls up the stairs. “They’re leaving. Come say goodbye, dear.”
Things have been a little awkward with my parents for the past couple of weeks, ever since the peach-froth incident. But the computer expo they’re off to is a whole week long. I take a deep breath and close my laptop. “I’ll be right down,” I call.
I help Ned and Dad hoist the bags into the trunk and then dutifully hug each parent.
Mom says, “I’m sorry we have to miss the improv competition.”
I was ticked at first when I realized they wouldn’t be here for zones, but Dad’s company booked him to speak at this conference long before the competition dates were announced. It’s hardly their fault.
“No big deal,” I say. “I’ll tell you about it when you get home.”
Back in my room, I start my Internet search again. There has got to be some improv training out
Good idea. That way we don’t have to rely on Hanna for all the rhymes.
“The rest of you,” he continues, “stay on your toes. When Hanna throws you an offer, take it! For example”—he turns to me—“Chloe, Hanna said that the baker’s assistant , which was you, put up a fuss . You could have jumped right in with your own rhymes to explain more about why you were making such a fuss. Everybody got that?”
I feel my neck getting warm. Seriously? Out of all the problems with that last scene he’s only criticizing me ? There is plenty that desperately needs fixing before we go to zones! I can’t keep quiet any longer.
“Mr. J.,” I say, “do you think it’s okay that most of that scene was from actual fairy tales? I’m pretty sure the improv book says not to copy stories that already exist.”
He adjusts his glasses. Somebody mutters something about “that book.”
“What I think is that the scene had good rhyming and a strong story arc. So let’s build on those strengths and many more original ideas will flow, I’m sure,” he says.
He picks up a paper from his desk and heads toward the door. “I need to go and make copies of the permission form for zones on Friday. You guys sort out whose parents can drive there, all right?”
And he’s gone. I look around at everyone as they start chatting. No matter what they said to Mr. J. about me, they’re still my best shot at getting to nationals. I’m going to have to suck it up and try to make this work.
“What’s everybody doing tomorrow?” I ask. They stop talking. “Maybe we could have another practice,” I say. “You know, try some scenes with everybody here.”
They look around at one another for a few seconds.
Finally, Mark says, “I’d love to do that, but Thursdays I work after school.”
“I have to babysit.” That’s Nigel.
“And I’ve got voice lessons,” says Hanna. “My mom can drive on Friday though,” she adds.
At that moment Asha arrives, and the team launches into a full-scale driving debate. And that’s the end of my extra-practice idea.
So. Everyone seems to be talking to me again, but we’ve got maybe half an hour left of today’s practice—which has done nothing to make our Style event any stronger, if you ask me—and then it’s zones on Friday.
Our odds of doing well are dwindling by the minute.
Ten
T he next night, after trying unsuccessfully to study the improv book some more, I do a little research into schools and jobs, to help me visualize the next stage of my life. But I find only a handful of places to take classes. There is an improv school that’s closer than Australia, but its courses are only a few weeks long. I can already hear Dad saying, Not much of an education . Plus, the classes are small. If there really are so few schools, maybe my mom and Ms. Quinn are right, and it’s super hard to get in. I’m pretty sure my chances will shrink even more if our team doesn’t get to nationals.
“Chloe?” Grammy Ann calls up the stairs. “They’re leaving. Come say goodbye, dear.”
Things have been a little awkward with my parents for the past couple of weeks, ever since the peach-froth incident. But the computer expo they’re off to is a whole week long. I take a deep breath and close my laptop. “I’ll be right down,” I call.
I help Ned and Dad hoist the bags into the trunk and then dutifully hug each parent.
Mom says, “I’m sorry we have to miss the improv competition.”
I was ticked at first when I realized they wouldn’t be here for zones, but Dad’s company booked him to speak at this conference long before the competition dates were announced. It’s hardly their fault.
“No big deal,” I say. “I’ll tell you about it when you get home.”
Back in my room, I start my Internet search again. There has got to be some improv training out
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