I’m sitting in homeroom with ten minutes until history class starts when the intercom crackles to life.
“Chloe Willis, please report to the guidance office.”
I frown as I gather up my books and head into the hall. What could they want me for?
Ms. Quinn is peering through her glasses at the computer screen when I sit down in the chair by her desk.
“Hi,” I say. “The secretary sent me in to see you. I’m Chloe Willis.”
She gives a quick smile, then turns to a stack of papers on her desk. “Willis…” she repeats as she shuffles through them.
I shift in the hard brown chair. “So, uh, why am I here exactly?”
I’m not used to being called down to the office, even the guidance office. My lowest mark last semester was an eighty-four, after all.
Ms. Quinn pulls a paper from the pile and peers at it. “Willis…Ah, yes,” she says. “We had to move you out of a class that was too full.”
My stomach clenches a little. “It’s not the new improv class, is it?” I ask. I thought I was one of the first to get my name in for that.
“No, no,” she says, looking at me over her glasses. “Your math class had a lot more students than the other grade-ten class. We’ve shifted a few of you over. Now you’ll have”—she consults the paper again—“English fourth period, with Mr. Walsh, and math fifth period instead, still with Mrs. Ackermann.”
I breathe and relax against the chair.
“That improv class is certainly popular,” she says. “I’ve never seen a new course fill up so quickly. You like improv, do you?”
“Like it?”
How do I feel about improv? About performing in front of a crowd, or about the fifteen-second adrenaline rush of the huddle as the team frantically plans the basics of the coming scene? Or the mind-blowing joy of getting a brilliant idea at the very instant I need one, like at last year’s regionals when we were scrambling to…
I suddenly realize Ms. Quinn is looking at me, waiting for an answer.
“Uh, sorry. Yeah, I love improv.” And then for some reason I blurt out the idea I wasn’t ready to share with Faith. “That’s what I plan to be—an improv performer.”
Ms. Quinn’s face goes all serious. She folds her arms on her desk and leans toward me. “Really. And what are your plans?”
I blink at her. “To be an improv performer,” I say again. Um, hello.
“No, no, I mean, what are you doing to prepare for that type of work? You need a solid career plan no matter what field you’re aiming for.”
I hesitate. A career plan?
“Well,” I say, thinking, “I was on last year’s school improv team, and I went to an improv camp last summer. The coach there said I had great potential. I’m on the school team again this year, and Mr. Jeffries says it’s one of the strongest Harrington has ever had. I think this year we have a shot at getting to the improv national championships.”
Ms. Quinn is still looking at me, so I add, “Nationals is as far as you can go in high school improv. Only the very best teams get to compete there each spring.”
“I see,” she says. “And what other things can you do to prepare? Most improv performers are comedians as well, aren’t they? The public library is still hosting its monthly coffeehouse. Maybe you’d like to do a stand-up routine at the next one.”
My chair squeaks as I shift again. “I’m not sure stand-up is for me,” I say.
The truth is, I’m not a comedian and I know it. On our team, Ziggy and Mark are the really funny ones. “Improv isn’t like stand-up,” I explain. “Teams choose four out of five events to perform at competitions. Performing each one is kind of like putting on a mini play.”
Ms. Quinn looks confused.
“What I mean is, it’s not about telling jokes,” I say. “Sure, some of what we act out is funny, but improv is more about working together to build whatever we can think of off the tops of our heads into a full, logical scene. Mr. Jeffries always says it should be entertaining, but it doesn’t have to be funny.”
She frowns. “Well, maybe not, but I doubt there are many jobs in the improv field. With such limited opportunities, the competition will be fierce. It seems to me you’d be wise to work on every skill that’s involved if you hope to make a living at it.”
She pulls a binder from the shelf above her desk and begins flipping through it. “By grade ten,” she says, “most students have already begun serious preparation, whatever their career goal may be.” She takes a blue brochure from the binder and hands it to me along with my new class info. “This improv center in Toronto offers some comedy courses. Have a look and then we can talk about next steps.”
I look at the brochure. Course names like Stand-Up, How to Write Jokes, and Intro to Clowning spring from the page. I feel nauseous just reading them.
The bell for first period rings.
Back in the hallway, I stuff the brochure into my binder. With lots of hard work, our improv team should get to nationals. And when we do, I’ll be front and center, competing against the best and making a name for myself in improv.
That sounds like a solid career plan to me.
* * *
History class is over, and I race toward the drama room. Our first improv class! I spot Faith’s bun by the drama-room door. She’s deep in conversation with Ziggy and Mark. Both boys are in grade eleven, and both are on the improv team. Beyond that, they’re totally different. Short skinny Ziggy is our constantly moving joker character. Mr. J. says he’s like a Mexican jumping bean that’s been soaked in espresso. Mark, on the other hand, is big and cuddly. He reminds me of an overstuffed teddy. We always joke that if our team were an actual family, Mark would be the laid-back, loving uncle. He has a great sense of humor and he’s a smart guy, so he plays all the wise old characters.
“…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.