The drama room is filling up, and I can hardly wait to get started.
Vern saunters over and joins our foursome. He’s our team’s male lead, like I’m its female lead. That means that if a scene calls for a boyfriend and girlfriend or husband and wife, Vern and I play that couple. It’s not like we’d ever have to make out or anything, but I’m glad I’m comfortable with Vern. And at least he’s sort of cute.
“Hey, guys,” he says.
Mark turns to him. “Ready to give this improv class a try, Vern?”
Vern shakes his head. “No, Luke,” he says in his best Yoda voice. “Do or do not. There is no try.” With Vern, everything connects to Star Wars somehow.
Suddenly Ziggy pretends to fire up a light-saber, and, with much humming and zapping, the three of them launch into a slow-motion battle.
By the time Mr. Jeffries shuts the door, there must be thirty of us inside. The chairs are all around the edge of the class. We grab five together as everyone settles down.
“All right,” says Mr. J., adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. “Welcome to—” he pauses for effect “—Harrington High’s first-ever improv class!”
There is a chorus of hoots and hollers, the loudest from Ziggy, who starts high-fiving everyone he can reach.
“So let’s establish some guidelines for this class. Some of you, especially that rowdy bunch over there”—he grins in our direction—“already know that people who do improv together share a special bond.”
Some kids giggle, thinking he’s being dramatic again, I guess.
“I’m serious,” he continues. “And to build that bond, each of us has to commit to this very important rule: what happens in improv class stays in improv class.” He points to the board, where he’s written those words.
Then he goes on for ten minutes about responsibility, mutual respect, class safety—stuff like that. It’s all I can do to sit still while he’s talking. I get why he’s saying it. Improv doesn’t work if there’s no trust. But I’ve heard it all before, and because of exams and the semester break, it’s been weeks since we’ve done any improv. I’m itching to get started.
“Everybody understand?” Mr. Jeffries asks.
There is much nodding of heads.
“Great! Okay, now—” he pauses, and beside me I feel Ziggy shift forward, ready for action “—let’s go over some basics.”
Ziggy lets out a quiet groan.
“Improv,” Mr. J. continues, “is about saying the very first thing that comes into your head. That’s what makes a scene spontaneous and interesting—and slightly terrifying. But don’t be afraid to fail. Failing is part of the process.”
For another ten minutes Mr. Jeffries talks about stuff like facing the audience and projecting your voice. Definitely the basics. I let my eyes wander around the class. Near the back, I see the guy who chucked a rotten banana last semester that splattered on Asha and Mark in the cafeteria. I also see that he’s brought a few of his druggie friends along. Terrific. Mr. J. expects us to trust these guys enough to do improv with them?
“When an improviser presents an idea,” Mr. J. is saying now, “his partner should always respond with ‘Yes, and.’ I don’t mean you need to actually say those words each time, but you should accept your partner’s suggestions—we call them offers—by building on them rather than ignoring or blocking them.”
Mr. J. talks on as five more minutes of class time tick away. Finally he says, “Everybody into a circle!”
We spring up, ready for some improv to begin.
“This warm-up is called Zip, Zap, Zop.” “Yes!” says Ziggy.
It’s an old favorite, one of the first warm-ups every new improviser learns.
“Would you like to explain it, Ziggy?” Mr. J. asks.
Ziggy salutes. “With pleasure, sir!” he says. His eyes dart around the circle. “Okay, if I swing my arm toward you and say, ‘Zip,’ I’m passing megawatts of supercharged energy on to you. Quick as you can, you say, ‘Zap’ and shoot that energy over to another person. Then that person ‘zops’ it to someone else, who sends it on, starting over with ‘Zip.’ But it’s gotta go superfast. And the words zip, zap and zop have to stay in that order.”
It’s a pretty large group, but we get a round going. The new kids catch on, and within a few minutes the energy is flying around without too many mistakes.
“All right, let’s move on.” Mr. J. looks over at our group. “You five, come on over here. Ladies and gentlemen,” he says to the class as we trot to his side, “allow me to introduce some experienced improvisers and valuable members of Harrington High’s improv team.”
Yes! I bet we get to demonstrate.
Mr. Jeffries smiles at us—which is why I’m completely unprepared for what he says next.
“Spread out, guys. Pick a section of the room and go work with the folks there.”
Um, what? Splitting up an improv team is about the cruelest thing you can do, and Mr. J. knows it!
Vern shrugs and walks over to the group by the window. Mark gives Faith a one-armed hug and heads toward the banana tosser and his friends. I look at the closest group of kids, in the corner by the door. A few of them I know from other classes. They seem like decent kids, but they’re all brand new at improv. I need to improve my own skills, and I’m way more likely to do that if I can work with at least a couple of kids who have experience. Besides, if Mr. J. is planning to split us up all the time, we’ll never get the extra team practice I’m counting on.
“But Mr. J.,” I say. Everyone stops moving and looks at me. I swallow and go for it. “Wouldn’t it be good for the team—” But then I stop, since it seems like Mr. J. is not thinking about the team right now. “I mean…”
My thoughts whirl, and then I’ve got it.
“I mean, wouldn’t it be good if those of us on the team,” I say instead, “demonstrate some of the stuff you’re teaching us for the newer kids?” My face feels warm.
“It might be, Chloe,” Mr. J. replies, “but they can probably learn more from working with you than they can by watching you.”
This is not going to be easy. I suck in a breath and try again. “But,” I say, “if we do some improv scenes for them, we could be sort of an example, right? Because we already have a bond and that trust you were talking about?”
Mr. J. raises an eyebrow at me. My face gets even warmer.
At last he says, “I’ll keep that idea in mind for later, once we’ve learned some improv techniques.”
My friends have all gone to join their groups. I sigh and head toward the kids by the door.
This is definitely not what I was hoping for.