“Yes!” Ziggy whispers excitedly. “We’re doing great!”
We’re at the zones competition. We arrived to the joyful clamor of five other teams doing warm-ups. Forty other improvisers, plus us, all in one place. Anywhere else, we’re improv freaks, but here? Here, we’re the in crowd. I’d almost forgotten how wonderful that feels.
It’s the midpoint now: two events down, two more to go. Players and audience members are milling around during the break, buying raffle tickets and talking about the scenes they’ve seen so far. Mr. J. is at the front row of the seats, fussing with the video camera he has set up there. Still onstage, our team starts to wiggle and dance a little, letting off pent-up energy.
Mark turns to me. “How do you figure we’re doing?”
I think for a second. “We’re maybe holding our own,” I reply.
Honestly, I’m worried that our first two events were just okay—nothing to convince the judges we’re one of the top three teams who deserve to move on. Especially since three of the other five teams are looking strong. But I’m pretty sure my teammates won’t want to hear that.
“I thought our Life was pretty good,” says Vern.
“The ask-for we got had a lot of potential,” I say to him. “I wish you’d gone along with me, though, when I tried to get us into our parents’ car. I was planning to accidentally hit a pole or something.”
He looks at me. “How come?”
I sigh. “Because damaging the car,” I say, “would’ve increased the conflict.”
Vern shakes his head. “Arguing over who’d get to drive it to prom was really good on its own.”
The others go quiet, watching us.
I nod. “It was good, but if we’d wrecked the car instead of arguing the whole time, then nobody could’ve had it for prom, plus we would have had the whole telling-our-parents-and-maybe-never-getting-the-car-again thing.”
Honestly, Vern does not seem to get the importance of raising the stakes.
“I still think it was fine,” he says.
“Except that you blocked my offer,” I can’t help but add.
“When?” he asks.
“When I said, Let’s go pick up some milk. You said, No, there’s plenty in the fridge,” I say. “That’s blocking.”
Vern scowls and looks down at the floor.
Asha stares at me, then taps him on the shoulder. “Great job with the boasting and teasing, Vern—so much like my brother.”
“Yeah, and nice work in Style, Hanna,” says Mark, throwing an arm around her. “Your song sounded great.”
Style wasn’t bad, but it didn’t go exactly as I’d hoped. We got apothecary as our medieval occupation. It took most of our huddle time to make sure everybody understood that an apothecary is like a pharmacist, except using herbs and stuff. I’d had no chance to pitch myself as a featured character.
“So, um, Chloe,” Hanna says, “why were you a farmer exactly?”
I’d tried to worm my way into the plot by selling my plants as new medicines. It was a stretch, I admit, but I did manage to add a few rhyming lines.
“I was trying to make the scene more full,” I say. “Sort of rounding it out.” It’s mostly true.
“It’s just…” Hanna pauses. “I’m not sure it worked with what was in my song, you know?”
Asha’s glaring at me now. “Yeah,” she says. “We shouldn’t block the offers Hanna’s giving us.”
The whistle blows and it’s time for the second half. I refocus on the match. We have Theme left to do, as well as Story, which I narrate, so that’s all good.
As we wait for our next turn, I analyze each team that performs. From what I’ve seen, there are at least two teams here that could beat us. One of those is finishing its Theme event, “Follow the leader.” It seems good to me, though it’s always tough to know for sure what the judges will like.
Another strong team gets called up to do their Story event. The audience suggests a dentist’s office as their non-geographical location. I watch three players create a perfect dental chair. One climbs onto it, playing the patient, while her teammates take their places as receptionist, person in the waiting room and dentist. Cleverly, the tallest player creates the high tool arm that swings in over the chair. Every team member is involved. The story gets under way, and they’re all contributing. I listen as the narrator weaves an entertaining tale of the world’s happiest dentist, long-lost love and quadruple root canal. It’s really good.
Note to self: our Story has to be great to measure up to this one.
No pressure, Chloe.
As I watch two more teams go, my heart sinks a little. Were our first two scenes better than what I’m seeing in front of me? I’m really not sure.
And that’s the moment I realize that we might not make it out of zones and on to regionals, let alone go all the way to nationals. There are too many things we need to get better at. I breathe slowly and try to push down my rising panic. Maybe by next year…But then I remember that Asha and Nigel are graduating. Who knows what next year’s team will be like? This was supposed to be the year. My best chance.
I sit there in shock. How did this happen?
Too few practices. Too little work. Not enough time. My dream is shriveling up and dying right in front of me.
So, is this it? Do I just give up? Go home and take down my Second City program and my TV show poster and…
TV show. In my head I replay the amazing improv scene that Grammy Ann and I watched, and I remember how, with improv, it’s never over until time’s up. For those performers, one brilliant idea turned everything around. That could happen for us too.
I make up my mind to fight to the end. This is my best chance, and our team still has two events left. I can do this!
“Next,” says the referee, “we’ll see a Theme event from Harrington High.”
This is it. We leap to our feet and gather at center stage. Faith is wiggling her legs like crazy. Asha makes a soft whirring noise with her lips. My pulse throbs in my forehead as Ziggy’s fingers tap a frenzied beat on my shoulder. We’re tense, like stretched elastic bands ready to snap, waiting to hear the theme the ref gives us. I feel like I might explode.
“Your theme is…‘Go fly a kite.’”
As we drop into our tight huddle, Asha says, “That’s like ‘Get lost’ or ‘Buzz off.’ Think of situations when you want to tell people that.”
I shake my head, but people are already talking about annoying kid sisters and irritating teachers.
“Wait!” I hiss. “We should show examples of people flying kites, too, like Benjamin Franklin’s kite getting zapped by lightning.”
Now Asha’s shaking her head. “No, we should focus on one thing. It needs to be one theme.”
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.