It’s the evening after zones, and I’m on a bus, heading to Toronto. I’ve made this hour-long trip loads of other times, to go shopping or to a baseball game, but always with my parents or Grammy Ann.
I spent most of today stomping around the house, grumbling to myself and slamming things. I’m so angry at our team, especially Asha. I cannot believe she broke character and turned our make-believe scene into a real-life argument. Apparently, lots of people in the audience—like Grammy Ann and Ned—didn’t even realize, but still. It breaks every improv rule—no, every performance rule there is!
After that awful scene ended, the eight of us sat like statues through the other teams’ last events. None of my teammates would so much as look at me. They all disappeared into the crowd as soon as the final scores were announced.
Incredibly, we ended up third. Our team actually moves on to regionals, and maybe further. But nobody seemed to care about that. Everyone, including Faith, managed to fit into the other cars to get home. On the ride back, I told Grammy Ann I didn’t want to talk about it. Ned filled the silence with his personal renditions of practically every scene in the competition. He was still at it this morning. Fortunately for him, he headed off to his friend Jake’s after lunch for a sleepover, or I might have throttled him.
Grammy Ann fretted and stewed about leaving me alone while she went to her big volunteer-appreciation banquet tonight, but I convinced her I’d be fine.
That’s when I hatched my plan.
Like I said, I’m angry at my team, but it’s not only that. I’m confused and, to be honest, I’m hurt. They really think I’m the ultimate villain? I can’t believe Asha attacked me like that, and in a competition, too! The thought of doing improv with her again… Let’s just say I figure maybe it’s time for me to try doing improv with some other people—real players who are serious about it, who care about getting it right.
As my bus pulls into Union Station, I do up my coat and fish the wrinkled blue brochure from my pocket to triple-check the address. The improv club is only a few blocks from here, according to the map on its website, not far from the baseball stadium. I picture the turns and street names on the map once more.
Wintry air races past as I step outside the station, and my body gives a shudder. In the orange light of the streetlamps, it takes me a minute to get my bearings. I’m pretty sure it’s this way. To be absolutely certain, I ask a passing police officer.
There’s a zero percent chance I’ll get lost, but I count my steps anyway, to avoid thinking about that possibility. It’s just a city, after all. As I walk, I look around. The people don’t seem much different from the ones in Harrington, but the buildings are bigger. A lot bigger than I remember. It takes me nearly five minutes to walk past a huge one, all shiny glass and metal, that takes up a whole block.
A couple of turns and a few streets later, I see a sign for the club not far ahead. Suddenly my anger fades, and what I’m about to do stops me at the door. Improv in a city club with people I don’t know? What the heck am I thinking?
The place looks respectable though. And I have to do something—it’s more than two hours until the next bus home.
I stand there, uncertain.
Finally, a normal-looking college type steps past me and opens the door. I take a deep breath and follow him in.
A chalkboard sign says Drop-in Improv, and an arrow points to a room on the right. Inside, I see a small stage and some people sitting in mismatched chairs, chatting. I count four girls and six guys. Most of them look to be only a few years older than I am, thank goodness.
A tall skinny guy with a beard comes over and sticks out his hand. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Adrian. This your first time here?”
“Hi. It’s Chloe,” I say. “Yeah, first time here, but I’ve been doing improv for a couple of years.” I decide not to add “at school.”
“Awesome,” he says, then turns to the group. “Everybody, this is Chloe.” He points to each of the others, running through their names—I manage to catch Trish, Bill and Lydia.
Right away, Adrian gets us in a circle for a round of good ol’ Zip, Zap, Zop. I concentrate—I don’t want to embarrass myself by making mistakes in a beginner warm-up. But no one else seems too concerned over the occasional slip.
We start another game I’ve played before, and I relax a little. A few of these people seem to know each other, but the rest are new like me.
We move on from warm-ups and Adrian explains that scenes are really informal here. We’re welcome to jump in as the mood strikes us.
It’s different, this improv. For starters, there’s no huddle, and there are no large-group scenes. Most involve only two or three people, since the stage can’t hold more than about four at once. It takes me a little while to get the hang of jumping in with no planning at all, trying to pick up on my scene partners’ clues—read their minds, really—to keep us all heading in the same direction.
The other thing I can’t help but notice is that most of these people are funny. They’re not cracking joke after joke or anything, but I have to admit, they make me laugh. A lot.
I do a scene with Trish and a curly-haired guy named Paul. Trish and I are lost inside a haunted castle, and Paul’s the spirit haunting it. I decide I’ll be a high-powered business executive who doesn’t believe in ghosts. It takes a few minutes to find our rhythm together, but then we click, and suddenly it’s really fun.
The scene builds higher, and I feel that incredible rush of becoming someone else, of completely giving myself over to a character.
It feels amazing.
This is why I’m desperate to keep doing improv, to make it my career—so I will get to feel this for the rest of my life.
It seems like a really long time since I last felt it.
When the scene ends, I find myself wanting to get home to do some improv with my teammates. Then the memory of zones rushes back, and a physical ache burns in my chest. Will I ever do this with them again?
I push the thought from my mind as Bill and Lydia go up to start a scene. They’re two ants marching through a meadow.
“Where’d the rest of them go?” asks Bill. “We’ve got work to do.”
I’ll accept that offer. I rush back up with a guy who has black curly hair and eyes exactly like Nigel’s. “Time to stock up for winter?” I say eagerly.
“Yes!” says Bill. “We don’t want to be cold and hungry.”
The Nigel-guy starts talking about how all six of his feet hurt as the three ant workers pass food down the line for me to stack. The flow of supplies coming my way begins to slow, and Lydia and Bill are looking tired.
“Do we have enough yet?” Bill asks.
I peer into our storage space. “Already half full!” I chirp, but the others groan.
“Only half?” asks Lydia. “I’m tired of working.” She turns to Bill. “Hey, let’s go play instead!”
“Play?” I cry. “But if we run out of food, we’ll starve!”
They all look at me. Even Nigel-guy seems skeptical. “Half full might be enough,” he says. “Last winter we ended up with more than we needed.”
“Yeah, I bet it’s plenty,” Lydia agrees, and she and Bill start to drift away.
“But this winter might be longer,” I call after them. “So we should stock up as much as we can.”
I struggle to carry more than my share to the storage space. Only Nigel-guy is still there, watching me. “Help me, please!” I beg. “I can’t do it by myself. And it’s important!”
That’s when it happens. This boy looks at me with his Nigel eyes and shrugs.
“Important to you, maybe. But us?” he says. Then he grins. “We’d rather just play.”
My mouth falls open.
It’s like he’s picked up a bow and shot the words at me.
Zing.
Straight into my heart.