I had a lot of time to think on the bus ride back to Harrington, but it didn’t make any difference. I couldn’t get my thoughts straight. Now, in bed an hour later, I still can’t. They’re buzzing around in my head like a swarm of angry bees, never settling, never letting me get a clear view of any one of them. The little-kid part of me would love to talk it all through with my mom, like I used to do. But young-adult me knows she won’t be home for days.
I stare at my improv shrine in the glow of my bedside lamp and think back to tonight’s ant scene. Is that why my team was angry with me? Because I sucked all the fun out of improv? Maybe I did. I must have, I realize, now that I think back through everything that’s happened. No wonder they refused to talk to me after zones.
But I was only trying to help us get better! How noble of you, says a little voice inside my head. Helping the team get better so you can become a star.
All that criticizing, all that fussing and pushing, was to get us to nationals, but we’ll never get there now, with our team in tatters. It was all a huge mistake.
What’s worse, I’m starting to doubt my career plan too. Once the club’s drop-in session was over, Adrian said he’d loved my business-woman character. I was flattered and told him my dream of becoming a performer. He gave me all kinds of advice about building a career in improv. And about doing stand-up comedy. So I asked him how important the comedy part of it is.
“It’s true you don’t have to be funny,” he said, “but it’s really hard to make it in improv if comedy’s not your thing.”
So that’s fantastic. All aspects of my life are officially a disaster.
I’m still awake, trying to make sense of it all, when I hear a muffled knock, and Grammy Ann opens my door. She must have seen my light.
“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” she says. Then she sees my face. “Oh, dear. What’s this now?” She sits on my bed. “I knew I should’ve stayed home.”
Seeing Grammy Ann’s concern makes tears spring to my eyes, but I shake my head and force them back. “No, it’s good that you went out,” I say. “Otherwise I never would have got to learn all the important stuff I learned tonight at the—” I stop, then decide I might as well tell her. “I took a bus to Toronto to go to an improv club.”
Her eyes open wider, and she asks, “By yourself?”
I nod.
For a second she looks like her head might explode. But then she tucks the covers around me as though to reassure herself I’m actually home safe and, without a word, calms down. “And?” she asks.
“And I realized I…Oh, Grammy Ann, I’ve made such a mess of everything. I was pushing the team really hard. That’s why they were mad at me at zones.” Now that I’ve started, more words come tumbling out.
“I only did it because we weren’t good enough. I knew I had to push or we wouldn’t stand a chance of getting to nationals, and I really need nationals on my résumé if I want to make an impression and get into a good improv-training program, especially since I’m not funny.” I’m babbling now. “I thought it was the right thing to do, but the way it’s turned out, we’ll never get to nationals, and I’m starting to realize that I shouldn’t have pushed them that hard. It made improv no fun for them.”
No fun for me either, I suddenly realize.
Grammy Ann shakes her head. “Hold on. I thought your team came in third,” she says. “That means you do go on, doesn’t it? To regionals?”
“Yeah, but the team would have to be fantastic to move on from there to nationals, and I just don’t think we’re good enough. And me pushing them only made things worse.”
“So you don’t think you should keep pushing them?” Grammy Ann asks.
“It doesn’t matter what I think anymore,” I say, realizing it’s true. “They won’t want me there. They probably want nothing to do with me. Faith wouldn’t even ride home with us”—tears are dribbling out onto my cheeks, but I don’t care—“and she’s my best friend! That’s the worst part—they’re not just my teammates; they’re my friends. But now they all hate me.”
“Hate you?”
I nod, sniffling. “Because I was a giant, obnoxious control freak about it.”
“I see,” she says, rummaging a tissue from her pocket. “Did you realize before tonight that they didn’t like you pushing them?”
I think back. There were times it was pretty clear. “I guess I did.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“But I wanted us to get to nationals! I couldn’t give up—I had to keep trying. Like on that improv show. They kept going and one brilliant idea turned everything around.
Grammy Ann looks at me and tilts her head. “Hmm,” she says.
“What?”
“Chloe, dear, it is important to keep trying. Perseverance is an admirable quality, but there’s more to some situations than simply trying hard.”
Yeah. I should have known that.
“I guess my dream of nationals and of doing improv for the rest of my life blinded me a little.”
“So what do you think you’ll do now, dear?”
I think through my options. One: Return to the team and convince them to keep pushing to get to nationals. Two: Forget about nationals, and my dream, and beg the team to take me back. Three: Forget the team and find a new group of friends, like maybe the banana-tossing guy. Oh yeah, and I might have to drop out of improv class too.
I sniffle. “Run away and join the circus?”
Grammy Ann chuckles. “Ned would approve of that, I’m sure. But at this particular moment, I recommend sleep. Things often seem brighter in the morning.” She kisses my forehead, then stands up. “As your grandfather always said, when in doubt, be honest with everyone”—she touches the end of my nose—“starting with yourself.”
Yeah, I think afterward as I lie there in the dark, but sometimes that’s the hardest thing in the world to do.