We’re ten minutes down the road toward regionals. The past eight days have been crammed full of team practices, research, planning, guidance appointments and more practices. Our car is just as jam-packed, with my parents, my brother Ned, Grammy Ann and me, not to mention the big basket of sandwiches and stuff that’ll be our dinner on the drive there.
“You’re sure you put the tripod in the trunk, right, Dad?”
“Yes, Chloe, I’m positive.”
“Why are we bringing the video camera anyway?” Mom asks.
“So we can record all their scenes,” says Dad, “and they can analyze them later, like football teams do.”
“But I thought Mr. Jeffries usually did that,” Mom says.
I speak up. “He does, but I wanted to have a video of my own to review.”
Grammy Ann puts her hand on my arm. “And you’re sure that’s a good idea, dear?” she asks, her voice tinged with concern.
“It’s okay,” I reply. “I want to review me, not the team.”
“But why do you want to review yourself?” Mom asks.
I hesitate, thinking back to the famous peach-froth incident. This is not the way I had planned to talk to them about this—in the car, staring at the backs of their heads. But come to think of it, maybe it’ll be easier, since I won’t have to watch the disapproval, or whatever their reaction is, creep into their faces.
“Chloe?”
“Okay,” I begin, “I’ve been thinking a lot about my future. I found out a bunch more about improv, and I’ve decided that you were right. It might not be the perfect career for me. But I would still love to perform, so…I have a new plan.”
Dad glances at Mom and then back at the road. “All right,” he says. “A new plan. We’re listening.”
Here it is: the moment of truth. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I think I’d like to be an actor.”
Silence. I look up at them in the front seat. Dad’s still calmly driving, and Mom’s not freaking out. So far, so good. I continue. “Improv’s given me some of the skills I’ll need, but I’ve got a lot to learn before I can get into theater school, which is what I’d like to do.” This is not coming out very clearly, but I forge ahead anyway. “I’ll still be on the school improv team. I have to focus on my own skills too, though, to get better. So I’d like to take acting lessons on the weekends, at a place in Toronto that Ms. Quinn, my guidance counselor, suggested.”
Grammy Ann raises her eyebrows. “Ms. Quinn?”
“Uh-huh. She says I’ve got to make the next couple of years count if I’m going to get into a good theater school, and she’s helped me figure out which ones I should audition for.”
Dad clears his throat, but I push on before he can say anything.
“Not in Australia or New York City either. There are a couple of college theater programs in Toronto that have really good reputations.”
“I see,” Dad says. “About these acting lessons in the city. How will you get to them?”
“I’ll have to take a bus there by myself. I think I can manage that.” Grammy Ann makes a sound as though she’s swallowing her tongue, but I speak over her. “And I’ve already talked to the owner of the dance studio near Harrington High about a part-time job—to pay for my bus tickets and acting lessons.”
“A dance studio?” says Mom. “You’ve never taken dance classes.”
“It’s a cleaning job,” I explain. “And because I’ll be an employee, I can take lessons for half price, which is good because Ms. Quinn says I’ll need some dance experience if I’m going into acting.”
Mom shakes her head and sighs. “Acting doesn’t seem like a very stable profession either.”
“It’s not, I know,” I say. “There are some working actors who—” well, who I was talking to at the improv club, but I’ll save my confession about that adventure for another day “—who have experience in the business, and they say that performers audition a lot but only get paid when they land a part. So it’s good to have another skill that can earn you money between shows.”
“That makes sense,” says Mom. “Go on.”
“The dance studio also offers yoga, and I figure if I start taking those classes now—at half price—maybe by the time I’m through college, I’ll be able to teach yoga in a studio, part-time for extra money. Besides, it’ll keep me fit and grounded, which is supposed to be very important when you’re an actor.”
Ned stops chomping on the apple he wrestled from the dinner basket. “What could you teach Yoda that he doesn’t already know?” he asks.
Mom and Dad both laugh.
I push on. “And any money that’s left after I pay for lessons and bus fare, I’ll save up for theater-school tuition.”
Dad glances over at Mom, but I can’t tell whether I’ve managed to convince them.
I can’t stand it. No matter what their answer is, I have to know. “So? How does that sound?”
“It sounds,” says Dad, “like you’ve done an awful lot of thinking.”
Mom turns around as far as her seat will let her and smiles at me. “Sounds like a good plan to me.”
“Me too,” says Dad. “Give it your best shot, and let’s see how it goes. If anyone can make it work, Chloe, you can.”
I feel a smile stretch across my face. “Really? You think so?”
“Chloe, we’ve always known you have talent,” says Mom, “and not very many kids work as hard as you do. But performing improv as a career? We weren’t convinced it was the best choice for you.”
Dad is nodding. “It’s tough enough to make a dream come true,” he says. “You want to at least make sure it’s the right dream.”
Funny. That’s almost exactly what Adrian said to me at the improv club. Was that really only two weeks ago?
Grammy Ann puts her arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze.
I can’t stop smiling.
* * *
Regionals. Excitement roars through me, and this time there’s nothing—no stress or worries about being good enough—to get in the way of the frenzied joy of improv competition.
It’s almost like coming home, being up here on the stage with my team. My best friends. My improv family. The eight of us sit squished together onstage, limbs wrapped around each other every which way, like we’re all trying to fit into a selfie. We’re there for each other no matter what happens. It’s an incredible feeling.
And then it’s our turn.
We get our ask-for, drop into our huddle and then we’re off on the best adventure I’ve ever experienced.
I know it won’t last. Our competitive season might end tonight. Nigel and Asha will graduate, and the team will change. And I know that even if my theater plans work out and I get to do improv after high school, it’ll still never be quite the same. But this time right now, these next two hours with these particular friends, is something very special—something I will carry with me through whatever comes next in my life.
These are my people, and this is improv heaven.
I’m just going to enjoy the ride.