Raising the Stakes Read Free

“Yeah, but she says other kids have been doing extra stuff like that since middle school, and Aerospace only accepts thirty students. Apparently, her brother barely squeaked into the same program a few years ago. The competition is fierce.”
    The familiar words hang in the air.
    Then Ziggy starts ducking and dodging like a boxer, his long black hair flopping in his eyes.
    “Aaaaand the competition is fierce,” he says in his announcer voice, “but Zigzaggin’ Ziggy starts to get the upper hand on Mark the Mammoth.”
    Mark laughs, and the three of them head into class.
    I stand there, picking at the edge of my binder.
    Can competition really be that fierce?
    By grade ten, most students have already begun serious preparation.
    Do I need more than improv-team practices?
    In the drama room, Mr. J. is writing stuff on the board for our improv class. I watch him for a second before I realize.
    This class.
    This class will help me get better at improv. Not only that, it’ll help the five of us get better at improv, which will increase our team’s chances of getting to nationals.
    This class will be my serious preparation. It has to be.
    I lift my chin and go in to join my friends.

Three
    T he 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