Raising the Stakes Read Free Page A

basics. I let my eyes wander around the class. Near the back, I see the guy who chucked a rotten banana last semester that splattered on Asha and Mark in the cafeteria. I also see that he’s brought a few of his druggie friends along. Terrific. Mr. J. expects us to trust these guys enough to do improv with them?
    “When an improviser presents an idea,” Mr. J. is saying now, “his partner should always respond with ‘Yes, and.’ I don’t mean you need to actually say those words each time, but you should accept your partner’s suggestions—we call them offers—by building on them rather than ignoring or blocking them.”
    Mr. J. talks on as five more minutes of class time tick away. Finally he says, “Everybody into a circle!”
    We spring up, ready for some improv to begin.
    “This warm-up is called Zip, Zap, Zop.” “Yes!” says Ziggy.
    It’s an old favorite, one of the first warm-ups every new improviser learns.
    “Would you like to explain it, Ziggy?” Mr. J. asks.
    Ziggy salutes. “With pleasure, sir!” he says. His eyes dart around the circle. “Okay, if I swing my arm toward you and say, ‘Zip,’ I’m passing megawatts of supercharged energy on to you. Quick as you can, you say, ‘Zap’ and shoot that energy over to another person. Then that person ‘zops’ it to someone else, who sends it on, starting over with ‘Zip.’ But it’s gotta go superfast. And the words zip , zap and zop have to stay in that order.”
    It’s a pretty large group, but we get a round going. The new kids catch on, and within a few minutes the energy is flying around without too many mistakes.
    “All right, let’s move on.” Mr. J. looks over at our group. “You five, come on over here. Ladies and gentlemen,” he says to the class as we trot to his side, “allow me to introduce some experienced improvisers and valuable members of Harrington High’s improv team.”
    Yes! I bet we get to demonstrate.
    Mr. Jeffries smiles at us—which is why I’m completely unprepared for what he says next.
    “Spread out, guys. Pick a section of the room and go work with the folks there.”
    Um, what? Splitting up an improv team is about the cruelest thing you can do, and Mr. J. knows it!
    Vern shrugs and walks over to the group by the window. Mark gives Faith a one-armed hug and heads toward the banana tosser and his friends. I look at the closest group of kids, in the corner by the door. A few of them I know from other classes. They seem like decent kids, but they’re all brand new at improv. I need to improve my own skills, and I’m way more likely to do that if I can work with at least a couple of kids who have experience. Besides, if Mr. J. is planning to split us up all the time, we’ll never get the extra team practice I’m counting on.
    “But Mr. J.,” I say. Everyone stops moving and looks at me. I swallow and go for it. “Wouldn’t it be good for the team—” But then I stop, since it seems like Mr. J. is not thinking about the team right now. “I mean…”
    My thoughts whirl, and then I’ve got it.
    “I mean, wouldn’t it be good if those of us on the team,” I say instead, “demonstrate some of the stuff you’re teaching us for the newer kids?” My face feels warm.
    “It might be, Chloe,” Mr. J. replies, “but they can probably learn more from working with you than they can by watching you.”
    This is not going to be easy. I suck in a breath and try again. “But,” I say, “if we do some improv scenes for them, we could be sort of an example, right? Because we already have a bond and that trust you were talking about?”
    Mr. J. raises an eyebrow at me. My face gets even warmer.
    At last he says, “I’ll keep that idea in mind for later, once we’ve learned some improv techniques.”
    My friends have all gone to join their groups. I sigh and head toward the kids by the door.
    This is definitely not what I was hoping for.

Four
    F inally, it’s Wednesday after school. The whole