brings murmurs of approval from the team.
“And I don’t want to take the blame,” says Vern, “because I hate being grounded.”
Hmm. Stronger stakes would be better. “What if,” I say, “there’s also a big hockey tournament you don’t want miss?”
He hesitates, then shrugs. “I guess, if you want.”
Geez, why is everybody so touchy?
“Your idea’s part of it for sure,” I say, switching to gentle mode. “I’m only suggesting the tournament so it matters even more to your character. Okay?”
Vern looks at me for a second, then nods. “Sure, whatever. And I think I should be older than you.”
The others make more suggestions, and we launch into our scene.
“Chloe,” says Vern, “ you’re the one who broke Mom’s vase. I saw you knock it over with my own eyes!”
“That’s strange,” I say innocently. “I’d swear I saw you send it flying with your humongous hockey bag.”
“You know that’s a lie,” he says. “And Mom and Dad’ll know it too. You’re the clumsy one, not me.”
“Yeah,” I reply, “but they caught you lying to them just the other day about those cigarettes in the laundry. They won’t trust you.”
Vern shakes his head. “I don’t believe this. My own sister. I thought you were supposed to have my back, not stab me in it!”
Some players find it tough to play the serious side of Life, but not Vern and me.
“Oh yeah,” I reply. “As if you ever have my back. Your friends make fun of me at school, and what do you do? Nothing!”
“Hey, it’s not my fault you’re a klutz. Only you could knock over a whole stack of cafeteria trays.”
We go on, working to strike a balance between entertaining and realistic—and trying to keep the emotion real without pushing it too far and getting all melodramatic. It takes skill, and Vern and I seem to be able to make it work every time. That’s why I think Life is probably my best chance to impress any improv scouts there may be at nationals.
The scene’s not bad. Vern only accepts about half of the offers I throw out for him. I try to blackmail him with some secret that I know, and we each work to strike the best bargain about who’ll take the blame and how we’ll tell our folks. At the end, we reach a compromise. There’s plenty in there that real kids deal with every day, which is exactly what a Life event is supposed to show.
After, when Mr. J. is giving us his feedback, Vern says, “I think it would’ve worked fine without the hockey tournament.” He looks at Mr. J. “Not wanting to get grounded is enough, right?”
Mr. J. turns to us. “What do the rest of you think?”
He does that a lot—makes us decide. Sometimes it drives me crazy.
“I got grounded once last year and I hated it,” says Vern.
I nod. “I agree—nobody likes being grounded,” I say. “But the improv book says you raise the stakes when you add a specific personal reason why your character wants or doesn’t want something to happen. ‘I don’t like it’ is not very specific.” I know I’m right on this one.
Silence, and the whole team is looking at me. It occurs to me that I may have gotten a wee bit carried away.
“Geez,” says Vern. “What’s up with you?
“I’m…just trying to make the scene stronger,” I mutter.
Nigel looks from Vern to me and reaches for his backpack. “I’ve gotta go. My sisters are home by themselves.”
Mr. J. stands up. “That’s probably enough practice for today anyway. Next Wednesday, people?”
I want to ask if everybody will actually be here next Wednesday, but before I can open my mouth, they’re already out the door.
Seven
I t’s Friday, a couple of days after practice and half a school day before the weekend. I ditch my morning-class binders and reach into my locker for my lunch bag.
“Wait up,” says Faith, arriving at her locker. “I’ll only be a second. You’re fast today.”
I nod. “Vern hasn’t said much to me since the whole grounding thing the