Raising the Stakes by Trudee Romanek Read Free Book Online

period working with Mark, Ziggy, Faith and Vern on skills that’ll help our Style event. It’s the toughest one, and we’ve hardly worked on it at all since the semester break.
    No one’s moving now, and I realize that the banana tosser is staring at me, waiting to walk my way.
    “Chloe,” calls Mr. J., “you’ve got to be watching. All right, let’s move on to some word associations. Get in your groups of six.”
    Another warm-up. I can’t stand it any longer, so I go to Mr. J.’s side. “I was wondering,” I begin, “if maybe the five of us on the team could do a few Style events for the class.”
    But he’s already shaking his head.
    “For the last fifteen minutes of class, maybe?” I plead.
    “Chloe, these kids are doing fine without you guys demonstrating.”
    “I know—but zones are less than two weeks away! This would give us some extra practice.”
    He resettles his glasses on his nose. “Why don’t we have a chat after class.”
    So back to my group I go for another warm-up. Oh joy.
    ***
    “Improv class is important, Chloe,” Mr. J. tells me once everyone else has left. “It gets kids up in front of people and brings the shy ones out of their shells, gives them confidence. For some of them, it’s the only time they feel like anyone really listens to them.”
    “Yeah, the class is great, Mr. J. But what about the team?” I say, getting to the real issue. “We’ll do fine at zones. It’s regionals I’m worried about. I think we need more practice to be good enough to win there.”
    He looks at me for a minute. “I admire your determination, Chloe, and I know you’re trying to make the team better. Unfortunately I can’t think only about the team. While we’re in this class, it’s my job to do what’s best for all the improv students. Every single one of them. That’s who I’m teaching—individual kids.”
    I stand there, stunned, as he gathers up his stuff. He’s our coach and his first priority isn’t the team? Doesn’t that violate some kind of coaches’ oath or something?
    He must see the shock on my face, because he stops and heaves a big sigh. “We still have two practices left,” he says. “And you’re all really strong players already. How about we do our best and see what happens.”
    Do our best? With no extra practice and no tough feedback from him to challenge us? Right.
    Whatever. As I hustle to my next class, I mentally cross Mr. J. off my list of allies. Clearly, the only person left to whip this team into nationals-worthy shape is me.

Eight
    B y practice on Wednesday, I realize that boosting this team from mediocre to great is going to take serious effort. We’re finally working on our killer Style event, but I’m starting to wonder if it really is killer. This particular attempt, about a poor medieval cobbler, is anything but.
    “Thirty seconds,” calls Mr. J. over Ziggy’s mandolin and Faith’s recorder.
    Hanna, our Style’s singing narrator, finishes up a verse about the cobbler’s magic shoes and then launches into her repeated chorus. As the rest of us join in, I dig around in my brain for a good way to close this scattered scene, but I’m stumped. I cannot think of a way to tie up all the loose ends. From the start, we’ve been bouncing from idea to idea like a Ping-Pong ball on the loose.
    “And that’s time,” calls Mr. J.
    Asha thumps down into a chair. “ That was awful.”
    “I guess they can’t all be winners,” says Mark.
    “Maybe I was wrong,” Nigel says. “Maybe a medieval troubadour song isn’t a good style.”
    “Hey, breaking new ground is never easy,” says Mark.
    Mark’s our expert on everything CCIG , and he’s pretty sure no team in the competition’s history has ever done the style of a troubadour song—a medieval wandering-minstrel-type scene. Since it’s a Style event, we have to create our improv scene using elements of the style we’ve chosen, so we’re including medieval characters, musical