to those other things, too, but I reckon after a couple of Tuesdays, you’ll want to.” He was breathless. Celeste wondered if she’d ever loved anything the way this boy seemed to love even talking about improv.
Then she realized: he’d invited her to join him. An invite! Casually thrown out, and perhaps meaningless, but an invite.
It was her turn, she knew. Back in Glen Ellyn, she would’ve had no problem continuing a conversation. She even knew the words she could use. “What are the rules?” or “How do you play?” or just “Tell me more.” She’d had friends back home. She could talk to the other kids at school. But she wasn’t home anymore, and somehow Celeste couldn’t seem to complete the steps. To open her mouth and speak. To offer a smile and say (or scream), “Yes!” Soon, this sweet, eager boy would take her silence as disinterest or annoyance, and he would stop trying to include her. Every millisecond that passed without her speaking seemed to make the silence harder to break.
Kenji, however, was not easily dissuaded from trying to spread his love of improv. His brothers had quickly learned, back when Kenji had discovered this love of his life at eleven, dropping hints was of no use when it came to Kenji and improv. They had to ask, often plead, for him to stop talking about it. His parents hoped improv was a phase he would grow out of. His father had considered sending him to therapy, but hoped eventually the boy would find some more serious passions to pursue.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said to Celeste. “You’re thinking it’s not for you. Everyone who hasn’t tried it thinks that at first. And sure, some people don’t really enjoy it much. But I want you to promise me...” He paused, tilted his head like a puppy. “What’s your name?”
This, at least, she could do. “Celeste.”
“I need you to promise me, Celeste, that you won’t say those words—‘improv is not for me’—until you try it. I’ll even be the one to make sure you feel comfortable the first time.” Kenji pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. Celeste braved a direct glance at him to see if he was messing with her, but his eyes were wide and expectant and benign.
“Okay,” she said. “I promise.”
This, too, she thought would bring about the end of the conversation. Especially since Kenji smiled, satisfied, and slunk back into his seat.
Well, Celeste thought, that was something at least. An exchanged word or two. One more person who knew her name. She could picture walking past this boy in the halls (damn, she should have asked for his name when she had the chance) and how he’d give her an enthusiastic wave. Maybe he’d call her name, putting it out there in the world so more would hear it, absorb it by proxy. Maybe he’d wave her over during lunch, seek her out next week so she could fulfill her promise to try improv. All hypothetical, of course, but it was something, a morsel to hang on to. It could be enough.
Not for Kenji, though. “So, how you play is pretty simple,” he said. “The first rule is you always say yes to the situation you’ve been thrown into. You accept it and build on it. ‘Yes, and...’” he explained with a wave of his hand, continuing on breathlessly with the rules and all the things he loved about it. Celeste sat and listened, knowing she was still silent, but no longer feeling the full weight of her silence. She’d received an invite.
* * *
Peejay, meanwhile, thought of his options. Giving up the party was out of the question, so it was a matter of bringing in the supplies, and somehow the DJ (a CIS alum who’d made it big in the past three years, and had happened to be in town for a music festival that weekend). It’d be nearly impossible to work it all out if they remained imprisoned in the auditorium, but he doubted the school would keep them confined here for long, so he worked under the assumption the building was the prison, not the room. If only she had closed the locks an hour later.
The windows, of course, were out. That left the roof. He tried to remember the last time he was up there, what its layout was, how he might be able to sneak in his contraband. He cursed himself for sticking