“I’m not,” says Black Belt flatly. “I think it was a mistake. Shall we take off?” He addresses Dutch directly. “We can still get a refund.”
What?
Panic shoots through me, but somehow I summon a relaxed smile. Relaxed-ish, maybe.
“Don’t leave!” I say lightheartedly, making sure I address all of them, not just Dutch. “Give it another chance. Come to the next session, see how it goes.”
Farida is banging the little gong that signals us to return to the group, and I can see Dutch is conflicted.
“I’ll try another session,” he says at last to the others. “I’m not bailing yet. We’ve got until tomorrow to decide.”
Black Belt rolls his eyes but drains his lemonade and dumps the glass on a nearby trestle table.
“If you say so,” says Lyric without enthusiasm. “But I think it’s pretty shit. I think we should go for the refund. We could go and have a drink now, in the town. Have some fun. Get on a flight tomorrow morning.”
“You don’t have to stay,” says Dutch, sounding defensive. “But I want to have another go. I like listening, even if I can’t write. Maybe I’ll pick up some tips.”
He turns and heads back toward the doorway leading to our meeting room. Lyric watches him for a moment, then clicks her tongue as though in frustration and follows him in, along with Black Belt.
She’s so after him.
As we take our seats, I sneak a few glances at her and she’s gazing at Dutch, an unmistakable look in her eye. It’s so blatant. So obvious. I mean, it’s inappropriate, if you ask me. This is a writing retreat.
“And now it’s time for the improvisation exercise that I mentioned earlier.” Farida’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “Don’t be scared! I know some of you are shy….” She pauses, and there’s a nervous laugh around the room. “But do your best. I want you to improvise a character in turmoil, thinking about his antagonist; his enemy. Any character. Any turmoil. Dig deep. Kirk!” She smiles as he leaps to his feet. “Go ahead.”
Kirk makes his way to the center of the room, looking supremely confident, and draws breath.
“Where do I even begin?” he demands emphatically. “Here I am, cast out from Zorgon, holding the secret of the Third Rock of Farra but unjustly banished from the Sixteen Planetary Nations. And, Emril, I blame you, you vile monster; you’ve always hated me, since we were kids…”
As Kirk carries on his tirade, I find my gaze drifting back to Lyric. She’s still staring at Dutch, her mouth half open. She’s fixated. It’s unhealthy! Plus, her kurta pajama top is hanging sexily off one shoulder. Don’t tell me that happened by accident.
“…so, Emril, Empress of the North, believe me. It’s on,” Kirk concludes menacingly, and we all applaud.
“Very good!” says Farida. “I really felt your anger there, Kirk, well done. Now, who’s next?” Her face jolts in surprise as Dutch raises his hand. “Dutch!” She sounds astonished and pleased. “You have a character you want to work on?”
“Yes,” says Dutch shortly. “I think I do.”
We all watch curiously as he comes to the center of the space, his brows knitted as though he’s deep in thought.
“Tell us about your fictional character,” says Farida encouragingly.
“He’s pissed off,” says Dutch, his voice resounding around the space. “Someone won’t leave him alone. And it’s becoming…intolerable.”
“Good!” says Farida. “Well, Dutch, the floor is yours.”
I’m intrigued as Dutch draws breath. And I can tell everyone else is too. It’s pretty impressive, to go from zero to improvisation in front of a class, in less than a day.
“I’ve had it,” Dutch says, glowering at an imaginary person in the wall. “I’ve just had it with you.” There’s a breathless silence—then he blinks. “That’s it,” he adds to Farida.
That’s his entire improvisation?
I hear a snort of laughter from someone, and I bite my lip to stop a giggle—but Farida doesn’t flicker. “Maybe you could elaborate?” she suggests. “Turn that very powerful and succinct opening into more of a monologue?”
“I’ll try,” says Dutch. He looks dubious but turns to address the wall again. “Just stop. I can’t take any more. You’re so…”
He seems to search fruitlessly for words, his expression more and more exasperated…until suddenly he executes a side kick. “You’re just—” He chops the air angrily with his hand, breathing hard. “You know? You should just…” Again he gropes vainly for words, then in frustration leaps in the air with a furious cry, one