Unscripted - Nicole Kronzer

FOR DANNY, ELIZA

AND ELEANOR

CHAPTER ONE

I stared at the dashboard clock: only two more hours.

Twisting my frizzy curls into a bun, I tucked the seatbelt under my armpit and pressed my forehead against the Subaru’s window. Now that we were in southern Wyoming, the view was miles of flat grasslands punctuated by bedraggled fence posts that reminded me of old, weathered cowboys.

I imagined the cowboy fence posts in conversation.

“What’s up, Earl?”

“What’s up? As in vertical? Just me, Clyde. And barely at that!”

I smirked. Some jokes were best left where they started: in my head.

Small gray mounds suddenly peeked above the horizon.

I frowned. Were those mounds mountains?

Mountains meant Colorado. Colorado meant—

I glanced to my right at my brother, Will—he of the shaggy black hair, and, since crossing into Wyoming, the brand-new boyfriend. While he and Jonas swore up and down when we left Minnesota that they were “just friends,” Jonas was now curled up under Will’s right arm, his eyes closed.

“Hey, Will,” I whispered, watching him smooth Jonas’s dark brown curls back from his light brown forehead. “There’s only two more hours until we get to camp. Will you run one-liners with me?”

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Nhhh-nnnnn. Jonas is sleeping.”

Sure he was.

“Will,” I whispered again.

His eyes stayed closed.

I exhaled slowly through my nose and peeked out the window.

The mountains loomed larger.

I felt sick.

You’ve really done it this time, Zelda. You and your huge mouth and your huger ideas. Improv camp? And not just any improv camp, but THE improv camp?

A road sign promising a rest stop in ten miles whipped past our car at six million miles per hour.

This trip was going too fast. We were going to be there, and I wasn’t going to be prepared.

“Will.” I nudged him again.

He opened one eye.

“I’m not ready.”

He closed it again. “Yes, you are. You sent in your script.”

“I know.”

“And your space work and character work are good.”

“But—”

“They’re good, Zelda, and you know it.”

“Okay, maybe, but that stuff ’s just about being truthful in the moment and connecting with your fellow players to tell a story. I can do that—”

“You’re good at that.”

“Thank you, but, one-liners, Will. I freeze up. Will you please help me?”

Jonas snuggled deeper into Will’s arm. A sleepy smile crossed Will’s face. “Go to sleep, Z. There’s only two hours left. You’re either ready or you aren’t. And you’re ready.”

I gritted my teeth.

How was I supposed to get on the top team when I had a brother more interested in his boyfriend of seven hours than in his panicking sister of seventeen years?

I dug into my backpack at my feet and pulled out my favorite book on improv comedy: The Scene Must Win by Jane Lloyd. Jane had died more than a decade ago, and I was sad I would never get a chance to actually meet her. But I willed her to give me guidance from the beyond and flipped open to a chapter at random.

“As a performer,” Jane offered, “avoid asking questions of your fellow player. Instead, make statements and assumptions.”

Make statements.

Right. I could do that.

I leaned in closer to Will. “With two hours,” I said, my voice low, “you could go to an elementary school carnival and win all the goldfish.”

Eyes still closed, he shook his head. “Zelda. Please.”

“With two hours,” I said, ignoring him, “you could make a show-stopping Victoria Sponge on The Great British Baking Show.”

He fought to press down a smile.

I leaned in even closer. “With two hours,” I stage-whispered, “you could take Jonas on a first date that isn’t getting nachos at a gas station while your parents and sister are spying from the king-size candy bar aisle ten feet away.”

Now his eyes flew open. “You were where?”

“With two hours,” I said, raising one eyebrow, “you could create a Spotify playlist for your brand-new boyfriend that isn’t titled ‘Doorway to my Soul.’ Puke, by the way.”

Will’s arm tensed around Jonas. “Oh, I’m killing you later,” he promised, glaring at me.

I shrugged. “When you loan your sister your phone, that’s an open invitation for snooping. You must know that.”

“That’s Zelda’s way of saying that we’re all just so happy for you,” Mom whispered, winking at me in the rearview mirror from the driver’s seat.

Will blushed furiously.

“With two hours,” I said, cracking my knuckles, “you could do any of these things, or more! But do you know what would be really great?”

Will sighed. “I think you’re about to tell me.”

I threw an arm around his shoulder. “To-spend-those-two-hours-practicing-one-liners-with-your-sister-who-desperately-needs-to-in-order-to-get-on-the-top-team-at-improv-camp!” I punched him in the thigh. “Let’s