Unscripted - Nicole Kronzer Page 0,4

nice, warm home. There was going to be hell to pay . . . And I saw a sliver of sunlight. You kicked and screamed a crack into my burrow of sadness. And I loved you for it.”

Now I was tearing up.

“You saved my life,” Dad said, “you and your Zelda magic. I didn’t know I loved your mother yet. I wouldn’t know for a while. But I knew I loved you. You are inherently lovable. Without trying. So forgive me,” he said, looking around, “if I’m a little worried about all of these boys.”

I hit him again, and he gathered me back into his arms.

“That is not the same, and you know it,” I said, laying my head on his shoulder and disappearing into his embrace. I knew he was okay now, but I hugged him extra tightly, as if I could infuse him with more Zelda magic, whatever that was.

“Promise me,” he said, pulling back from our hug, “promise me you’ll be careful. And remember the prime attack zones: spectacles and testicles.”

“Goodbye, Dad,” I said loudly. He grinned and held me one more time, chin resting on top of my head.

Then Will and Jonas freed themselves from my mother and hugged Dad, too.

The three of us watched them both walk over to the passenger side of the car and laugh, Dad forgetting it was his turn to drive. He shook the keys at us as he rounded the car, then in a parting gesture to me, pointed at his eyes, and with a weird sort of head movement, nodded toward his belt line.

Spectacles and testicles. I shook my head and grinned. Hilarious. And then the Subaru turned over, Mom blew us kisses, we all waved one more time, and my parents were gone.

CHAPTER THREE

I dragged my duffle bag, backpack, and heavy suitcase up two wooden steps onto the well-worn porch of Gilda Radner cabin and huffed, catching my breath. Suddenly, faced with the prospect of meeting my fellow campers, this whole improv camp thing was becoming very real. I took some slow, deep breaths (both due to the altitude and in an attempt to soothe my nerves). I thought about pulling out The Scene Must Win for advice, but I worried that might make me look weird. Plus, I realized, I had Jane Lloyd’s rules of improv practically seared to my brain:

Trust Yourself.

Trust your Scene Partner.

Say yes. Even better, say yes, and . . .

Perform at the peak of your intellect.

Make statements and assumptions.

Raise the stakes!

Balance giving and taking.

Make active choices.

Be in the moment.

I loved the rules of improv for improv, but they were also really great rules for life. The one that best fit my current situation, I decided, was, “Trust yourself.”

You can do this. I scanned the exterior of the cabin. It was comprised of logs stacked horizontally and painted dark brown, windows with wooden crossbars, and a well-used screen door.

I pushed open the screen door with my free hand, my eyes sweeping around the cabin as I hauled my luggage over the threshold. There were eight metal-frame bunk beds, a single bed (presumably for our counselor), and a dresser. Along with the wide floorboards worn smooth with time, this place felt like a cabin from the old version of The Parent Trap.

A giggle alerted me to the fact that I wasn’t alone. Two sets of feet poked out from underneath a bunk bed: one clad in cheery-pink flats, the other in strappy leather sandals.

“Uh . . . need some help?” I called, abandoning my luggage just inside the screen door.

In quick succession, a thump, a yelp, and more giggles came from under the bunk bed as two people wormed their way back out.

The strappy leather sandals belonged to a tall, brown-skinned girl with long braids and glasses. She rubbed her head where she had hit it on the bottom of the bunk. “Hi,” she said, smiling warmly. “I’m Sirena. And uh . . . We’re not always hiding under the bed when we meet new people.”

I chuckled. “Just sometimes?”

She laughed and thumbed in the direction of her much shorter, pink-shoed, pink-cheeked, blond friend. “Just when we’re pretty sure we brought this CD and neither of us can find it.”

“CD?” I asked, tilting my head. “Like a physical . . . disc? With music on it?”

Sirena’s pink friend swept her bangs out of her face. “A physical disc, yes. But not with music on it.”

“It’s fifty-seven minutes of Pacific Coast whale sounds,” Sirena said. “Emily thinks