Raising the Stakes Read Online Free PDF Page A

Then I can take a few extra courses after high school and I’ll be set.”
    “A few extra courses,” Dad repeats.
    “Right. Improv courses.”
    “And that’s all the training you’ll need to get a job?” he asks.
    I stir my peach froth. “I think so. I haven’t found out all the details yet. I kind of got distracted watching some of the improv videos. They’re really good!”
    Mom stares down into her dessert and says nothing. Dad’s jaws are chomping away as if he’s got shoe leather in his mouth instead of froth.
    Ned looks from one to the other, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Oh boy, Chloe,” he says.
    Grammy Ann holds her bowl out to Mom. “Could I have another tiny scoop, Louise? It’s lovely and light. What all is in it, dear?”
    Mom gives Grammy Ann a tight-lipped smile and plops some more into her bowl, ignoring the question.
    Dad puts his spoon into his mouth, then realizes it’s empty. “Have you thought this through, Chloe?” he says, scooping another spoonful. “I’m not sure many people are successful at it.”
    Mom is nodding like crazy.
    Clearly, they’re going to need convincing. “Yeah, but I work hard,” I begin. “And you’re always telling me not to set my goals low, that I can accomplish whatever I set my mind to. Lots of times success is all about how good your training is. I’ve found a great improv school in New York City, or there’s another one in Australia that seems well respected—”
    “Australia!” Dad cries, bits of froth flying from his lips. “Like, the-other-side-of-the-world Australia?” Between his horrified expression and the speckles of pink fluff quivering in his beard, he looks like Sasquatch at a country fair.
    “Yes, that Australia,” I say. Then I realize what this is about. I carefully place my spoon beside my bowl. “You don’t think I can do it.”
    Ned tries to swallow a laugh. “Oh, sure you can, Chloe,” he says. He can barely get the words out between giggles.
    “Ned,” Dad barks, pointing to the door.
    “But I’m not—”
    “Now!”
    Ned goes out, grumbling.
    “You really don’t believe I can.” Some part of me wants them to admit it.
    Mom is shaking her head. “We didn’t say that.”
    “We want you to be realistic,” says Dad. “Taking a few courses doesn’t sound like a very solid education.”
    Mom jumps in again. “Plus,” she says, “living in New York is very expensive, and Australia is so far away. Not to mention that if these programs are the only ones, I imagine they’re quite difficult to get into.”
    “And you don’t think I’m good enough.”
    Dad mumbles something, but all I can hear is a little voice in my head whispering, Maybe they’re right .
    No! I snatch my napkin from my lap and plop it onto the table. “So all that stuff you’ve always told me, about how you believe in me, I guess that was a lie.” I stand up. “Thanks for your support!”
    They don’t deny it or try to stop me as I rush out of the room and up the stairs.
    I fling myself onto my bed, a few angry tears itching on my cheeks. That little voice inside is still nagging at me. Maybe they’re right…Maybe they’re right… I consider calling Faith and pouring out my woes to her. But that would mean telling her about my career plan, and somehow I don’t feel ready for that. Instead I just lie there, feeling alone.
    After a little while, though, a thought hits me: What do my parents know about improv anyway? Not much, really. I sit up straight and dig through my backpack for the improv book. As I pull it out, a blue cartoon ad for a weekly drop-in improv session comes with it. I turn the paper over. It’s the brochure from Ms. Quinn.
    Tossing it on my desk, I flip open the book. I’ll review everything about the four events our team is doing. There must be ideas in here I’ve missed or forgotten, suggestions we can use to make our scenes stronger. There are still three weeks left before zones, the first level