Love Your Life(12)

“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 leg kicking out strongly in attack.

We all gasp in shock, and Beginner gives a little terrified cry.

“Awesome!” shouts Black Belt encouragingly as Dutch lands. “Nice technique, man.”

“Thanks,” says Dutch, panting slightly.

“Dutch!” Farida leaps up from her seat and puts a hand on his shoulder before he can perform any more maneuvers. “Dutch. That was very convincing. However, this is a writing group. Not a martial-arts group.”

    “Right.” Dutch seems to come to. “Sorry. I lost it for a moment.”

“Please don’t worry,” Farida reassures him. “You found a form of expression, and that’s a start. Clearly you were expressing powerful emotions?”

“Yes,” says Dutch after a pause. “It was frustrating. I felt it.” He bangs his chest. “Just…couldn’t find the words.”

“Indeed.” Farida nods. “The plight of the writer in a nutshell. But, please, no more kickboxing. Although I do applaud your vivid portrayal of antagonism. We’re here to write romantic fiction.” She addresses the group. “And love is closer to hate than any other—”

“Romantic fiction?” Black Belt interrupts her, his face convulsed with horror. “Romantic? They said ‘Writing.’ They didn’t say anything about ‘romantic.’?”

“Of course, you don’t have to write romantic fiction—” begins Farida, but Black Belt ignores her.

“I’m outta here. Sorry.” He gets to his feet. “This isn’t my bag. Jeez.”

“It’s not my bag either,” says Lyric, standing up and glaring around generally, as though it’s all our faults. “It’s super-weird and I want a refund.”

She’s going? Yesss!

Angels are singing hallelujah in my head. She’s leaving!

“Shame,” I say in the most regretful tone I can muster.

“You coming?” says Black Belt to Dutch, and Lyric turns to him expectantly too. The singing angels dwindle away inside my head, and my throat clenches in fear. He can’t leave. He mustn’t.