“A bomb!” he cried, and turned to the room. “Does anybody know how to defuse a bomb?”
The legacies froze. A couple of ordinaries stepped forward, ready for action.
But before they could speak, Uncle Wolfie smacked his walking stick against the floor and climbed onto the stage.
“Young man. It is not a bomb. It is party snacks.”
“Um…” Jayden looked at me, hoping for backup.
He got none.
“Mr. Ryeo, is it? What was the improv prompt?”
“A party for new people, at an ordinary tech firm.”
“Is a bomb scare ordinary, Mr. Ryeo?”
“No. But I thought we could shake things up.”
“What is the name of this class, Mr. Ryeo?”
“Non-Dramatic Improv.”
“Is a bomb scare dramatic, Mr. Ryeo?”
“Yes, but I thought…” He looked at me, eyes wide.
“You thought what, Mr. Ryeo?”
“That ‘non-dramatic’ meant, like, comedy?”
“There is no comedy in this class, Mr. Ryeo. There is no drama. There is no bomb.” Uncle Wolfie rolled into a disquisition I’d heard three times. “This is the hardest theater class you will ever take. In this class you willlearn to transform yourself into another human being, without the crutches of drama or tension or climax.”
A few of the other freshmen tittered at that last word.
“Orhumor!” Wolfie roared at them. “This is the primal theater class. You must strip yourself away until there is no ego, no thirst for the spotlight, no spotlight at all—only the craft. You, transformed into not-you, without artifice, without contrivance, withoutbombs.”
Jayden’s face was bright pink.
“Do you think you can manage that, Mr. Ryeo?”
Jayden blinked.
“Because if you can’t, if you must introducebombsanddramaandcomedy,” Uncle Wolfie went on, pronouncing each noun as if it carried a disease, “you don’t belong in this class, you don’t belong in this department, you don’t belong in theater. Are we clear, Mr. Ryeo?”
Jayden nodded slowly, prey hypnotized by a predator’s gaze. It struck me that Peter would have enjoyed this class.
“Are we clear, everyone?”
“Yes, Professor Wolvaardt,” we legacies intoned.
“Continue the improv,” he said.
After class, I followed Jayden out. He walked with hands in pockets, head down, long strides.
Halfway across the Quad, I put a hand on his shoulder.
He startled a little. “Oh…you.”
